


Silmarillion Prompts

by EbonyKitty552



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adultery, Apathy, Aphrodisiacs, Avarin culture, Cliche, Cultural Differences, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Feminist Themes, Hallucinations, Het and Slash, Human Sacrifice, Incest, Insanity, Intoxication, Love at First Sight, Mental Instability, Modern Era, Mpreg, Multi, Murder, Mutilation, Mystery, Non-Explicit Rape, PTSD, Precognition, Pregnancy, Prophecy, Puppy Love, Relationship Issues, Scarring, Secret Identity, Self-Hatred, Sexism, Sexual Themes, Slavery, Soulmates, Stalking, Suicide, Theft, Torture, Unrequited Love, Valinor is not a perfect and happy place, elf/mortal relationships, elven culture, elven equivalent of morphine, epistolary form, major skewing of canon, obsessive behaviors, sappy romance, self-destructive behaviors, spontaneous children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:39:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 432
Words: 680,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKitty552/pseuds/EbonyKitty552
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I have a prompt list.  Several actually.  And every day I write a short story based off my prompt word/phrase of the day.</p><p>All of them are Silmarillion-related (dips into The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings here and there).</p><p>Expect everything ranging from utterly cliche romance to mildly explicit gore and horror.  No one ever said Arda was a nice place.</p><p>But <i>do</i> note that I won't be posting any smut here.  Prompts are meaningful snapshots, and unless the sex is <i>really</i> important, I'll be skipping it to get to the point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summary of Prompts

**Author's Note:**

> Below is a list (that will grow) of each chapter and it's very basic framework. So read them if you want to skip around. Or don't. It doesn't matter to me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All prompts originally written on the blog For the Love of Writing Prompts (which I created).
> 
> Everything has been edited, but nevertheless from this point on all mistakes are mine.

1\. Summary of Prompts - self-explanatory  
2\. Mellow - Celegorm/Lúthien; sappy romance  
3\. Eternal - Celegorm/Lúthien; Celegorm contemplates mortality  
4\. Subtle - Glorfindel/Erestor; Bilbo makes some observations  
5\. Cheat - Amrod/Thranduil; the unexpected consequences of the Second Kinslaying  
6\. Transparent - Caranthir/Haleth; he couldn't hide it if he tried  
7\. Believable - Eöl/Aredhel; some things seem too good to be true  
8\. Repeat - Maedhros comforts the fosterlings  
9\. Addicted - Caranthir/Haleth; humans do not live very long  
10\. Write - Aegnor/Andreth; everyone needs a catharsis  
11\. Soulful - Fingon/OFC; in which Fingon is tupped  
12\. Broken - Maedhros/OFC; there are few things Maedhros wants more than children  
13\. Stop Time - Elrond/Celebrían; if only it could last forever  
14\. Alcohol - Fingon/OFC; the catalyst to a sobering discussion  
15\. Pauses - Maglor/Canonical Wife; six glimpses into the life of the second-born  
16\. Affront - And everyone thought Fingon was so noble rescuing his cousin like that  
17\. Run - Amras desires only freedom from the past  
18\. Experience - Sometimes you should listen to the creepy prophet on the beach  
19\. Fatality - Because the creepy prophet was right  
20\. Helping Hand - Finrod/Amarië; thus began a beautiful courtship  
21\. Breeze - Turgon/Elenwë; why Turgon really built that stupid tower  
22\. Get Up - Maedhros needs a little extra push to get going after Angband  
23\. Villain - Maglor has completely lost faith in their cause  
24\. Worst Day - The event that lifts the veil from over Maglor's eyes for good  
25\. Bewitching - Amras/Daeron; Amras has a new obsession  
26\. Jubilant - Finrod/Amarië; reunion in Aman  
27\. Languid - Amras/Daeron; general cuddling ensues  
28\. Obsessive - Maedhros finally begins to understand his father  
29\. Recoil - Finrod/Amarië; Aman is not as he remembered  
30\. Vehement - Fëanor's now-permanent descriptor  
31\. Collide - Celegorm/Lúthien; she's the tree that totaled his life  
32\. On My Mind - Fëanor/Nerdanel; relationship issues  
33\. Mirror - Maedhros' reflection has changed  
34\. Kneel - A glimpse into the mind of Morgoth's Lieutenant  
35\. Locked - Curufin/Canonical Wife; some things are better left locked away  
36\. Punch - Curufin/Canonical Wife; Curufin returns  
37\. Tight - Turgon/Elenwë; post-Elenwë's death  
38\. Urban - Maeglin/Idril; it was because she was kind to him  
39\. Health - All Orodreth wanted was to protect his people  
40\. Older - Aegnor/Andreth; he has been in love with a mortal for sixty years  
41\. Vital - Fëanor/Nerdanel; she both hated and loved her arrogant prince  
42\. Dawn - The first sunrise from Fingon's eyes  
43\. Lust - Sauron/Celebrimbor; world domination isn't the only thing he desires  
44\. Memorial - The true meaning of the Noldolantë according to its composer  
45\. Pretend - If you pretend hard enough, can you make it reality? Argon wonders  
46\. Zeal - Celeborn/Galadriel; their courtship lasted a night  
47\. Disaster - Sauron/Celebrimbor; Celebrimbor discovers his lover's betrayal  
48\. Blush - Maglor/Canonical Wife; fluffy romance  
49\. Nimble - Sauron observes Fingolfin challenging Morgoth  
50\. Remain - Celebrimbor repudiated the deeds of his father and remained in Nargothrond  
51\. Snore - Curufin/Canonical Wife; they parted willingly, but still the longing remains  
52\. Done - Maglor has finished the Noldolantë at last  
53\. Justice - Mandos and Manwë discuss the Noldorin exiles  
54\. Weapon - Maedhros/OFC; the "peace" of Aman is pushing him to the brink of desperation  
55\. Tide - Celegorm is crazy, but his insanity has a certain sort of logic to it  
56\. Accent - In which Finrod and his companions are captured by Sauron  
57\. Indirect - Daeron/Lúthien; his love is true, even though it is unrequited  
58\. Haze - Turgon witnesses the death of his older brother  
59\. Puzzle - Fëanor/Nerdanel; he doesn't think he will ever make heads or tails of her  
60\. Try Again - Maedhros is no longer living for himself  
61\. Reap - Marching on Menegroth will be Celegorm's salvation, or so he believed  
62\. Settle - Amras/Daeron; the youngest son of Fëanor banishes his demons  
63\. Treat - Fingon/OFC; Sáriel has a surprise in store for her clueless husband  
64\. Notice - Glorfindel/Erestor; a first meeting under the stars  
65\. Least - Caranthir doubts himself and his worth in his father's eyes  
66\. Exception - Finwë/Míriel/Indis; that they made him choose was the exception to justice  
67\. Rule - Celegorm lives by several simple but undeniable truths  
68\. Correct - Maglor thought he knew the difference between right and wrong  
69\. Harm - Silently, Daeron watches over a mysterious pair of twin elflings wandering the wild  
70\. Strive - Maedhros will not surrender to failure, not even if it kills him  
71\. Temperamental - Curufin/Canonical Wife; she knew what she was getting into when she married him  
72\. Divided - Amrod/Thranduil; Thranduil on the return of Amrod to Middle-earth  
73\. Victory - Amrod/Thranduil; The inner battle is decided  
74\. Delivery - Amrod/Thranduil; Of the birth of Legolas Greenleaf  
75\. Ballad - Caranthir/Haleth; Mandos admires the brilliance of Eru's music  
76\. All I Ask - Beren/Lúthien; In which Mandos did not just bow down to her every whim  
77\. Fire - Glorfindel begins to suspect the nature of Thranduil's secret relationship  
78\. Lies - Sauron/Celebrimbor; In which Celebrimbor lies to himself  
79\. Stormy - Fingon/OFC; The Avari have an old saying about babies born on stormy nights...  
80\. Terrible - Fingon has never desired to sit on his father's throne  
81\. Decay - Maglor/Canonical Wife; the cycles of civilization from an outside perspective  
82\. Dramatic - Maedhros/OFC; he has changed much since she last saw his face  
83\. Panic - Maglor was not the only one who adopted the fosterlings  
84\. With You - Aegnor/Andreth; she has been reading his letters all this time  
85\. Killing - The act has always made Orodreth sick to his stomach  
86\. Jump - The birth and death of Maedhros Fëanorion  
87\. Waste - Fëanor has finally cracked and Fingolfin is the unfortunate victim  
88\. Passion - Maeglin/Idril; Maeglin is captured and tortured for information  
89\. Flying - The reason why Celebrimbor has no second name  
90\. Drought - Celebrimbor must face the past to live in the present  
91\. Sword - Ecthelion encounters Thorin, the dwarf in possession of his former blade  
92\. Skill - Celegorm/Lúthien; Celegorm has many hidden qualities  
93\. Dust - Celegorm/Lúthien; Finrod holds no ill-will or grudge towards his cousin  
94\. Enchant - Elu Thingol/Melian; the darker side of an unforgettable romance  
95\. Shadows - Amrod/Thranduil; of the fate of Legolas Greenleaf  
96\. Powerless - Gwindor watches the death of Gelmir  
97\. Cookies - The twins are not the first to take advantage of hidden talents  
98\. Euphoria - Caranthir/Haleth; two people enjoy the simple beauty of shared company  
99\. Loveless - Maeglin is certain that love will never touch him again  
100\. Edge - Caranthir/Haleth; Haleth's reincarnation collides with Caranthir's life  
101\. Catatonic - Oropher cares for Thranduil in the aftermath of the Second Kinslaying  
102\. Defiant - a certain elven prince survived Dagor Bragollach and was captured by the enemy  
103\. Powder - Angrod becomes a kinslayer, and he does not feel regret  
104\. Grateful - Beleg/Orodreth; the elven equivalent of morphine gets Beleg in trouble  
105\. Decent - Beleg/Orodreth; Orodreth is getting tired being called a woman  
106\. Union - Beleg/Orodreth; they are sundering, but they will never truly be apart  
107\. Cleansed - Elladan/Fem Maeglin; Lómiel just wants to help  
108\. Go - Amrod/Thranduil; Amrod knew it wasn't going to last forever  
109\. Shame - Valthoron is aware of the fact that many of the Sindar don't like him  
110\. Objective - Finrod/Amarië; Elenwë serves as the family's self-appointed matchmaker  
111\. Strength - After the Second Kinslaying, Thranduil is understandably depressed  
112\. Life - Elladan/Fem Maeglin; Mandos was right again  
113\. Contempt - In the wake of Ulfang's death, Uldor plots  
114\. Wrong - Eöl/Aredhel; she was searching for adventure and may have found too much  
115\. Sweeten - Eöl/Aredhel; even her prickly husband has soft spots  
116\. Hands - Eöl/Aredhel; the reason he gets off with a punch on the nose in Believable  
117\. Strangle - Uldor's alternate motivations revealed  
118\. Lullaby - Maglor offers his brother simple comfort  
119\. Untouchable - Imrazôr/Mithrellas; he likened her to a star  
120\. Whispered - Secrets and rumors abound in Nargothrond  
121\. Prayers - Mandos knows the consequences of words spoken without forethought  
122\. Obvious - Celegorm/Lúthien; Celegorm and Caranthir are more alike than they thought  
123\. Rhythm - Aredhel got her feminist tendencies from her aunt  
124\. Afterlife - Caranthir/Haleth; the road to reincarnation  
125\. Hidden - Finrod/Curufin; Orodreth digs deeper than he should  
126\. Parade - Angrod's stay in Angband  
127\. Touch - Eöl/Aredhel; he _really_ didn't mean to fall in love with her  
128\. Free - Finally, Morgoth has fallen and is dragged away in chains  
129\. Enjoy - The truth behind Fingon's drunken revelry  
130\. Shining - Elrond watches the star Gil-Estel  
131\. Overflow - Amrod/Thranduil; in the end everything was too much  
132\. Lively - Círdan on the evils of his three hyperactive young wards  
133\. Remorseful - Of the death of Amras Fëanorion  
134\. Dismiss - Amroth/Nimrodel; the first meeting of the prince and the wood-elf lady  
135\. Heavy - Amrod knows who killed his brother  
136\. Forward - Caranthir/Haleth; the Halls of the Waiting offer no forgetfulness  
137\. Prowl - Morgoth finds a diamond in the rough  
138\. Cut - The truth of Curufin's motivations  
139\. Compromise - Amroth/Nimrodel; she doesn't want to give  
140\. Impulse - Of stubbornness, rashness and blindness  
141\. Hush - Aegnor/Andreth; Dagor Bragollach was not unexpected at all  
142\. Morals - One Maglorion learns the truth of his family's morality  
143\. Engage - Of Fëanor's first apprenticeship  
144\. Voice - Tar-Míriel loathes everything about Sauron  
145\. Awkward - Maedhros begs forgiveness and abdicates the throne  
146\. Lower - There are even other sides to the other sides of stories  
147\. Plead - Some of the Valar listen to the prayers of the Children  
148\. Caring - Amrod on the discovery of his oldest son  
149\. Believe - Sauron never gets tired of manipulating gullible humans  
150\. Found - Glorfindel/Erestor; a reunion in Imladris  
151\. Shield - Celegorm/Lúthien; she finds him in the Halls... changed  
152\. Open - Celegorm/Lúthien; they are both hiding things from themselves  
153\. Tactile - How Amras received his infamous mother-name  
154\. Journey - Amroth/Nimrodel; she has finally found her way to Edhellond  
155\. Scowl - Elrohir resents his older brother almost as much as he resents himself  
156\. Hero - Ilession comparing himself to his missing father  
157\. Emulate - Gil-Galad on Maedhros Fëanorion  
158\. Disconsolate - Maedhros/OFC; an arranged marriage  
159\. Flowers - Angrod/Eldalótë; Angrod refuses to roll over and die  
160\. Collateral - Amrod/Thranduil; the inevitable meeting between father and son  
161\. Adapt - Maedhros/OFC; why Broken is such a big deal  
162\. Evidence - Orodreth is still trying... and failing... to figure Curufin out  
163\. I'm Here - Maedhros/OFC; Istelindë isn't planning on letting him get away  
164\. Funeral - Maedhros hosts Fingon's sort-of almost funeral  
165\. Puppy Love - Angrod/Eldalótë; he falls in love for the first and last time  
166\. Gloves - Ilession tries to understand his father  
167\. Nullibiety - Even Sauron is afraid of something... or, rather, nothing  
168\. Muse - The one that birthed all the trials and tribulations of the First Age  
169\. Magic - The beginning of the end of Númenor and its king  
170\. Clean - Maedhros believes he is anything but  
171\. Secret - Curufin/Canonical Wife; she never tells him about their second son  
172\. Superstition - Fëanor does not believe in such womanish nonsense  
173\. Fantasy - Curufin/Canonical Wife; sundering takes its toll  
174\. Test - Írimë/OMC; the princess has taken her recklessness one step too far  
175\. Tease - Finrod/Curufin; Curufin reflects on his childhood friend and older brother  
176\. Storm - Caranthir is ready to face his end  
177\. Strawberries - Celegorn/Lúthien; cute fluff, flirting and kissing  
178\. Reverie - Of Amrod and the aftermath of the Second Kinslaying  
179\. Beach - Curufin/Canonical Wife; their untraditional courting  
180\. Lost - Of Eluréd and Elurín, who do not want to be found  
181\. Cry - Of the Battle of Dagorlad and the death of Oropher  
182\. Aloof - The strangely ironic and depressing reunion of two family members  
183\. Blood - Fëanor's Oath is catalyzed by a promise over Finwë's corpse  
184\. Painted - In which Fëanor has completely gone 'round the bend  
185\. Prodigal - Caranthir/Haleth; she is not at all impressed by this Noldorin prince  
186\. Search - Maedhros is unsuccessful in more than one endeavor  
187\. Reprise - Curufin/Canonical Wife; in which they visit the beach again  
188\. Ocean - Círdan on his favorite body of water  
189\. Clarity - Of the reverie and craziness of Amrod  
190\. Reunion - Finwë/Míriel; they didn't manage to avoid each other in the Halls  
191\. Sunder - Celeborn/Galadriel; at the end, he chose to stay behind  
192\. Crash - Amrod's reverie is completely shattered  
193\. Dim - Finwë/Míriel; of the birth and death that started all the madness  
194\. Futile - Fëanor/Nerdanel; Fëanor begins his downward spiral into insanity  
195\. Erratic - Maeglin/Idril; his childish infatuation takes a turn for the worse  
196\. Loved - Angrod/Eldalótë; he moves a little too quickly  
197\. Soft - Maedhros/OFC; the wedding night does not go as planned  
198\. Hold - Finwë/Indis; Finwë makes his potentially damning decision  
199\. Shackles - The last two brothers have no choice but to continue  
200\. Pierce - Finrod/Curufin; Finrod offers his cousin dangerous comfort  
201\. Precious - Finwë/Indis; Finwë's tiny family continues to grow  
202\. Odds and Ends - Angrod/Eldalótë; little things constantly remind her  
203\. Tea - The Fëanorion women are there for one another  
204\. Twisted - Finrod/Curufin; what lies between them is not quite love  
205\. Echo - In the darkness of Tol-in-Gaurhoth...  
206\. Soothe - Maedhros/OFC; Istelindë gets to know her husband  
207\. Fight - Morgoth/Angrod; the game gets dangerous  
208\. Naked - Of Maedhros' stint in Angband  
209\. Push - Elladan/Fem Maeglin; the future is looking a little brighter  
210\. Alive - Thranduil can still hear and still feel  
211\. New - From the ashes comes a strange sort of rebirth  
212\. Born - Valthoron discovers the truth of his creation in the cruelest way  
213\. Murmur - Of the birth of Fingolfin  
214\. Devious - The feud has now spiraled out of control  
215\. Isolation - Imrazôr/Mithrellas; the reality of their situation hits her hard  
216\. Starve - OMC/Tauriel; some of you, I'm certain, can guess just from looking  
217\. Breakable - Sauron/Celebrimbor; one just can't always get whatever they want  
218\. Winter - Elrohir/Mithrellas; you have no idea how long I've waited for this collision  
219\. Ignore - Fingolfin/Anairë; this is why you don't speak in fits of rage  
220\. Color - Elrohir/Mithrellas; warmth to take away the gray  
221\. Grace - Sauron/Celebrimbor; but sometimes fate throws you a second curse  
222\. Belong - OMC/Tauriel; a little love for Valthoron, as promised  
223\. Choke - Elladan/Fem Maeglin; she is the catalyst that drove them apart  
224\. Reach - Amras/Daeron; sometimes you have to reach for what you want  
225\. Difficult - Angrod/Eldalótë; things did not go back to the way they were  
226\. Heat - Sauron/Celebrimbor; it's not love so much as obsession  
227\. Veneer - Sauron waxes poetic on the virtues of an elven slave  
228\. Fall - Did he become evil, or was he just screwed up in the beginning?  
229\. Nightmare - Sauron/Celebrimbor; all a matter of perspective  
230\. Contagious - Turgon/Elenwë; Turgon recalls their first meeting  
231\. Good Riddance - Finrod is dead and Orodreth becomes king  
232\. Goodbyes - Elrond/Celebrían; the end and the beginning... or something  
233\. Scarred - Eöl/Aredhel; there's always a reason  
234\. Last Dance - Maglor/Canonical Wife; the night before the Noldor depart  
235\. Burn - Fëanor/Nerdanel; and the many nights after  
236\. Steady - OMC/Tauriel; he could kick himself for being so oblivious  
237\. Monster - The Halls of the Waiting are for healing... supposedly  
238\. Rain - Haldir/Legolas; Helms Deep sits heavily upon the mind  
239\. Jaded - Istelindë on the dark side of her only remaining nephew  
240\. Intent - Fëanor cares in his own strange and creepy way  
241\. Smile - Brothers bonding and brothers parting  
242\. Grave - Even the most righteous of people have shameful secrets  
243\. Machine - Spilled coffee and a wet elf in a white shirt, need more be said?  
244\. Destination - Haldir/Legolas; there may yet be something worth looking forward to  
245\. Nowhere - Sauron/Celebrimbor; the end of the War of the Ring  
246\. Garden - Angrod/Eldalótë; they're in this together, for better or for worse  
247\. I Know - Eöl/Aredhel; he hasn't managed to hide his deepest secrets from her  
248\. Resplendent - Finwë/Míriel; love at first sight, need I say more?  
249\. Dream - Sauron/Celebrimbor; he always knew the worst was yet to come  
250\. Destiny - Míriel knew more about the fate of the world than anyone guessed  
251\. Spring - Elrohir/Mithrellas; the long road to a little recovery  
252\. Sigh - Celegorm/Lúthien; the pros and cons of loving Celegorm  
253\. Fingertips - Valthoron meets the newest member of his small, beloved family  
254\. Waiting - Maglor/Canonical Wife; Maglor never dies, and so never returns home  
255\. Second Chance - Caranthir/Haleth; if he would only see the opportunity  
256\. Revenge - Maeglin/Idril; obsession can be a dangerous tool in the wrong hands  
257\. Cerveth - Amroth/Nimrodel; of a happy ending  
258\. Desire - Morgoth/several; the desire that started everything  
259\. Phoenix - Amras/Daeron; it's the usual cliche, let's be honest here  
260\. Celebration - Sauron/Celebrimbor; it is, to the son of Curufin, anything but  
261\. Stars - Imin/Iminyë; the first elves upon the shores of Helcar  
262\. Morgue - Aegnor/Andreth; he wasn't dead, but he sorely wished he could be  
263\. Space - Fëanor/Nerdanel; pride, fear and the silent fall to ruin  
264\. Whitewash - Írimë/OMC; she wished fervently that her life had not become a lie  
265\. Alone - Eöl/OFC; living in the wake of destruction  
266\. Coma - Drowning in guilt, Maglor waits for his brother to awaken  
267\. Letters - Aegnor/Andreth; like most elves, he remains trapped in the past  
268\. Orchid - Fëanor/Nerdanel; of flirting and sincerity  
269\. Music - Maglor discovers his great gift (with a little help)  
270\. Silence - In the wake of the Second Kinslaying he finds Caranthir  
271\. Cards - Caranthir/Haleth; he never was very talented at speaking aloud  
272\. Emblem - Facets of the infamous House of Fëanor  
273\. Drift - Maglor/Canonical Wife; she waits, and on the other side of the sea he drifts  
274\. Monopoly - Sauron/Celebrimbor; the Dark Lord does not like to share  
275\. Reality - Of the ponders of the Lord of Arda  
276\. Serenity - Of two brothers finding peace in the wake of the War of the Ring  
277\. Perfection - Morgoth/Varda; even before the fall he was a creep  
278\. Bones - Angrod/Eldalótë; perhaps she would have preferred the uncertainty  
279\. Sacrifice - Finrod dies mostly to keep his promise, not to express his pity  
280\. Ink - There is value to be found in preserving the truth of a mortal cage  
281\. Empty - Haldir/Legolas; he needs more than sunshine and flowers to heal  
282\. Ring - Sauron/Celebrimbor; it's not the ring you're thinking of  
283\. Drive - Fëanor has some disturbing similarities to certain fallen ainur  
284\. Missing - Little Fëanor knows that his family is broken  
285\. Full Moon - Tilion/Arien; a little tale of tragic love and separation  
286\. New Direction - The twins change Maedhros more than he would like to admit  
287\. Consubstantial - Once, they were brothers; once, they were the same  
288\. Ameliorate - Maedhros/OFC; slow-burn romance at its finest  
289\. Locket - Curufin/Canonical Wife; of remembering and forgetting  
290\. Wings - The night before leaving for battle Fingon has no regrets  
291\. Mistakes - Írimë/OMC; of Lalwen and her two children  
292\. Heartfelt - Angrod/Eldalótë; the young prince saying his quiet goodbye  
293\. Fading Away - Elrond/Celebrían; sometimes there is no healing to be found  
294\. Spirit - Haldir/Legolas; the meeting of two would-be lovers  
295\. Disappointment - Morgoth is looking to replace a certain someone  
296\. Choose - Fingon/OFC; cultural differences make life difficult  
297\. Immortal - Aegnor/Andreth; "Aaron" spills the beans to Sarah. Finally.  
298\. Open Your Eyes - Legolas finally realizes that Tauriel will never love him back  
299\. Electrify - Fingon/OFC; in which Sáriel falls in lust with an exotic stranger  
300\. Starlight - Elrohir/Mithrellas; two stars hanging in the heavens  
301\. Úrui - Amroth/Nimrodel; two soon to become three  
302\. Honor - Finrod/Curufin; his mind will not be swayed; promises must be kept  
303\. Bite - The trials of a King leading his shattered people  
304\. Commit - In that hour Finarfin forsook the march, and turned back  
305\. Fake - Of older brothers and family problems  
306\. Tender - There is still some of the old Maedhros left underneath the warrior  
307\. Trouble - Írimë/OMC; Lalwen maybe didn't think this one all the way through  
308\. Final - Celegorm/Lúthien; Maedhros finds Celegorm dying beside Dior's corpse  
309\. Decadent - Valthoron watches as Greenwood and her King decay into Mirkwood  
310\. Awareness - Elrond/Celebrían; it was only love at first sight for one of them  
311\. Turn Away - Celegorm/Lúthien; Celegorm is removed of his obliviousness  
312\. Kisses - Elrond/Celebrían; throughout the life of the daughter of Galadriel  
313\. Hand of Fate - Amrod/Thranduil; of naivety and disillusionment  
314\. Breathing - Maglor/Canonical Wife; reunited after a long sundering  
315\. Happiness - Celegorm/Lúthien; wisdom in retrospect  
316\. Beauty - Celegorm/Lúthien; Curufin dislikes the Princess of Doriath  
317\. Sleep - Thingol/Melian; of the strangeness and pleasantness of sleep  
318\. Irresistible - Mairon on his own fall from grace  
319\. Imagination - What really brought about the creation of evil?  
320\. Easy - Finrod's POV on his own inner battles between forgiveness and wrath  
321\. Give - Glorfindel/Erestor; Glorfindel sort of slays a Balrog  
322\. Thankful - Angrod/Eldalótë; Angrod on destruction and recovery  
323\. Kindness - Celegorm/Lúthien; Lúthien on the secret truth of Dior's parentage  
324\. Inside - Mother and daughter struggling over self-identity and expectations  
325\. Outside - Gwindor on his escape from Angband and return to Nargothrond  
326\. Stumble - Elrohir/Mithrellas; Elrohir finally realizes what a dick he's been  
327\. Friendship - How did Ecthelion end up becoming a Lord of Gondolin?  
328\. Love - Of the motivations of Fëanor and the sons of his House  
329\. Closing In - Sauron/Celebrimbor; Celebrimbor can feel his doom approaching  
330\. Light - Varda learning the true depth of the role of her Song in the Ainulindalë  
331\. Darkness - It is not only Light which brings great joy in the face of evil  
332\. Involved - Of the perspective and motivations of Ulmo and his meddling  
333\. Hope - The sons of Fëanor see the Silmaril rise into the heavens for the first time  
334\. Faith - Aegnor/Andreth; Eru kicking Aegnor's broody pessimism in the arse  
335\. Focus - Aegnor/Andreth; Sarah knows something weird is going on with these two  
336\. Angry - Manwë is not the perfect, saintly, patient angel he is so often portrayed as  
337\. Work - Aegnor/Andreth; there is much work to be done in preparation for the first date  
338\. Music - The power that created the universe and defines all things therein  
339\. Sweet - Fëanor/Nerdanel; that moment when she really for sure fell in love with him  
340\. Mystery - Maedhros/OFC; young Maedhros trying to figure out his wife and failing  
341\. Envelope - Gil-galad receives a message from Celebrimbor and suspects the worst  
342\. Calling - Haldir/Legolas; of the sea-longing of Legolas Greenleaf  
343\. Dare - Elladan/Fem Maeglin; moving on from the past and living can be difficult  
344\. Forgiveness - Turgon is figuring out how this weird forgiveness thing works  
345\. Book - Thorin/Bilbo; Bilbo Baggins on the difficulties of writing books  
346\. Remember - Exploration of Thranduil's motivations during The Hobbit  
347\. Dance - The first time that Nessa dances upon the grass of Almaren  
348\. Fighting - Tulkas/Nessa; Tulkas ponders the legacy of his Song  
349\. Yes - Finwë/Indis; the marriage proposal that brings about all the strife of the First Age  
350\. Path - The eldest son of Maglor makes a difficult choice  
351\. Horizon - Tilion/Arien; he is ever longing to remain bathed in her light  
352\. Flat - The death and birth of Fingolfin in Beleriand  
353\. Mountain - Pretending to be the High King has unexpected repercussions  
354\. River - The perspective of an elf on the passage of time  
355\. Sublime - Sauron/Celebrimbor; Celebrimbor sees Annatar for the first time  
356\. Heart - Sauron/Celebrimbor; Annatar sort of falls in love with Celebrimbor  
357\. Soul - Ponderings about things which exist beyond the realm of time and space  
358\. Tear - Glorfindel/Erestor; in the wake of the Fall of Gondolin, things aren't going well  
359\. Spiral - Thorin/Bilbo; Bilbo must decide what to do with the Arkenstone  
360\. Up - Argon still trying to figure out how this High King thing works  
361\. Lugubrious - Eönwë is well aware that Sauron's remorse is utter bullshit  
362\. Be - On the nature and creation of the Dwarves  
363\. Learn - Turgon/Elenwë; Helcaraxë is a cruel and unforgiving place  
364\. Balance - All things in the world have their darker side  
365\. Grow - Thorin/Bilbo; Thorin lives and the acorn's fate is changed  
366\. Sleepless - Maglor hates himself for abandoning Maedhros to his fate in Angband  
367\. Water - Two different maiar contemplate water and its relationship with Númenor  
368\. Adamant - Celeborn/Galadriel; five defining moments of Galadriel  
369\. Move - Thingol/Melian; Melian decides that she wants to have a baby  
370\. Today - Aegnor/Andreth; he knows he shouldn't allow himself to fall in love  
371\. Awaken - Aegnor/Andreth; all dreams must come to an end, even good ones  
372\. Angel - A case of mistaken identity on the part of little Elrond  
373\. Laughter - Five perspectives on the darker side of laughter  
374\. Listening - Some brother-bonding between Maedhros and Maglor  
375\. Seek - Young Celegorm runs away from home and runs into a certain vala  
376\. Peace - Sauron/Celebrimbor; Celebrimbor can't adjust after the war ends  
377\. Relax - Fëanor/Nerdanel; young parents trying to figure out parenthood  
378\. Gossamer - You don't have to be "important" to be important in the end  
379\. Wisdom - Aegnor/Andreth; an old woman contemplating her life choices  
380\. Difference - Thingol/Melian; each finds the other to be quite strange at first  
381\. Begin - Two cousins decide to head off on a journey  
382\. Time - One elf gets a glimpse of how the Race of Men perceive time  
383\. Brave - Bilbo encounters a strange elf on his last night in Rivendell  
384\. Breathe - Thranduil and the Greenwood are closely entwined  
385\. Childhood - Elrond on growing up with Maedhros and Maglor for parents  
386\. Discovery - Thingol on secrets and the breaking of trust  
387\. Mind - Melkor figures out how to turn elves into the first orcs  
388\. Energy - Sauron/Celebrimbor; of the conception and creation of Narya  
389\. Haunted - Sauron/Celebrimbor; Sauron is having issues forgetting his dead lover  
390\. Distortion - Tar-Míriel hates Sauron more than anyone or anything  
391\. Rich - Beorn on the cons of Dwarves and the pros of Hobbits  
392\. Harmony - Yavanna on the beauty and complexity of life  
393\. Relief - Glorfindel/Erestor; Erestor lingers on the edge of death by fading  
394\. Stand - Sauron/Unnamed Nazgûl; Sauron has ever been talented at seducing fools  
395\. Recovery - Ecthelion is having trouble with water after the fountain incident  
396\. Power - Sauron comes up with the idea of making the Rings of Power  
397\. Delicious - Sauron gets a taste of the fruits of his labors  
398\. Fresh - Morgoth/Angrod; finally, Sauron manages to crack Angrod's iron will  
399\. Complete - Glorfindel/Erestor; two lovers are reunited  
400\. Juxtaposition - Maeglin compares his dead father and his bitter uncle  
401\. Nowhere - Sauron/Unnamed Nazgûl; our Nazgûl friend realizes his folly too late  
402\. Hug - Elros takes it upon himself to make sure Maedhros is not sad  
403\. Legend - A severe case of mistaken identity leads to unforeseen consequences  
404\. Ecstasy - On the creation of the Silmarils  
405\. Skip - Fëanor/Nerdanel; they just couldn't wait for the wedding night  
406\. Simple - Celegorm needs to return from the Woods of Oromë  
407\. Intricate - Glorfindel/Erestor; Glorfindel thinks about his lover  
408\. Saccharine - Elladan/Fem Maeglin; Elrohir decides to leave Imladris  
409\. Vibrancy - Maedhros contemplates his little brother, Celegorm  
410\. Marvel - Tuor/Idril; she thinks she might be able to love him  
411\. Proud - Finwë, from beyond the grave, witnesses Fëanor's madness take hold  
412\. Coruscate - Varda and Melkor both see the Silmarils for the first time  
413\. Enormous - Ilession is just trying to get his cousin to have some fun  
414\. Independent - Celegorm returns from his sabbatical in the Woods of Oromë  
415\. Bloom - Celegorm/Lúthien; reconnecting in the Halls of the Waiting  
416\. Unique - The reason why Curufin primarily uses his father-name  
417\. Tranquility - Sauron has always _disliked_ Eönwë  
418\. Leadership - In Fingolfin's last moments, he has a choice to make  
419\. Metamorphosis - Maeglin is reborn as a female and taken into Turgon's care  
420\. Innocence - Mairon gives in to his inner darkness  
421\. Avarice - Thorin/Bilbo; Thorin's madness from two perspectives  
422\. Project - One should not blame a child for his father's sins  
423\. Ebullience - Oromë/Vána; the Huntsman of the Valar falls in love  
424\. Miracle - Celegorm/Lúthien; in a roundabout way, Curufin gives his blessing  
425\. Game - Sauron/Celebrimbor; words are exchanged before the interrogation  
426\. Connected - Celeborn/Galadriel; Nenya makes its way to its bearer  
427\. Taciturn - Amras will likely never fully recover from Losgar  
428\. Determination - Tuor/Idril; there is much more to the princess than he first realized  
429\. Regrets - Finwë/Míriel; Míriel cannot help but wonder what might have been  
430\. Help - Tilion/Arien; did he ever really have a choice but to follow her into the sky?  
431\. Freedom - Sauron/Celebrimbor; sometimes we are our own worst enemy  
432\. Dazzle - Of the birth of Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth


	2. Mellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dislike Beren/Lúthien. I always have. Reminds me too much of Romeo and Juliet. So I have taken it upon myself to fulfill my first prompt on my prompt list (this was actually written February 12th) by devoting it to Celegorm/Lúthien, which literally does not exist on this site. Thus, we have a reborn Celegorm and a Lúthien who never passed beyond the edges of Eä living together in the mountains. And, unsurprisingly, she's got him completely wrapped around her finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sappy romance. OOC Celegorm is OOC. Trust me on this.

If Curufin could see him now, Celegorm just knew his brother would scoff and call him soft.

Celegorm much preferred the term "mellowed with age".

After all, three thousand years in the Halls of the Waiting had a certain way of setting one's priorities straight, and let it not be said that Celegorm did not know what came first in life. Good food. Good company. The comforts of home and hearth. The Silmarilli did not even make the top ten.

And his most pressing concern, as always, was the health and happiness of his wife.

All he desired was to see her glorious face lit in a smile, especially a smile directed at him. He would do anything she wanted, if only she would grace him with her approval and affection. No longer did he scowl at everyone he met or spit out rude comments whenever it struck his fancy; he had no desire to see a frown mar her perfect, beautiful red lips, so full and lush and...

"Celegorm." The soft call interrupted his thoughts, and the elf shivered from head to toe at the sound, so quiet and ringing in his ears as silvered bells. Even when she merely spoke, it sounded as though she were out-singing the birds. "Would you fetch me another bucket of water from the well?"

Immediately, he was on his feet, boots soundless on the wooden porch. He made no reply, but didn't doubt she could see his tall frame moving outside through the kitchen window. A few minutes later, he returned with the bucket in hand, ever the doting husband, to find her willowy frame in the doorway, her pale blue dress tugged by the wind, pulled taut to her lithe body and highlighting all of the curves and grooves that Celegorm so adored. And she was smiling. His whole body buzzed with warmth.

She kissed him on the cheek as she took the bucket from his hands, and even when she pulled away he could still feel the imprint of her lips upon his flesh. "Thank you, meleth-nín."

Feeling for all the world like an untested elfling, he looked down at his boots, too shy to meet her eyes. His reaction only made her giggle, and the very sound left him feeling as though he could leap from the ground and fly.

(Never mind that he had tried that once as a child and it had not turned out so well for his arm.)

If only Curufin could see him now...

But somehow, Celegorm found himself not caring about his brother's reaction. Let Curufin laugh all he bloody wanted. Celegorm needed only his Nightingale to be happy and nothing else.

Standing on her tiptoes, his sweet Lúthien pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his lips, more of the brush of skin and the sharing of breath than an embrace of tongue or teeth. Nevertheless, Celegorm felt a flush deepening in his cheeks as his silver eyes finally dared to meet her pale blue gaze. "Come inside and sit with me," she urged, tugging on his wrist lightly with her free hand.

He followed like a lovesick puppy.

And that was how he found himself sitting on the floor at her feet for the rest of the fine evening, his shoulder draped with her latest knitting project as he whittled away with a small knife and a piece of wood procured from the massive oak overhanging their tiny house in the mountain foothills. Never mind that she was a Sindarin princess and he was a Noldorin prince. Never mind that he was acting like a lovesick fool, panting at her feet like a dog. Never mind that no son of Fëanor with even a sliver of pride would ever allow himself to be tamed like a domesticated housepet.

Never had he been so content with his lot in life. Even if he had become soft and gooey like the inside of a pastry. If it made his Nightingale happy, he would gladly be a weak-willed fool.

Her fingers brushed the top of his head, combing through his silver hair, and Celegorm leaned into the touch, nearly purring with pleasure, like spoiled, overgrown cat.

Mellowed indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> meleth-nín = my love


	3. Eternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a major AU. Dís dies giving birth to Kíli in a cabin in the mountains belonging to two particular elves. Said elves pretty much adopt the three remaining dwarrows into their little family. Seventy-seven years later, said dwarrows pass through on their way to reclaim a certain Lonely Mountain from a certain fire drake. Basic synopsis, but hasn't been written. Just go with my randomness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doesn't follow canon. Dior's parentage spontaneously changed.

Sometimes, Celegorm wondered if mortals think about how fleeting their lives are.

To him, three hundred years isn't much more than the blink of an eye. One hundred years is even shorter, and fifty years is hardly worth mentioning. Thinking of the interesting guests in his front yard, the immortal pauses only to blink and focus on their movements as they rough-house and talk and laugh around their fire.

Thorin is one-hundred and ninety-five and already going gray. Their burglar—their odd little creature that calls itself a hobbit—is fifty-one. They might die tomorrow or the day after, or forty years from now, but all the elf can think about is the fact that they won't be around much longer.

They are more fleeting than a shooting star. In an instant, they will all vanish into dust and memory as if they never existed. In that way, at least, he can see how loving a mortal is so painful, why Aegnor rarely smiles, why Caranthir pines away.

The touch of a hand against his arm brought him away from his morose thoughts, a thousand miles into the sky and six thousand years into the past, back to the present where the fire flickers in the darkness and sends washes of warm air over his face. "What has you frowning, meleth-nín?" Just beyond his shoulder, his wife is standing half-shaded by the eaves of the cabin, but her eyes are brighter than Arien.

His gaze slid over to Fíli and Kíli, Thorin's lively nephews. He and Lúthien had known the brothers since they were very small—Celegorm had been the one to swaddle the younger for the first time. But that seemed a blink of an eye ago. Seventy-seven years. The family of dwarrows—minus their mother—had stayed until spring and then moved on to their home. Celegorm had not seen them since. But they had failed to vanish from the deep recesses of his mind as many passing mortal faces before them.

The boys were almost grown, though Kíli's beard was still on the sparse end of the spectrum. They were pestering the burglar, teasing the little creature with grins splitting across their young faces.

"Even if they survive this insane quest, they will not live but for maybe two hundred more years," he murmured, feeling an unknown, discomfiting emotion burning in his chest. "Dwarrows only live about a quarter of a millennium."

His mate hummed softly in the back of her throat, and the pure sound shivered through him, soothing away the strange pinching feeling that had taken up residence inside his ribcage. "They have gotten much bigger, and in so little time," she commented. "Soon I suppose they'll be grown up. Eventually, Fíli will become King."

Celegorm didn't point out how unlikely it was that this quest would succeed. His wife's adventures had proven that probabiliy did not reign supreme in the universe. "Is this what it was like... being with _him_... Beren?"

They did not often discuss the man, as he had once been a rather sore subject festering between the two. Celegorm had once hated his adversary passionately, but his hatred had long since mellowed to plain dislike, especially since his Nightingale was beside him and Beren's soul was beyond the edges of the world. Still, he found himself secure enough to be curious. How could Lúthien love Beren and throw away her forever for his dubious love? How could Aegnor devote himself to Andreth knowing they could never marry in her lifetime? How could Caranthir fall for Haleth, knowing that she was already more than halfway to her death?

"It was a little painful," she admitted, her lips forming a sad little smile. "I knew it would not last, and I wanted to be with him. You... You were an unexpected hitch in my plans to join him beyond the edge of the world. Still, it was better to have him for the short time we both walked the earth than to never have known him at all."

Her smile brightened. "Besides, I would not say he is gone. Certainly, he no longer lives on this plain of existence, but I remember him. And I will be here forever. How many mortals can pass beyond the realm of the living knowing they will never be forgotten? He will be remembered forever. In a way, he is just as eternal as any of our folk now."

_He will be remembered forever._

She stroked a hand over his scalp, running her fingers through his hair, tugging it loose of its braid so a few of the silvery strands spilled over his back and shoulders. Gently, her fingers combed through the tresses. "You will not forget them, will you?"

_Thorin, who he'd built a grudging friendship and camaraderie with. Fíli and Kíli, who he considered to be more his children than Dior ever had been._

"Nay," he admitted. "I do not think I could even if I tried."

"Well there, then," she cooed, pulling his head back so she could press a soft kiss against his brow. "They are lucky dwarrows indeed. No matter how their quest ends, they will never be forgotten in the dusty archive of time. You will remember them forever."

There were many things that Celegorm knew he would remember forever. The face of the first elf he slew in Alqualondë. His father's body burning itself into ash. The first time he joined bodies and souls with his Nightingale. The first time he looked his son in the eyes. Some of them he preferred not to remember at all, but this newest memory he thought he could live with.

Looking out at the dwarrows obnoxiously shouting and laughing around the fire as they shared their dinner, his eyes focused on Thorin seated beside the burglar, seated perhaps too close, and on the two brothers laughing and pestering the company with their childish antics. He could see every shadow and wrinkle in their faces, and found them just as beloved as any flawless, smooth face of the Eldar carved from moonlit marble. These were his dwarrows.

And they were as eternal as any ageless elven legend. Celegorm would make it so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> meleth-nín = my love


	4. Subtle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is an observant hobbit. He notices things. Such as two particular elves pretending that they hate each other who like to hold hands while they think he isn't looking. Bilbo might be old, but he's not _blind_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erestor spontaneously became a member of a famous high-elven House. Can you guess which?
> 
> Possible OOC. Blatant slash. Kissing. It's for Valentine's Day, so forgive me if it's a touch corny.

To an outsider, Erestor and Glorfindel seemed to have nothing to do with each other. They were as different as day and night. Scholar versus warrior. Solemn versus lighthearted. Darkness versus light.

To the unobservant, they did not even seem to know each other.

Bilbo was anything but unobservant.

Though they did not speak to one another, he saw their eyes settle on one another when they thought no one was looking, just a hint of _something_ hiding beneath the layers of mysterious elven strangeness, a something that Bilbo knew all too well. It was, after all, rather universal.

He saw how they sometimes exchanged silent words with but a glance. Rarely, he would see their sleeves brush when they passed one another in the halls, though neither lithe body so much as twitched in acknowledgement.

Twice, he had seen one touch the other's hand. 

\---

The first time had been in the library. No doubt, Glorfindel had believed the dark-robed advisor to be alone in the deepest, dustiest corner of the vast collection, pouring over his tomes with a small frown and a furrow between his dark brows. The seneschal had approached slowly, and Erestor's half-hooded dark eyes watched him as he moved.

"So rarely do I see one such as yourself take interest in the written word." The words were seemingly cold from Erestor's lips, sarcasm and insult venomously twining together in that velvet tone. If Erestor had been inclined to sing rather than snark, Bilbo thought he might have the loveliest voice in all of Middle-earth.

"Were I so inclined to enjoy the written word, I would come more often." Glorfindel stepped closer, and the movement brought to Bilbo's mind the very first ickling that these two were perhaps friends rather than enemies. "Perhaps it is not the tomes that attract me."

"Perhaps..." They stared at one another for a few moments, and, as the hobbit watched, Glorfindel leaned forward on the table, his golden hair spinning over one shoulder and spilling across the page that had previously occupied Erestor's attention.

"In any case, you spend far too much time working. It is no wonder your mood is so sour." And there it was, the brush of fingers from Erestor's slender wrist, up over the back of his hand to stroke against his knuckles. "Elrond has you working too hard. Perhaps you should take the afternoon off, Master Erestor, and—"

And then Lindir peered around the doorframe, far enough away to have not overheard the conversation. Immediately, Glorfindel straightened, though he was very smooth about it, as if the movement were a natural and fluid reaction.

"Master Erestor, Elrond has requested your presence," Lindir informed them.

The dark elf had sighed. "Very well." But as his robes swished through the doorway, Bilbo could swear that he glanced back at the seneschal.

\---

The second time had cemented Bilbo's conclusion.

It had been months since Frodo and the Fellowship had departed. Bilbo felt wearier by the day, but at the same time happier, more relaxed, less stretched. He had been out in one of the gardens—completely coincidentally the same garden that Master Erestor had chosen for his afternoon break, apparently. The advisor was sitting alone on a bench in the shade, a book perched in his lap, but it did not look quite so foreboding as his tomes did normally. His lips were not frowning and his brows were not furrowed.

"Enjoying the sunlight, are we?" a familiar voice asked, breaking the quiet that had settled over the advisor. "Rarely do I see you out of doors, my friend."

"If a warrior can enjoy the written word, why can a scholar not relish the warmth of Anor against his face?" Erestor returned, looking up at Glorfindel, who was clad in robes today rather than a tunic and leggings, deep burgundy over white.

"You speak the truth, of course." Glorfindel smiled, and for once Erestor did not look so dour. "Walk with me?"

"I suppose I can stomach your company for a short while," the advisor replied, gracefully rising to his feet. They did not touch at first, but stood side by side and began walking in that strange way that elves moved, measured and slow, as if they had all the time in the world to reach their destination.

They said nothing to one another, though they did exchange one of those strange glances that spoke of more words than had ever been imparted between them aloud. Just before they left the sight of the old hobbit half-hidden behind a nearby hedge, their hands brushed ever so softly, fingers twining together for a single moment between them, just the tips. But it was enough. Bilbo could see Erestor's lips twitch upwards at the corners, and Glorfindel looked as though he had been given the greatest gift in the world.

Just for a moment.

And then they were gone again. But Bilbo was more certain than ever.

\---

Many a month later, he finally got his undeniable proof. 

The elves were leaving. Lady Arwen and Lord Elrond had departed for Minas Tirith. Bilbo was feeling his age. His joints ached fiercely, and sometimes he didn't remember things quite as well as he would like to. Sometimes, he could not remember faces. He did not like being unable to recall Frodo's dark curls and bright smile. He did not like forgetting beloved blue eyes and that elusive quirk of the lips—between thick whiskers—that he had always loved so much and remembered so dearly.

Nevertheless, the dark days were coming to a close. Rivendell was emptying, but he knew of at least one who would stay. It was a well known fact that Master Erestor would never sail. Why was never spoken of, though everyone knew it had to do with blood and ancient oaths that were best left forgotten.

It was the first—and last—time he had seen them embrace.

In the dark, he had spotted them, alone beside an open window looking out into the West. Their hands were but inches from one another where they rested on the railing.

"Will you be leaving?"

To an outsider, Erestor's voice was as cold and emotionless as ever, but Bilbo knew the advisor well enough to hear the soft tremor of his words.

Glorfindel looked towards the darker elf, blue eyes almost blazing in the darkness of the night. "Why would I leave, Master Erestor?"

"There is nothing for you here," the darker elf pointed out softly.

"To the contrary," the golden-haired warrior replied. "I do think there are quite a lot of tomes left to enjoy... among other things."

Something about Erestor's eyes took all the lightheartedness out of the banter. "There is nothing here anymore. If you do not go now, you will never be able to return home again. Do you not long again to see the golden fields and eternal beauty of your home?"

"Sometimes," Glorfindel admitted. "But if I had wanted those things, I would never have chosen to return here." The warrior moved, and Bilbo's eyes widened as strong hands grasped Erestor's forearms, turning the slighter elf to face his taller counterpart. "I came back across the Sea for something much more important than golden fields and eternal summer."

Erestor said nothing more, but he did not move away when Glorfindel's large hands, callused with thousands of years of wielding blade and bow, rose to embrace his cheeks. The taller warrior leaned downwards and pressed forward until their brows touched, until their noses gently brushed and they breathed the same soft, white puffs of air as fall died into winter.

Bilbo's breath caught with awe and longing. His mind touched upon the story of Thingol and Melian, how they stood still for decades, just looking into each other's eyes, never moving or speaking. There was something of that magic between the two beings before him as their eyes connected, deep black against shining blue. Erestor's arms rose, twining around Glorfindel's until they, too, rested about the warrior's cheeks, just touching softly.

"I will stay. This is where I belong."

The hobbit took one more glance at them, almost entranced with their beauty, but forced himself to look away, and to not imagine that his hands touched strong cheeks and surprisingly soft whiskers, that his pert little nose nuzzled against a familiar, much larger one, that his brow did not rest on another as dark braids spilled around them and curtained them from the world.

\---

After that, Bilbo saw them only once more, as he departed two days after. They stood side by side and did not touch. Erestor's voice was only a shade warmer than usual as he kissed the old hobbit's brow affectionately and bid him farewell. "I will miss you, but you head for home, little kindred soul."

Glorfindel followed after, still smiling, blue eyes dancing. "Aye, stay out of trouble, dear friend. But I would suggest that you don't give up on adventures just yet."

"Certainly not," Bilbo agreed, even though he wheezed slightly with the effort of hefting his cane enough to move him into the elf's warm embrace. "The pair of you watch out for one another."

They exchanged one of _those_ glances again, soft and subtle, but Glorfindel nodded in response. "Someone has to make sure this dour fellow does not bury himself alive in paperwork and heavy books."

For once, Erestor did not snark back. Bilbo just smiled up at them and bid them farewell. The world was waiting on him again.

Then, just as he passed out of sight, safely inside his wagon with Frodo at his side, the old hobbit could have sworn he saw the golden-haired warrior kiss his scholar on the knuckles, their hands embraced tightly as they fell to rest between the two figures of sharp contrast. Maybe it was just his old eyes—they didn't work as well as they used to, after all. He glanced again. Or perhaps not.

He just hoped they held on nice and tight. One happy ending was enough to lift the heart of a sentimental old hobbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Anor = the sun


	5. Cheat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's say that elves have soul-mates, too. A One, so to speak. (I've been corrupted by Hobbit fanfiction, so help me God!) Let's just say that Amrod meets his One at the most inopportune moment in all of history, and things spiral downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is a sinda. I cannot profess how much it bothers me to hear him referred to as a wood-elf. He is a gray-elf of Doriath.
> 
> There is also an OMC named Valthoron.
> 
> Beyond those points, I want to say that the violence and rape in this chapter are completely non-explicit. There is also a hint of mpreg.

Sometimes, Amrod felt as though he had been cheated out of his life.

Young, innocent, too naïve to realize the mess he was running headlong into—the heartbreak waiting for him just on the other side of the hot blood of adventure—he had taken the plunge after his father and brothers, not caring that he was being used, nothing more than a pawn in his father's desperate plot for wrathful vengeance. He had foolishly lifted his blade and raised his voice with the rest.

And look where that had gotten him.

Blood of the innocent staining his hands. A dead younger brother. A dead father. Four dead elder brothers. Countless lost cousins. Countless tears and endless shame, madness and darkness. Eventually, it had earned him his own death. _"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed,"_ * Námo had declared, and he had not been lying.

But in the end, not even these unfortunate tragedies truly left him feeling desolate. They were not the reason for _his_ unnumbered tears.

It was the fact that he had found his other half when his sword was poised to slit the young sinda open from throat to groin. Terrified blue eyes had peeked up at him from beneath dark, tear-stained lashes as he paused mid-stroke, his body frozen, mad with lust for blood and grief and greed, but somehow still sentient enough to see the jewel before him.

Not sentient enough to leave the young elf untainted.

But he had not killed the pretty young sinda. He had tried, promised himself he would come back to finish the job, but he had returned to find the elf gone, fled or slaughtered. He had never found the body, though he had searched the scarlet-painted halls of Menegroth for many hours. There had been no closure, and forbidden hope still burned and stung somewhere inside his soul, even in the very aftermath of the ravaging of Doriath and its people.

What really made him feel as though his life had been unfairly snatched from him, his place in the Ainulindalë warped and stained with darkness, was the fact that he now knew his other half, lived so near, watched day by day, but could never touch, never speak. Thranduil did not want him. Even after he returned from the Halls, sailed back over the wide ocean more than three thousand years later, the very sight of his tall figure and fiery hair made the sinda blanch and flinch and shrink away.

There was no second chance for him. Not in Valinor, and not here.

He had to watch from a distance. He watched the eldest prince with the golden-red hair and the too-sharp features, knowing not even a name. Somewhere inside him, he wished he had been able to see the flame-haired child running barefoot through the woods, had been able a sweet young voice calling for his atto as soft arms were flung around his neck. But those days were long gone, and the prince was a stranger with an agonizingly familiar face and blazing green eyes. Amrod only watched from the shadows, never closer, and never in the light.

He watched Thranduil become a King, watched the shy beauty drain out of his other half, tainted with war and death. He watched Thranduil stop smiling, watched as he grew weary and tired as the world began to once again plunge into darkness. He watched and longed and wished and waited for something that he knew would never come.

And then, many years later, Thranduil had come to him but once, desperate and half out of his mind, but not out of love. Amrod accepted him and loved him in a strange, possessive sort of way, but they did not know each other, and when they parted there were no words of love, no undying devotion or sweet embraces. Amrod had watched his other go, and he could not remember anything ever hurting so much as seeing his lover disappear into the trees, never to return.

Still, he didn't go after Thranduil. Part of him longed. Part of him resented. Still another part understood why Maglor tortured himself by singing the Noldolantë to the raging sea, why Maedhros refused to curl up and die after Angband, why Celegorm drew the face of every elf he'd ever slain and wrote in gruesome detail his own crimes so he could never forget.

He didn't deserve the peace. He didn't deserve his other's love. And that hurt more than anything.

But still, the traitorous hope would not go away.

Amrod watched from amongst the trees. There was a second child, one who grew to be just like Thranduil in face and form, with long, dark lashes and big blue eyes, hair winter-pale without even a hint of flame. Even without a name, with nothing but a face, Amrod loved the child who had the same innocence Thranduil had in the days of Doriath. The same smile. The same sparkling eyes. 

Every day—every hour—every moment he wished so desperately that he could have something of them, his family, his future that had been taken away from him with a mere handful of prophetic words and his own utter stupidity and sickening greed.

He would have given _anything_ to be free of his curse, just this once.

 _Anything_ to make those words go away.

Yet he never forgot them. No one who heard them and ignored them ever did.

 _"The Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever..."_ **

Just once, he wished to cheat his fate, to escape the Oath that lay heavy on his soul, the words that could never be taken back.

But no second chances waited for him here. He had been a fool to even hope there might be. And a fool he would remain to the End of Days, if only he could continue to watch and wait with Thranduil's image in his eyes and name upon his lips, wishing for the love he had no right to touch even in dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> sinda = grey-elf  
> atto = daddy
> 
> *quoted from "Of the Flight of the Noldor" in the Quenta Silmarillion  
> **quoted from "Of the Flight of the Noldor" in the Quenta Silmarillion


	6. Transparent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir has met his One and everybody knows it. They also know it will probably end badly. After all, since when to elves and mortals get married and live happily ever after? Clearly Beren and Lúthien haven't come around yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unsympathetic older brothers. Weeping. Character death.
> 
> Vardamírë is an OFC created solely to be Maglor's wife.
> 
> Of names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë, Káno  
> Caranthir = Carnistir, Moryo

"He is completely smitten."

From their vantage point, Maitimo and Makalaurë could both see their brother sitting before the fire, staring into the dancing flames with bright, distant eyes, seeing something beyond the vibrant golden glow, far off in the distance.

To be honest, he had been this way for days, ever since returning from rescuing the small settlement of men on the outskirts of his territory. Carnistir had never been exceptional at hiding his feelings; they were written plain as day on his face, in his flushed cheeks and the reddened tips of his ears and the shy little grin he wore when he sighed heavily into the distance only he could see.

It was worrying.

"I know," Makalaurë whispered, not daring to look into Maitimo's eyes, knowing he would see the disapproval that he wished his brother would hide better.

After a few minutes of silent observation, he glanced towards the redhead. "He cannot control who he falls in love with, as you well know. It is just how the world works."

"He came back from rescuing a hoard of men," Maitimo grumbled. "I doubt it was an elf-maiden that he lost his heart to. This mess will lead nowhere but to a bitter, tear-filled ending; you cannot deny that much."

No, he could not. It would not end well. Love between one of the Eldar and one of the Atani never ended well, though it did not oft happen, thankfully.

"Have you spoken to him about it?" Makalaurë whispered.

"No."

"You ought to." Twiddling his fingers, he wished for his harp desperately. Feeling the sweet strings beneath his fingers would have soothed the anxiety swiftly building in his throat. "What if the atan was his—?"

A sharp look interrupted him. "Do not even think it!"

The anger was misplaced, but Makalaurë understood. His brother would much rather be angry than be caught in a web of despair; such was the way of many of his people. Makalaurë was not prone to raging, though. He had his mother's temperament, and after the initial burst of fury he fell into sadness all too quickly. Maitimo had their father's stubbornness through and through.

"It is something that needs to be addressed," he pressed forth. "Talk to him, Nelyo."

"I will have no more of this foolishness!" Maitimo stood and swept away, scowling darkly, reminding Makalaurë all too sharply of their father.

For several more minutes, he sat and watched Carnistir pining. It was all too clear, the love that filled his little brother's heart and soul. Transparent as his face. And then he stood, making his way over to seat himself beside the fourth brother. Carnistir did not even look up at him.

"Moryo?" he asked softly.

Green eyes glanced up from a surprised face. "Káno, I didn't see you!"

The older of the two smiled gently. Carnistir seemed happier, lighter than usual. Rather than scowling, he had a tiny smile perched at the corners of his lips. "You have been distracted," he said softly. "Will you tell me whom has your attention captured so?"

The flush on his brother's cheeks darkened to the red he was named for. "I-I don't know what you are speaking of!" he replied far too quickly, looking away shyly. He was a horrible liar.

"Tell me."

The younger wrung his hands and looked down at his feet. "She is amazing," he finally said. "A true warrior willing to defend her people to her last breath. I do not think I have ever seen anyone so beautiful in my life!" He sounded almost breathless as he spoke of her. "Is this how you felt when you met Vardamírë for the first time? Like you cannot bear to look away for even a second?"

Sadly, Makalaurë smiled. "Quite the same," he agreed. "She is the One, then?"

Eagerly, his brother nodded, looking so pleased, so hopeful. It almost broke Makalaurë's heart, because he knew Maitimo was right. Loving a mortal could end in nothing but sadness.

"I wish you luck," he murmured.

Carnistir, his bashful, awkward brother, grinned shyly and went red again. "Thank you."

\---

It could not have been prevented. That was what Makalaurë told himself when he found Carnistir looking as though the world balanced on his shoulders. Head bowed, he sat again before the fire, and he was not smiling.

When Makalaurë sat, Carnistir looked up with sad eyes. "She does not want me, Káno."

"I am sorry." He wished he could do something to make it better, but broken hearts could not be mended with words. All he could do was allow Carnistir to lean on his shoulder and silently weep. When he looked up, his eyes met those of his older brother, who stood in the doorway looking pained.

He shook his head, and Maitimo departed without speaking a word.

\---

They had all become accustomed to Carnistir's moods. Eventually, he did return to some semblance of himself, but he was obviously changed. It couldn't be denied that he was still hopelessly in love, still pining away for a mortal who stepped closer and closer to death's door every year. How old was she now? How many years did she have left? It had been near forty years since Carnistir had wept on his shoulder, heartbroken. The Atani did not live very long, usually not even a century...

Their younger brother was madder by the day, and more black-hearted. He had never been sympathetic and always had been quick to anger without knowledge of the subtlety of words.

Now, he would raise his voice over the smallest things. He was increasingly violent and took delight in hunting down the orcs that haunted his plains. Whenever Makalaurë visited, he always felt that sickening quiver in his belly at the blood-thirst of his younger brother, at the joy he seemed to take in wrathful vengeance and destruction.

But still, Carnistir could not hide the distant looks of longing. In the moments when he was calmest, he was also sad, and Makalaurë thought perhaps there was more of Nerdanel in the fourth brother than any of them had guessed.

When the day came, he knew as soon as he looked into those eyes, glistening green and broken shards.

There were no words. Carnistir came to him, forty-two years after he had disastrously fallen for a human woman who did not return his love, and he wept like a child, loud and wet without shame.

Makalaurë knew that she had passed beyond the edges of the world, and the last little bit of hope that lingered within his brother was dead. When he looked into the red-rimmed green eyes, staring blankly up at him, it was plain as day. Transparent.

The Carnistir he knew was gone, and he didn't think his brother would ever recover, could ever be put back together.

And all Makalaurë could do was watch and helplessly despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atani = Race of Men  
> atan = man (or woman in this case)


	7. Believable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eöl the Dark Elf is sailing back to Middle-earth after a long sojourn in the Halls of the Waiting (and some time to think on his last actions in Beleriand). But someone is waiting for him when he gets there, and she is _not happy_. Or maybe she is. Sometimes it's a bit hard to tell with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence between a couple. But the girl's the one doing the punching. A bit of blood. Does this count as explicit violence? Pregnancy appears in there. And kissing.
> 
> Of names:  
> Íreth is Sindarin for Irissë  
> Aredhel is an epessë

Life, it seemed, was too good to be true.

Breathing deeply of the fresh air, Eöl looked out over the calm waters of the sea glistening in the afternoon sunlight. Just visible in the distance, covered in a hazy layer of cloud, were the peaks of Ered Luin, which he sharply recalled from younger years.

It was too peaceful, too bright. The ship's rocking was gentle, as if Ulmo had seen fit to grant the returning exiles and dark elves a small token of sympathy for their journey.

For his part, Eöl was nearly breathless with anticipation and nerves. It was not every day that one met his wife again after more than three thousand years apart. The wife that he had killed, at that, no matter that it was not she he had aimed for. Somehow, he could not imagine his fiery wife sweetly forgiving him for attempting to kill their son.

Such thoughts were running rampant through his mind as their ship, white rather than gray, docked at the Havens. A slightly familiar, bearded elf waited for them as they left the safety of the vessel, and it took Eöl a moment to remember Círdan of the Falathrim, who he had known once in their very early youth as Nowë of the Nelyar.

They exchanged polite nods when they stood before one another. "It has been long, old friend."

"It has," Círdan agreed in his gruff voice and manner. Neither of them had ever been men of many words. "Welcome home."

Eöl swallowed almost audibly. It was good to be back.

"There is someone waiting for you," the shipwright added just as Eöl made to turn his back. "She was quite anxious, but I told her it was best to give you a few moments of fresh air."

It probably had been a wise idea. Now that Eöl was reminded that his sweet Aredhel was waiting, it felt as though all the air in the world was too stale to fill his lungs. The sea-salt burned at his tongue sharply when he licked his lips. "I had best not keep her waiting, then."

Círdan nodded in agreement and moved on to the next newcomer, disappearing into the small sea of elves, leaving Eöl to find his own way.

Not that he had to search much. From just within the arched doorway of a nearby building, a tall woman draped in white peered around one of the gray marble columns, her pale blue eyes incisive as the sharpest steel blade. The dark elf gulped and steeled his shoulders, moving towards her, fully expecting a curt greeting, harsh words and to be sent from her sight until the end of the world. He was a hedonistic creature by nature, but he would not begrudge her that.

Indeed, she did not smile at him, and his heart sank a little, but he did not stop walking until they were side by side, only a few feet between them. His mouth opened, floundered and closed. What was one meant to say in such a situation?

It was she who spoke first. "You... you rank, bull-headed son-of-an-orc!" she cried loudly as she struck out with a fist, punching him full-on dead-center of the face with a wicked right-hook. _Must have learned that from Turgon, bloody bastard. I will have to thank him when next we meet._

Blood dripped from beneath his fingers as he pinched at his already-crooked nose. Well, he didn't think it was broken this time at least. "You are angry," he observed quietly, trying to maintain some dignity even though half the elves on the dock were watching with wide, concerned eyes. "I do not blame you. Truly. If you wish me to be gone from your sight, I will go."

She stared at him for a long moment, looking as breathless as he felt, her white cheeks flushed with color. "You great bloody fool," she whispered.

And then she kissed him.

Eöl didn't hear anything else after that. All he could do was wonder whether or not he was still on that ship sleeping. If this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up again.

\---

A year later found him settled in a colony of smiths on the fringes of the Hithaeglir in what had once been Eregion. This suited Eöl perfectly well. There was a small house built into a sheer rock-face, with a porch and a vegetable garden and a forge carved out of the stone in the back. It wasn't luxurious, but it was enough.

It was home.

Especially when he sat on the steps and looked towards the West where Anor set on the world. Contented, he looked towards his wife, curled up beside him, her eyes half-closed and her belly swelled with child.

He bit his lip against a sigh. "I think I am still dreaming," he admitted aloud.

Her fingers twined with his, squeezing gently. "This is real," she assured him as she laid their entangled hands over their unborn child. "I do not think I have ever felt so free."

Their eyes met, and she gave him an earnest smile, one that seemed to turn this impossible dream into a believable reality. She loved him, wanted him. They were starting their little family anew. He could be contented forever with nothing more than his forge in the mountains and his sweet Íreth Aredhel at his side.

Eöl smiled at her and thanked Ilúvatar profusely in his head. It wasn't every day that an old bastard like him was given such a rich gift. He wasn't about to waste his second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hithaeglir = The Misty Mountains  
> Ered Luin = The Blue Mountains  
> Eregion = city ruled by Celebrimbor in the Second Age  
> Falathrim = Nelyar who live on the coast but never went over the sea


	8. Repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is out for the night. Guess who gets woken up when the fosterlings get frightened by the big, bad thunderstorm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cute elflings. Cliche situation. Hints at torture, mutilation, murder and other unpleasant subjects, but nothing explicit.
> 
> Of names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo or Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Amrod = Pityo

Many a night Maitimo spent staring at his ceiling. It was rare that he got much sleep these days.

The redheaded elf rolled onto his side, allowing waves of silken hair to fall over his face, hiding his eyes. Outside, rain was pelting down against the windows like a thousand tiny fists pounding against the glass, every now and then punctuated with a deep, rolling roar of thunder that shook the earth. Even had it been quiet, he doubted tonight would have been one for sleeping.

Most of the day had been spent chasing after Makalaurë's fosterlings. Elros and Elrond were not troublemakers, but at their age (barely more than toddlers) they seemed to get into absolutely everything.

Because he was the expert, as the eldest of seven, Makalaurë had demanded Maitimo's assistance.

It wasn't that he had anything in particular against the little ones. Some might have called him petty, said that he was bitter over losing the Silmaril once again, and to a Sindarin _woman_ , but Maitimo couldn't have cared less. He was almost relieved. If the glowing jewel was at the bottom of the sea, at least there would be no more trails of carnage and bloodshed in its wake. There it could rest for a thousand ages and never see sunlight, and he would not have to follow.

In any case, the pain of looking after two lively little ones—twins at that—had more to do with his brothers than anything else. To think, the very day that Pityo had passed—

But he didn't really want to think on it. He did not want to contemplate a pair of dead twins frolicking in the evergreen fields of Valinor, untouched by darkness and hatred. The two little ones with the dark hair and the gray eyes looked nothing alike to his brothers, yet the similarities were undeniable and heart-wrenching.

As much as he wished to deny it, part of him sincerely hated the fosterlings. Ever since they had come into his life, his nightmares had grown worse. Before, they had just been about Findekáno's beloved, broken face and disappointed eyes. Now there was fire and dark, twisting branches reaching out to claw and tear at his flesh as he searched in the fading light, covered in blood and gore. It always ended with two sets of familiar, terrified gray eyes and screaming echoing in his ears.

Groaning, he twisted in his sheets again, uncomfortable and so tired but unable to rest. Outside, the storm merely appeared to grow more violent.

"L-Lord Maedhros?"

The voice was so soft, he almost didn't hear it, but Maitimo could not deny its existence, especially when it was followed by the rumble of thunder and a high-pitched squeal of fright. The very sound jolted through his body, awakening instincts long buried and at the same leaving him feeling raw.

Looking over the edge of the bed, he spotted the fosterlings. They clung tightly together, their bodies shivering in their white night-shifts, hand-stitched plush toys clamped tightly within their small, breakable little arms. But the eyes struck him the most; Maitimo could have sworn that, as lightning lit the room again, they flashed green.

"What do you need, little ones?" he asked, not even pretending to have been asleep.

One of them stepped forward, and Maitimo guessed it was the older. Elros was more outspoken than his brother, much the same as Pityo had been. "Can... Can we sleep with you?"

He almost asked why they weren't bothering his brother—they weren't his fosterlings, after all—but then remembered that Makalaurë was out for the night. _How inconvenient..._ He resisted the urge to scoff and glare at the intruders to his bedchambers, though it was hard to find resentment for small, quivering creatures sniveling so pathetically at a bit of thunder.

Sighing, knowing very well that they would not sleep a wink if he did not allow them under his sheets (he had learned _something_ from having so many brothers, at least)—not to mention there would likely be tears and a scolding from Makalaurë later—he held up the corner of the sheet in a clear invitation.

The little ones needed no prompting to hoist themselves onto his mattress and squirm underneath the blankets. It was strange, indeed, feeling the two small bodies curling up against his stomach, little bony elbows poking into his gut. It brought to mind a time when he had greatly desired nothing more than this, to have little ones to watch over and protect, but it was a dream that had long ago been sacrificed on the altar of his Oath, and Maitimo tried to ignore the ache that rose behind his ribs at the knowledge that there would never be a child in his future, even if he had had a future left that wasn't tainted with sin and darkness.

"Go to sleep," he grumbled hypocritically when they continued squirming.

"Sorry," one of them whispered, large eyes peeking up at him. Another deep rumble of thunder brought forth a whimper from the pair, and Maitimo could see that familiar over-bright gleam in their eyes. _Wonderful... simply wonderful_ , he thought sarcastically. The last thing he wanted to deal with was a pair of crying elflings.

Stroking his useless stump over the two shivering bodies, he crooned. "Hush, it's just thunder. There is no reason to be frightened."

"Sounds scary," one of them replied, huddling closer against him. "Monster coming to get us."

Sharply, he recalled a similar scene in his mind. _"It is going to come and eat us, Nelyo," a tiny redhead murmured, tugging at his hair._

"There is no monster." Well, that was a lie, but they didn't need to know that if anyone around here was a monster, it was the elf they were cuddled up in bed with.

There was soft grumbling, but the gentle caressing seemed to calm the little ones a bit, as it had two other such twins a very long time ago. Finally, they settled, one head resting against his pinned left arm, the other tucked somehow up against his belly, nuzzling. "Warm," one of them murmured softly, even as their gray eyes drooped closed as human eyes were prone to do. There was a yawn, and murmuring, and then silence.

Unable to sleep, he watched them, feeling more drained than he had in days yet desperate to remain awake. He did not want any more dreams about dead elflings or disappointed eyes. He just wanted empty, restful darkness, to forget for just a few hours. Instead, he focused on their restful, innocent faces and recalled others from millennia past. It had been so long. To think that the same innocent faces of two different elflings relaxed in peaceful slumber had grown up into a pair of murderers, separated from one another by fate, broken and crushed and thrown aside like trash...

Shutting his eyes tightly, Maitimo tried not to remember, but images came unbidden anyway. They always did.

 _May these little ones have a better future._ Maybe he begrudged them the gift that they possessed that had been taken from his own brothers, but there had been too much blood and sorrow for him to wish more upon anyone else, especially two helpless children. _May they never know the pain of loss and separation of brothers. May they never know what it feels like to lose everything you care about and have nothing left but empty oaths and promises._

He wondered if Ilúvatar was listening to him, if the One even cared about the wishes and prayers of a Kinslayer. Had he, just by touching these two lives, damned them?

As he laid in silence, he prayed not. But in his heart, he knew that history was destined to repeat itself. The world was too dark and filled with hate. Eventually, even these pure little lights would be stained with its filth. 

His mind would know no rest. Not that night, nor any night after.


	9. Addicted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans age in the blink of an eye. Caranthir knows this well. But it doesn't change the fact that he can't stay away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to Transparent (Chapter 6)
> 
> Soul-mates. Unrequited love. Stalker-ish behavior. A touch melodramatic maybe.
> 
> Haleth was approximately 39 when they first met. It's entirely possible she was already going gray. And she only lived to 79.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Caranthir = Carnistir

It was hard to breathe when he couldn't see her.

That was all that truly crossed Carnistir's mind as he tucked himself up behind a thick tree trunk, hidden within the forest's shadows. From there, he could see the small settlement of men spread out below, just a few houses that looked as though they would blow over in a strong wind. It was not the sort of place one would expect an elven prince to spend his time watching.

But he couldn't _not_ watch. It had nothing to do with the dreary state of the settlement. He couldn't have cared less about the living conditions of the men and women scurrying about their little lives beneath his eyes, reaching the spring of their youth so quickly, passing through summer and fading into their winter in what once had felt like the blink of an eye to the elf. One hundred years _at most_. And then they were gone, as if they had never existed, returned to the dust from whence they had come.

Now, time seemed to move even faster. It felt as though every time he looked away from _her_ , new wrinkles appeared around her beloved eyes, new streaks of white appearing in her hair.

His Haleth was growing old.

It did not change much. She had already been going gray when he had first met her, when he had fallen hopelessly in love with her and her strong personality and her impressive skills as a warrior. It was her strength which drew him forth, and her attitude which held him captive.

Not once had she ever given him respect. She would not bow and scrape and beg before him for meager scraps like a beast. She was independent, and she put forth every ounce of energy she possessed to take care of her people. Even now, when her body was beginning to become frail, she still went out and worked with the men in the fields, still went on hunting trips, still did all the things her younger self had done. Age had not removed an ounce of her spirit.

Nevertheless, Carnistir felt the time of her death approaching so acutely it was painful.

He shouldn't have been here. It was just feeding the flames of his _need_ to be around her, his One. His obsession. His addiction. Just the sight of her was like a drug, pulling him in, holding him hostage. Every time he came here, every hour spent watching the sway of her hips as she walked, watching her interact with the nameless, faceless men of the village, watching as she went about her daily routine, left him more attached. Every time he pulled away to leave, to go back to his halls and his lands, Carnistir found it harder to make himself pull away.

 _Just one more moment. One more second._ That was all he could say to himself. Desperately, he would clutch at the bark of the tree, clawing away the outer layers, anchoring his body in place.

Now, he could barely spend a fortnight without sight of her. In his chest, anxiety and panic ate away at him. She was passing seventy, well past the age where the bodies of men began to break down and die. Any day, something could happen. He could come back and find her vanished, as though she had never existed, her body laid to rest in the earth, her soul beyond the edges of the world.

The gnawing worry curled in his belly even as he watched her now. She was dressed in ragged trousers as she hauled buckets of water to the house. Most men would have said she was past her greatest beauty—indeed most would not have considered her beautiful at all, even in her prime—but Carnistir had never seen a creature so wondrous in all his life. What he wouldn't have done just to hold her in his arms for an hour and have her hold him back with equal desire—

But she did not want him, and he swore he would leave her be. Carnistir would not break his word to his One, not even if the oath kept him alone and in darkness, spiraling into madness.

He did not know what he would do when she was gone. Maybe he would go completely mad. Maybe he would fade away. Or maybe he would spend the rest of eternity alone, balancing on the edge of sanity.

All he knew was that he could not imagine life without her.

And that was dangerous.


	10. Write

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegnor has ways of dealing with being alone forever, and with missing his first and last true love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of the AU where the Noldor return to Middle-earth in the Third Age (touched on in Mellow and Believable)
> 
> Perhaps a touch corny. The writing most certainly is. But Aegnor is a warrior, not a poet, so cut him some slack. Half-written in epistolary form.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro  
> Finrod = Findaráto (Telerin dialect)

_To my beloved Andreth,_

_For me there is no rest in the Undying Lands. Rebirth seems empty and barren, the golden fields materialistic and the evergreen trees stagnant. I fear you may have ruined my appreciation of everlasting beauty for all of eternity._

_Your face still haunts my dreams, and though others find me foolish, I cannot find it within my heart to let you go nor move on into my peaceful rest. It would feel like betrayal to your spirit and your memory._

_I once swore that no elven bride would I take for your sake, and I keep to my oath._

_I just pray that, when the time comes at the end of all things, you wait on the other side for my arrival. No other can complete me nor satisfy my cravings. You are the One and only, the always and forever._

_My love for you is eternal,  
Aikanáro_

\---

Findaráto worried over many things. It was in his nature to care too much, to absorb all the hurts of those around him and attempt to mend them. The suffering of his brothers and sisters was no different.

Of course, as the oldest he felt it partially his responsibility to watch over them, and that perhaps if he had been wiser during his time in Beleriand things could have been changed—mended. Bonds repaired and strengthened from kin to kin. Forgiveness could have been granted. They could have patched together their broken people, their broken family.

But nothing had come of it. Now it was too late. Exile had changed all of them too much, embittered their spirits, broken and remade them into unrecognizable pieces that no longer fit together.

None as much as Aikanáro, though.

Day by day, his youngest brother seemed only to grow worse. Vacant eyes once like fire now stared dully out the window, full of no more than ashes and fragmented memories. Sometimes there would be days without movement, without speech or acknowledgement or food. Sometimes, Findaráto feared that even in the beautiful lands of Valinor his young brother would foster no will to live and would fade away, back into the comforting darkness of the Halls of the Waiting.

Aikanáro lingered, and he did not know whether or not to be grateful.

The little consolation he could find was the small journal half-hidden beneath his brother's mattress. Findaráto never touched it, but it gave him solace. Aikanáro was not an empty husk drained of life and fire, not yet. The spirit for which he was named had not yet abandoned its host.

It was but a little comfort. Nevertheless, any catharsis was welcome.

\---

_To my dearest beloved,_

_Days linger on like ages. I have tried and failed to find my peace here._

_I know Findaráto has yet said nothing of it to Atar, but he plans to leave the shores of Valinor, to go back to Beleriand or whatever is left of it, to remake our home there. It seems I am not the only heart fostering discontent on the blessed shores. I will not be the only one who can find no rest or healing here._

_I plan to leave with my brother, and whoever may choose to join our mad quest. I do not think I can bear the sight of unchanging green fields even one more year, one more day or hour or moment._

_Though I know Beleriand will offer no such peace to my mind or heart, at least it may offer some comfort. My home is lost, but perhaps with my hands buried in the earth that we once shared, I will feel at rest for a time._

_You have my love always,  
Aikanáro_

\---

At first, Findaráto had been hesitant to let Aikanáro out of his sight. The youngest brother barely seemed able to function on his own.

But when he first saw his brother kneeling against the earth, silent with eyes closed—brow smooth of deep furrows, finally at peace—he gave up trying to control the wild spirit. He did not do more than call to his younger sibling, announcing dinner was prepared, and retreat back into their abode.

When Aikanáro did not come, he was not surprised.

When—two days later—his brother disappeared altogether, he was still not surprised.

He fretted and worried and waited anxiously, but Findaráto knew that controlling the Fell Fire in his brother's blood would do nothing but destroy all that remained of the fragile, longing spirit. Best that he let Aikanáro come and go of his own free will.

At least the book disappeared as well. At that, Findaráto felt a touch of relief.

\---

_To my beloved Andreth,_

_I am here once again. The earth has changed much since I last set foot upon it. Our Beleriand is no more, but I mourn it not. The change is almost reassuring. The rest of the world moves on, even as the Undying Lands linger eternally, frozen and removed from all time._

_Though I do not claim to be content, wandering the wilds of the land helps. Being free helps. Even the changing seasons eases my longing ever so slightly._

_None of them will ever compare, though. I long for your arms about me as acutely as ever. I will never be content until we are as one, forever. If that means I must wait for all of time to pass me by, then I shall._

_I found a lake yester-eve and settled there for the night. I still see your face in her clear waters—though she is not Aeluin—and I look up and you are vanished again. But part of me believes you are still here. It would be just like you to watch over me. Of the two of us, you were always the more level-headed, O wise-woman of the Bëorians._

_Even after all this time, I have not forgotten you. I do not think I could if I tried._

_You have my love, always,  
Aikanáro_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father
> 
> Beleriand is the land west of the Ered Luin which sank into the sea at the end of the First Age  
> Aeluin is the lake in which Aegnor originally saw Andreth's face reflected and fell in love at first sight  
> Bëorians are Andreth's people


	11. Soulful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon ends up with a redhead. But it's not the one you're thinking of. And don't pretend you're not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female original character. Because Gil-Galad had to come from somewhere. (Sorry Maedhros/Fingon fans.) Mildly sexual content.
> 
> Delves a bit into Avari and their culture and customs. Kind of like Beltane or Midsummer celebration actually.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Maedhros = Russandol

It was a whisper at first, barely audible on the wind, brushing past his ears like a phantom. Findekáno paused, reigning in his horse, and his cousin beside him halted, eyes narrowed and hand twitching towards his sword.

"Relax," he soothed. "I just thought I heard..."

It came again, and this time there was no denying it. Russandol heard it as well, his head turning towards the origin of the voice.

"Singing," he murmured.

Findekáno frowned. Singing, here? They were in the middle of nowhere! As far as the prince knew, no one lived in this part of the forest. Occasionally, the Noldorin princes would come here to hunt, but never had any of his cousins mentioned seeing or hearing anyone within these woods. But then, he and Russandol had traveled farther south than usual...

"Let us go and see who hides from us," Findekáno burst out, grinning. His enthusiasm was not returned, but he did not expect it to be. It was his job to be cheerful enough for the both of them, after all. Russandol was such a pessimist!

"Findekáno..." his cousin groaned in agitation.

"Come on," he urged, wheeling his horse around and turning her in the direction of the voices. "We can make friends."

"You are insane," Russandol grumbled, but he followed nevertheless, a helpless smile blooming on his thin lips. Triumphantly, Findekáno grinned and nudged his mare forth between the thick trunks of the trees and into the darkness of the forest without hesitation. Rather than being frightened, his racing blood thrilled him.

They ventured deeper, until the night sky was completely obscured by the towering canopies above, and all they had to ground themselves to reality was the music, the voices twisting through the trees, chanting in heavy rhythm. Findekáno felt his body begin to sway with the beat of drums.

"Findekáno...?" Russandol sounded hesitant, but Findekáno was enthralled. There was just something _otherworldly_ about the calling voices. And calling, they were. Drawing him forth from the darkness and leading him along. None of his cousin's nervousness could halt the thrumming resonance within his body. Something about this just felt _right_ , as if something beyond his senses was urging him forward into the unknown.

And then there was light. Golden and soft at first, and then brilliant in reds and oranges and golds. Thick, sweet smoke filled his lungs, leaving him dizzy. Ahead of them, in a clearing striped by the shadows of trees, Findekáno could make out figures swaying, silhouetted in the embrace of the roaring fire at their backs.

The pair paused, each looking on, one with amazement and one with trepidation. Findekáno nearly threw himself off his horse in his eagerness to get closer.

Russandol scrambled after him. "Findekáno, what if they _see you?"_

Personally, he was too enchanted to care. Pure feeling washed through him from head to toe, shuddering its way up his spine and wrecking any rational thought he had once possessed. It was like being drunk on the finest of wines! Giddiness bubbled up in his stomach, fluttering against his ribs wildly.

Without thinking, he stepped to the edge of the clearing and looked out at the elves. Immediately, he knew these were no Noldor or Sindar. They were something else, something mysterious and not of the West. Dark elves.

Spinning and twirling, they seemed to move as one being before his eyes at first. And then he began to differentiate between them, male and female, pale-haired and dark. Each moved like a divine creature; never had Findekáno seen such dancing. The soft waltzes of his own people were positively tame and dull in comparison!

But one in particular caught his eye. Slender but fuller and more curvaceous than any Noldorin woman and with hair like silk and flame, redder than even Russandol's, full of wild curls. She turned, her eyes wide and dark, her mouth open as if in exultation or perhaps ecstasy. Heat flashed across Findekáno's body, blood flooding beneath his cheeks, reddening his normally pale features and creeping down his neck.

Swallowing thickly, he attempted to look away from her sultry movements, how her feet pranced so delicately through the grass about the flames, how her hips swayed and her arms twined and curled over her head with the music, bringing the sound to life, embodying its spirit in her very movement, her very being. He was helplessly ensnared at the sight.

And she was watching him. And he could not have moved, not even if his life depended on it.

At least not until her arms opened and beckoned, her breast heaving and her eyes falling half-hooded in the heavy air and sweet golden light. At that moment, she looked to be Arien herself!

He did not think before stepping into the circle of her arms, finding himself lost in fire and darkness and passion, with her soulful eyes burning through him. Russandol's startled shout fell on deaf ears; Findekáno was beyond words.

\---

When he awoke, there was a thin trail of smoke rising from where the fire had once burned so brightly. Dawn was creeping into the sky, covering the stars in pale light. Groaning, Findekáno sat up from where he was lying in dirt and grass. Running a hand through his tangled hair, he pulled free at least a half-dozen leaves.

"Finally awake," a familiar voice commented nearby. His dear cousin. Russandol did not look amused.

"What happened?" he groaned. He remembered... he remembered fire... and a woman... with the softest hair and the deepest eyes...

"Your maiden tupped you," Russandol told him bluntly. "They left early this morn."

Disappointment filled Findekáno for only a few moments before he perked up. "Do you happen to recall which direction they were headed, cousin?"

His sharp Russandol caught on to his plan immediately. "No. Absolutely not. Findekáno..."

Smiling broadly, Findekáno stood and stretched, listening to his joints popping and moaning in satisfaction. "We should get going if we are to catch up to them before nightfall."

Russandol just rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder why I even put up with you. You are more annoying than a persistent elfling."

At that, Findekáno smirked cheekily, as he had in their younger years. His inner child was bursting with energy. "Your life would be dreadfully boring without me."

After all, someone had to have enough adventurous soul to fill up both their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avari are dark-elves (and this OFC is one)  
> Arien is another name for the sun (rightfully, the maia who guides the vessel of the sun)


	12. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros lost much more than a hand and his dignity in the dungeons of Angband. And you all wonder why he wanted to die when Fingon arrived to valiantly rescue him from Thangorodrim. Or, in which Thorin's infant nephew opens up old wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of the same AU as Eternal (Chapter 3) in which Thorin and his nephews interact with Noldorin exiles.
> 
> Hints at mutilation and torture. You can decide how bad it was for yourself. Possible OOC. Crying. OFC Telerin elf.
> 
> Inspired by the song Ashes of Dreams from NieR Gestault and Replicant.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Istelindë = my OFC (name roughly derived from Estelindë and created approximately seven years ago)

The cries did not wake him. Rather, it was the shifting of the mattress which brought Maitimo into consciousness, his eyes fluttering as the world came into focus, only for his gaze to catch on his wife's slender figure crossing the room, clad in only her nightgown.

His ears caught up with him. There was crying in the other room, the baby no doubt.

But not theirs.

Sighing, Maitimo pushed himself out of bed, shivering as cool night air washed over his bared skin and slipped beneath the loose covering of his night-shirt. On soundless feet, he made to follow his mate to the chambers which he had given to the nephews of their guest. The door, as expected, was half-open, and the crying wafted from within.

"Hush little one, do not cry." Softly, her voice washed over him, low but smooth, settling. Maitimo leaned against the doorframe and peered inside.

His Istelindë was pacing on the wooden floor, her unbraided white hair catching in the moonlight drifting through the open balcony doors. In her arms a small bundle rested, the child from which the pitiful little whimpers were originating, small hands reaching out and gripping against her nightgown, such tiny fingers curling into strong little fists as the dwarrowling sniffled.

"Now, now," she soothed, stroking the little one's pudgy cheeks, "We must be quiet and go to sleep. We would not want to wake your uncle at this time of night; he needs his rest." She moved towards the balcony, her body becoming obscured by the diaphanous curtains as she looked out over the sea glistening beneath the stars. Turning, her face was lit in sharp relief by Isil, the delicate lines of her cheeks and brow coming into focus.

Even from across the room, though, Maitimo could see the content look on her unlined features. And he could see the glittering sadness hiding just beyond her pale blue eyes, an ever-present ghost that haunted Maitimo to the depths of his soul.

He found himself frozen in the doorway, heart beating heavily in his throat. With a baby in her arms, she looked so perfect despite her sadness. It was as if she were made for the image, and it burned itself sharply into his brain—the curve of her body as she rocked the child, the cant of her chin as she smiled gently down at the babe's face, even the way she walked and the way her voice lilted as she cooed soft nothings into the silence of the night, giggling softly at the child's answering indecipherable noises.

Swallowing thickly, he backed away from the door and pressed his forehead to the cool stone of the hallway, unable to watch anymore lest the scalding bile rising at the back of his throat overflow. The scene was so domestic and peaceful, and it was something he neither deserved nor could ever possess. But he desired it fiercely. Maitimo shut his eyes tightly as his fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist against the wall.

They desired children. Always, even before exile, before any of Fëanáro's madness and schemes, before the Darkening, they had decided on a large family. Being the oldest of seven brothers should have deterred Maitimo from such a thing, but he knew he was made for it. He had rocked his brothers to sleep, let them crawl into his bed, sang them lullabies and read them stories out of necessity, because their father wasn't there to fulfill his role. And he had found peace in the doing, despite the resentment that he carried for his sire in his heart.

But this was different. The powerful desire for his _own_ children—children of his flesh and blood, shared between himself and his wife in the most powerful, sacred way imaginable—had never abated, not even after he knew it was no longer possible.

Elves mated once—took one spouse in all their immortal lives. Istelindë had chosen him, and he had chosen her. Even after he had returned, his body and spirit broken by his Oath, she had never given up on him, had refused to toss him aside as she should have. It was probably that which had saved him from losing himself on the golden shores.

But there was too much damage, and his body and spirit were not the only things broken in their first few months together after his rebirth.

They couldn't have children. Or rather, _he_ couldn't have children. The Halls of the Waiting may have healed their spirits, but it had not mended his ruined body. If it was only a hand, Maitimo would have hardly cared; he had learned to live with only one so long ago. But anyone who believed that Morgoth had let him off so lightly was a fool.

The Dark Lord could look into minds. He could see the deepest, darkest secrets hidden inside. And once he knew your greatest desire, it was only his _pleasure_ to take it away from you.

Maitimo hadn't a hope of hiding his most powerful dreams and wishes from the fallen Ainu. If there was one thing Morgoth knew, it was where to strike and how to strike in order to destroy, to obliterate and decimate completely. To shatter.

Why Istelindë had stayed with him afterwards was a mystery considering his betrayal not only of her love, but also of her people and her home. Why she had returned to Middle-earth with him vexed him even more so, when she could have petitioned the Valar to be free of him, when she could have gone on to create the large family she desired in a land of eternal protection and peace.

On the other side of the wall, her crooning gave way to a soft lullaby, a lullaby he had heard thousands of times over. She sang it to him often enough, when he couldn't sleep. Now she sang it softly to the babe in her arms, her rolling voice of a deeper timbre than other pure, high elven pitches, as if the sound had been born directly from the sea which her people loved so dearly. Even now, though, it carried her inner hopelessness, locked away in the corners of her mind, allowing it to wash over Maitimo in powerful waves, filling him with equal despair and nauseating guilt.

Selfishly, he wished that the babe she held in her arms was _theirs_ , an elfling with silver hair and large blue eyes just like hers.

But it was not to be.

Turning away, Maitimo headed back to his bed, curled up beneath the covers and buried his face into his pillow, listening to her distant voice until it, too, died away into the night. Unbidden tears pooled and spilled shamefully. Even after the madness of the Oath was over, he had yet to finish shedding the promised tears, unnumbered. Perhaps he would be shedding them for the rest of eternity. Perhaps that was his punishment.

It was a long time later when she returned to their bed, her face tired and her sadness suffocating. When she lay down, he pulled her back against his chest and wrapped his arms about her tightly, holding on for dear life, kissing the nape of her neck with a whispered apology.

He didn't dare ask forgiveness, though she would have readily given it. She would forgive him for all the wicked deeds that stained his soul. 

But in the end, he would never forgive himself for breaking their dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Ithil = the moon


	13. Stop Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the peace that his fallen over Middle-earth at the beginning of the Third Age, Elrond is married and has twin sons. But his little family is about to grow just a little bigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy. Slightly romantic. Mostly fluffy.
> 
> Note: It drives me crazy that people don't know about Elrond's wife and sons. Celebrían is the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn. Elladan and Elrohir are Elrond's twin sons, who are Arwen's older brothers. If you already knew, pretend you didn't see this note.

Until now, Elrond had not believed perfection existed.

So much of his life had been surrounded and filled with darkness and pain that it was hard to believe a world could exist without it. From his earliest memories up until the Battle of the Last Alliance, every corner of life he turned seemed to lead to more suffering and death, more lost hope and more fallen friends. His parents... his brother... his king and people...

Even after the battles were finished, he had fallen into a state of despair, wandering aimlessly. He threw himself into creating his haven, and the hours were slaved away with building, preparations and paperwork. They had won, but he had lost.

And then Celebrían had come into his life like a star fallen straight from the blankets of heaven, nestling herself comfortably into his heart against his will and refusing to leave.

Restful peace had fallen over Middle-earth. The darkness of Mordor had been vanquished, albeit at a heavy cost, and the earth was healing. As for him, his small family had grown from one to two to four in what seemed like the blink of an eye. First his wife and her warm smile, then their sons, twin troublemakers who had him wrapped around their little fingers like twine.

For once, he felt no bitterness over his past, no resentment over Elros' choice to join the Followers, no despair over the death of Gil-Galad. He had his family, and he could want for nothing else. There was nothing else he desired.

Sunlight fell down upon their clearing beside the river. Having dispensed of his heavy robes, Elrond had only a tunic and leggings on, his boots lying off in the grass, and his wife was curled against his side in a loose white summer gown. Her small hand was lying atop his on their blanket spread over the ground, and her head was resting on his shoulder.

Around them, the forest was alive, green and plentiful, the trees whispering of sweet rain water in their roots and the delights of Arien's rays upon their leaves. The river was babbling softly in the background, glimmering and dancing in the sun.

But that was not what held Elrond's attention captive and left him with a helpless smile on his lips.

The little ones had taken captive his poor seneschal and dragged him into the river, where the three of them were splashing and dunking one another. Or rather, the twins were attempting to dunk Glorfindel. The warrior had a significant advantage.

Laughing heartily, the scarred warrior chased the squealing elflings through the cool water, catching one squirming child beneath each of his arms, somehow infinitely gentle despite the power of his form. Spinning the pair around, Glorfindel tossed them back into the river, grinning broadly at how they screamed in delight and begged for a repeat when they resurfaced.

Elrond did not even want to blink. The fingers he had twined with his wife's gave a soft squeeze, reassuring his mind that this was tangible and real.

She shifted, her blue eyes rising to stare straight into his from her radiant face. Her free hand rose and cupped his cheek, stroking along the curve of the bone. "You look content, husband," she observed quietly.

"I am," he assured her.

She merely hummed in response, her fingers absently tracing nonsense patterns on his cheek and over his nose. "We should come here more often if it helps you relax so."

His eyes slipped back towards the children, who were now climbing all over their babysitter, yanking on his mussed golden braids. "It is not so much the place, I think," he admitted. And it was true. There was just something in the air and the water and the earth that soothed him, a lightness that he could never recall feeling before in all his three thousand some years of existence. _But it is much more than that_ , he thought as he beheld his children. "The world feels at peace."

Her hand had moved, and she was playing with the dark locks of his hair drizzled over one shoulder. "The perfect time to raise a family," she commented coyly, her smile changing into something that had Elrond's world suddenly focusing sharply in on her. "If our two little troublemakers have not yet exhausted you, perhaps we could do with one or two more..."

 _Does she mean...?_ Gulping, he leaned closer to her, wondering how he had been blessed with such a lovely creature as his own. "Perhaps," he agreed, and the word came out as a breath upon her pale rose lips. He could see her silver eyelashes in stark detail, hiding the sultry, deepening blue of her eyes as their air mingled and her wandering hand found its home at the nape of his neck, reeling him in closer...

"Ada! Ada, come play with us!"

The squealing pulled them out of their daze, and Elrond pecked a chaste kiss on his wife's lips. "Later," he murmured as he pulled away, instead looking out over their little patch of paradise.

The world took on a vibrant hue as his eyes opened. Air filled his lungs, sweet and pure, and all the sounds rang in his ears, the whispers of the trees and birds, the squeals of happy elflings, the rumbling of the river. He felt it rise from his toes upwards in a wave. The warmth of sunlight hit his upturned face, and Elrond found that he could have stood there forever with his wife giggling in the afternoon sun, watching his elflings splashing irreverently in the river as overwhelming peace suffused his very being.

If he could have halted the flow of time... if this moment could just stretch on forever...

"Ada, hurry up! You have to help us dunk Glorfindel!" One of the twins chorused to the warrior's loud protests.

"I know, I know! I am coming!" His feet carried him to the water, and he went in fully clothed to the laughter of his wife, immediately grabbing his seneschal and dunking him completely under the river's writhing surface. Glorfindel came up sputtering and glaring half-heartedly.

If this moment could stretch on forever, he would be content for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arien is the maia who guides the vessel of the sun.  
> Followers is a reference to the Race of Men
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Ada = Daddy


	14. Alcohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon must let his young son go, knowing that they will never meet again in this lifetime. Can you blame the guy for getting drunk?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: My Fingon is a party animal. He's happy, cheerful, flirty and likes to drink and have a good time. It's just how I write him.
> 
> Note 2: OFC named Sáriel is from Soulful (Chapter 11)
> 
> Intoxication. Precognition. Weeping.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Gil-Galad = Ereinion (Gil-Galad is an epessë, not a given name)  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

Always Findekáno had been a happy drunk ever since he had been old enough to partake in wine at royal gatherings and parties. Intoxication had never turned him into a maudlin creature bemoaning his woes to the world. No, it made him into a giggling, smiling flirt who spent the evening complimenting ladies and singing dirty tunes.

This was different, though.

Never had he made such a hard decision—such a terrifying decision—as he had made this day.

The king closed his eyes and forced down another goblet of the finest wine, waiting for the familiar rush, the dizzy haze to settle over his mind and sweep away the last few hours. He just wanted to forget, just for a while, for a night, and not remember...

Not remember the frightened, betrayed silver eyes or the feeling of small fingers holding onto his braided tresses for dear life. Not remember the whimpering and crying and pleading. Not remember the chill that had run down his spine so tellingly when he spoke, "I will return for you, yonya," and both of them knew it was a lie.

Slowly, Findekáno lowered his forehead to the smooth, cold tabletop, not caring that his goblet had toppled over in his haste to put it down, nor that the rich red wine was spreading across the hard surface, dripping onto the white carpet and leaving splotches that looked too much like blood. His head was pounding, but the familiar lightness was not settling into his bones. His fingers tightly gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white.

Some sound made it past his lips, strangled, and the king refused to analyze it, afraid of what he would find. _Ai Eru! Just to forget!_

"Fingon? Fingon, where are you?"

Her voice was close, and he did not even attempt to move as her soft footsteps brushed the carpet just outside the door. His wife knocked softly. "Fingon, are you in there?"

At the sound of her words, he shuddered and felt tears pool in his eyes. When he had told her of his decision, she had wept for three nights. It didn't matter that Ereinion would be safe at the Havens. It didn't matter that they were so close to the front of war and he wanted their son as far away as possible. To her, he had been taking her pride and joy away, her only child, her beloved son.

Did she hate him? She ought to, really.

It just felt like too much. Too much pain and worry swirling around inside him until he felt sick with it. The day of battle approached all too rapidly. If they failed, his people would be slaughtered and only Thingol would stand between Morgoth and all of Beleriand. What would happen to Sáriel? What would happen to Ereinion? Or his cousins? Was he going to have to watch the rest of them die? Would he have to watch Maitimo die?

So caught up was he that he neither heard the door opening, nor the approach of small, slipper-clad feet on the carpet. It was not until his wife sat down beside him and ran a gentle hand through his unbound hair that he sat up, startled, hiccupping out another sob.

Her eyes were a gentle, deep violet, and not angry or filled with hate. "Oh, dear one," she crooned, pulling his head down to rest against her shoulder. "You should have said something, Fingon."

And just like that, he was spilling everything. Every doubt, every fear, every ounce of resentment and bitterness that welled in the pits of his soul, all of it came spilling out between wretched sobs, muffled by the velvet of her gown. And his wife's cool hands felt so wonderful on the back of his neck and combing through his hair, soothing and comforting. 

She let him speak, and he revealed all.

\---

It could have been minutes or hours later when the tears had drained away, and he lay against her limply, her red curls shielding them from the outside world. Deeply, he breathed in her scent of wildflowers and the deep forest. "Did I make the right choice?" he asked softly. "Do you hate me, Sáriel?"

Her hands curled into small fists in his hair, but did not pull or twist. "You made the right choice," she told him, her voice strained. "Ereinion will be safe in the Havens."

And then she let out a sigh, her grip loosening. "I could not hate you even if I tried," she added. "I resent that you made the decision without telling me, without consulting me, but I would eventually have agreed."

Findekáno let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and allowed himself to snuggle further into her embrace. He felt raw and a little ill, but the comfort she offered was more than enough to soothe his body and spirit. "I am glad," he whispered, closing his eyes and nuzzling against her neck. "I fear I will not see him again, but knowing that he will be safe gives me comfort."

"Fingon?"

"It is a feeling in my bones. I feel like something terrible is going to happen." The king wrapped his arms tightly around his wife, pressing her against him, tangible to his touch. "I saw the look in his eyes when we parted. Ereinion can feel it, too."

Sáriel embraced him in return, resting her cheek on his hair. "All will be well," she whispered. "Have faith, dear one."

Had he been sober, Findekáno might have attempted a smile and agreed, might have complimented her and lured her into their bed for a night of passion, but he was a wreck. "The Valar have abandoned us," he whispered instead, breath hitching in his chest. _"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed..."_ *

"All will be well..." she crooned, stroking his back and shoulders, rocking his body like a child's in the circle of her arms. "Everything will be well..."

But it wouldn't. He knew it in his blood and bones. He knew it in his heart and soul. He knew it as he knew Arien would light the sky each day and sink into the West each night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arien is the maia who guides the vessel fo the sun.
> 
> Quenya:  
> yonya = my son
> 
> *quoted from "Of the Flight of the Noldor" in the Quenta Silmarillion


	15. Pauses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six instances in which Maglor finds himself suspended in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the AU where the Noldor travel back to Middle-earth in the Third Age.
> 
> Maglor's wife is yet another OFC. Her name is Vardamírë. Like her or don't like her. I blame Tolkien's head-canon.
> 
> Soul-mates. Spontaneous children. Messing with geneologies. 
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

The first time he heard her sing, his feet had frozen midstride, suspended upon the air. Three elves ran into him from behind before Makalaurë had the sense to step to the side of the street, his silver eyes searching.

And then he saw her.

Like a divine creature come to life, she stood in the doorway of one of the shops, sweeping away as she sang. Around her, elves paused and listened for a few seconds before moving on. Who could fail to stop and listen to that sweet voice trilling above the daily clamor of carts and boots upon the cobbled streets? If Makalaurë could ever imagine what the voice of a vala might sound like, he imagined it would sound like hers. Divine. Indescribable. Entrancing.

She was on the opposite side of the street, but when she looked up she somehow caught his eye, as if she'd known he was watching her. Beautiful blue eyes behind a veil of silver hair widened as the pair beheld each other, and her soft melody ceased.

Makalaurë did not dare blink.

Her face burst into the most glorious vibrant red tint, a dusting that spread over her cheeks and nose and left him floundering for thought. And then she slowly smiled—one of those shy little smiles that made his heart beat faster beneath his ribs—and she began to sing again, her words lost in the movement and clutter of the busy streets of Tirion.

But not the haunting pitch. She turned away, and Makalaurë did also, his feet carrying him away down the street, away from the rising tones that filled his very fëa with delight and gave him pleasant tingles down his spine all the way to his fingertips and toes.

His only. His fated. His One.

The next day, he was back again.

\---

And then his world turned upside-down.

There was darkness and fire. The world looked an alien place to his eyes. Faces were stark and shadowed, eyes glowing like embers, filled with a strange sort of lust that chilled him to the bone. And above him, his father stood, his voice echoing through their ears with power that reverberated through every cell, which held the attention in a helpless cage of fascination, drawing in, imprisoning within bars of charisma and passion.

Makalaurë would never—could never—forget the words spoken, for they defined his life evermore.

__

"Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean  
Brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,  
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,  
Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,  
Dread nor danger, not Doom itself  
Shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro's kin,  
Whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,  
Finding keepeth or afar casteth  
A Silmaril. This swear we all...  
Death we will deal him ere Day's ending,  
Woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,  
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting  
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth...  
On the holy mountain hear in witness  
and our vow remember,  
Manwë and Varda!"*

And above his head, Fëanáro lifted his sword, and it flashed red as blood in the firelight. One by one, so, too, did Makalaurë's brothers lift their blades, gleaming with vile promise, and in his kin he first beheld the lust for blood that would consume his life.

He was last to lift his sword. Upon its hilt, his hand faltered. Blue eyes and silver hair filled his gaze and a voice fit only for the ears of Ilúvatar sang sweetly through his mind. Two elflings—dark-haired and barely grown—whispered against his shoulders, their eyes adoring.

But in the end, his father's gaze upon him hardened his heart, and Makalaurë held his sword aloft, jaw set firmly, and swore his Oath.

Later, he would come to wish that he had heeded the warning of his heart, but by then it was far too late. For all of them.

\---

Surprisingly, he did not hesitate to take his first life. Or the second. Or the third.

It was afterwards, after the screams and the fire in the streets and the limp, mutilated bodies that Makalaurë paused. It was when he beheld his reflection, hands poised above the untouched waters upon which their new ships rested, that he found himself unable to move.

The prince did not recognize his face. It was as if someone else stared back at him with tangled black hair and maddened silver eyes, as if it were someone else streaked in crimson and wearing torn clothing, someone else with a blood-crusted sword at their waist and scarlet-painted hands reflected in the water. Was that... really him?

Long since had the bloodlust faded, but until now Makalaurë had driven reality from his mind. He had _killed_ them. They would never rise again. They would not return home to their husbands or wives or children. They were in the Halls now.

He had put them there. He had _slain them._ It was _their_ blood upon his hands and in his hair and brushed across his cheeks and soaked into his tunic.

For a long time, he looked, until voices called his name and any chance of thoroughly cleaning away the proof of his shame and sin was passed. And he couldn't help but wonder if he even deserved to be clean after this. Did he have the right to wash away the blood?

Even if he did, would it really be gone?

\---

Beleriand was a harsh land. All too soon, Makalaurë found himself fighting, the blood of the enemy flowing black, and later the blood of his kin flowing red. The world passed before his eyes like a nightmare, and time continued flowing.

For a long time, he did not hesitate. He could not afford to.

\---

But when he did, it was not after battle, but during. It was at the sobbing and soft pleas of two helpless children huddled pathetically together in the corner of their closet, unprotected, their terrified eyes round and bright as they beheld his gore-riddled figure.

It was not the first time he had seen children awaiting their bloody fate at the hands of his men— _his own hands_ —but something about the picture shook him. Perhaps his own brothers had been weighing heavily upon his heart, or perhaps he was just sick of war, sick of killing. Perhaps he just wanted to rest, wanted to save something rather than destroy it, nurture and protect rather than slaughter.

Perhaps he wanted to go against their Curse.

For even as his sword rose to strike them down as one, aimed for their throats—and a swift ending it would be—his arm seemed to freeze, refused to carry through the swing.

They were looking into his eyes, begging and frightened. And Makalaurë could not kill them.

His arm lowered, and with a frustrated growl he sheathed the naked blade and dragged a hand through his blood-streaked dark hair. Below him, the little ones were shivering, their tiny hands entangled tightly as they watched him the same way one watched a wild animal that might attack at any moment. When he turned towards them, his eyes blazing, reflected in theirs, they shrunk away as if he'd raised a hand to strike them.

Now, how was he going to explain this to Maitimo?

\---

Sick. He was so, so sick of everything. Of the Oath. Of killing. Of watching his brothers and family and friends die. Why could it not end?

Why did they have to go through with this?

The dark whispers plagued him incessantly. But in the end, he could not convince Maitimo to abandon their foul Oath.

In the tent of Eonwë, they found the Silmarilli, glorious beyond belief. Some part of Makalaurë, a deep and frightening part he knew was blood-inherited from his fey-eyed father, stirred and relished in the achieving of their goal and the possession of these jewels. His hands reached out to embrace the perfect facets without thought.

Only when he felt the heat upon his hands did he pause.

If they took them, what then? They would be hunted. Where would they go? They had no home now. They could not return to Valinor. They could not return to their camp. There was no one in Beleriand who would welcome the Curse upon their doorstep.

They were stealing from the Herald of Manwë.

But all the logical reasoning, all the thoughts that stood between him and final damnation, all of them seemed to dissolve beneath the light of the Silmarilli, as if those treacherous thoughts were the early morning haze that evaporated beneath the first rays of Arien.

His fingers touched the surface, and they burned.

He did not hesitate at all when he threw the Silmaril into the ocean, into the arms of Ulmo beyond his reach or the reach of any other. Only afterwards did he regret.

\---

For how long he was alone upon those shores, he did not know. What did years mean to an immortal being, alone and cursed? Days and nights dragged on like millennia, yet when next he checked more than three thousand years had come and gone.

Rumors reached even his ears as he listened to the gulls and the ripples of the ocean and the wind whipping his hair.

Whispers of white ships sailing East. Not West.

For three millennia, he had faithfully guarded the shores, his eyes squinting, waiting, watching for a glimmer in the dark depths with disgusting lust. For three millennia, his voice had hoarsely recited his sins to the rhythm and displeasure of the sea and the ravaging storms. For three millennia, he had been consumed by guilt and regret and self-hatred until it seemed that nothing of hope or joy could survive in his world. Nothing less than he deserved.

But now the call... the hope in his chest... the _possibility_... was so tempting.

He _wanted_ to go. He had to know if she sailed to the East, or if she had forsaken him. Even if it ended in the agony of separation, he _had to know!_

When he finally began to turn from the sea—from his vigil—for the final time, there was a pause, a moment that seemed frozen in time. He took in the clear day, the gentle waves on the beach below the cliff, the scent of salt and mist filling his nose and clean, pure air filling his lungs and the dark depths below that embraced the Silmaril which he both loathed and lusted after.

He hesitated, because he deserved nothing less than to suffer eternally. What right had he to cease his vigil?

In the end, though, the call was too strong. Besides, what did one more black mark upon his filthy, stained fëa really matter?

He was a Kinslayer. One more sin would hardly lengthen his personal list of atrocities.

And he did not regret this decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Curse refers to the Curse of the Noldor as laid down by Mandos.  
> Arien is the maia who guides the vessel of the sun.  
> Ulmo is the vala who governs over all water on Arda.
> 
> * Fëanor's Oath is quoted from the Lay of Beleriand
> 
> Quenya:  
> fëa = soul  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril


	16. Affront

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fingon is not as virtuous as we originally believed. And in which Turgon is (potentially justifiably) an asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have seen Fingon rescue his cousin out of familial duty and brotherly love and romantic love and revenge, but never for this reason.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno or Káno (fan-made nickname)  
> Turgon = Turukáno or Turno (fan-made nickname)  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Maitimo or Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Caranthir = Carnistir

Sometimes, Findekáno _swore_ that his brother lived to make his life difficult.

Bad enough that their people were homeless and living in tents. Bad enough that their uncle and king was dead. _Bad enough that the heir apparent was kidnapped and being held for ransom!_

And if all that wasn't enough, Turukáno still _had_ to go and put his foot in his mouth!

Frustrated, Findekáno resisted the urge to destroy something, to rip the tent apart with his bare hands, or maybe go out and hack a few trees down with his sword. Anything to rid himself of the fury that bubbled and boiled over in his veins.

On the one hand, he could understand his brother actions. Turukáno was merely hiding his devastation beneath a facade of malice and scorn, but it nevertheless irked Findekáno that his brother's chosen victim was not even here to defend himself. It was one thing to curse the name of Fëanáro. It was quite another to bring insult to Maitimo.

\---

_"Why have you not gone after him?" Findekáno choked out. "He may still... still be alive..." And still be suffering..._

_Makalaurë stood before them, looking older in his eyes than any elf Findekáno had ever met. The silver gaze pierced him down to the bone, further even, with sorrow and steely resolve. Never had his cousin looked less like himself, less like the gentle soul that loved singing sonnets in the gardens, sweet and innocent and pure as his deep, carrying voice._

_"It had been decided many a year ago that Nelyafinwë was a lost cause," Makalaurë told him. "We could not give in to the Dark Lord's demands, nor had we the manpower to mount a rescue attempt. Besides, in all likelihood he is long dead and Morgoth dangles nothing but empty promises before our eyes, hoping to lure us into a trap."_

_The words were cold and even, so unlike his cousin._

_"But surely--"_

_"We will do nothing," Makalaurë interrupted. "That is final."_

_It was then that Turukáno spoke, and his words made Findekáno's teeth draw blood from his lips in an effort not to scream at his brother. "The only decision you have made that I agree with. We need not waste our remaining warriors rescuing a_ traitor."

_There was a heartbeat of silence. Two. And then Turukáno found himself thrown halfway across the room, the side of his face already blooming a muscle-deep red._

_"How dare you, scum?" Carnistir, like a dark avenger, towered over them, glorious in his fury. Eyes like emerald stars blazed with a light so akin to his father's that Findekáno shivered in a mixture of terror and awe. The fourth brother, once bashful if a bit blunt, now stepped forward like a predator approaching its prey, his hands twitching into taut fists, lust for blood in his eyes. "You may speak however you will about our father, but you will never utter my brother's name again!"_

Please, Turukáno, be silent. Please, be silent...

_But it was not to be._

_"And why should I withhold my judgment from Nelyafinwë? He claims friendship with my family, yet he left us all to suffer and die crossing over Helcaraxë! He claimed his just desserts!"_

_"You filthy_ rat!" _It took Makalaurë and Nolofinwë to hold back Carnistir from throttling the foolhardy elf. Findekáno just lowered his head in shame. No matter how much he resented the fact that Maitimo had not miraculously convinced Fëanáro to return with the ships, he knew he could not truly blame his cousin, whose first thoughts had been for him upon reaching the far shores if Makalaurë was to be believed. But his brother..._

_Turukáno had reason to be bitter, to hate._

_In the end, Carnistir had to be forcibly removed from the room. When Turukáno rose, breathless but smug, half his face was beginning to darken into mottled purple._

_"I will not take back my words," his brother proclaimed, voice steady, eyes bleeding with the purest scorn Findekáno had ever seen. "I hope he_ suffered!"

_And then he stormed away in a huff, leaving the room quiet. Makalaurë's head was bowed, his eyes closed tightly and his fingers clutching at the edge of the table. The inner conflict seemed to twist and writhe within him for a few moments, struggling to break free and release the monster that Findekáno knew waited and watched just beneath the beautiful exterior. But it receded slowly, blanketed once again in despair._

_"Let us continue," his cousin finally said, voice again even and cold._

\---

Fëanárions never forgive, and they never forget.

Findekáno had to work hard to keep his younger brother out of harm's way for the next fortnight until all the violent tempers had cooled and returned to distant, icy facades.

But that was not the worst of it. Though he resented his uncle, Findekáno loved his cousins dearly, and Maitimo most of all. Shocked and horrified, he had confronted Turukáno afterwards, cornered his black-eyed brother in their shared tent.

_"Did you mean it?"_

_At that, Turukáno took him in with an assessing eye, and he didn't look sorry in the least. Rather, his brother smiled. "Forgive me. I did not mean to affront our cousin's delicate sensibilities." The sadistic amusement stung like needles against Findekáno's heart. This journey had changed them all, and none of them for the better, it seemed._

_"Turno," he choked out. "What you said... about Maitimo."_

_His brother paused. "I know you are fond of him, Káno, but he_ abandoned _you. He deserved his fate, whether you wish to admit it or not!"_

_"Your hatred clouds your judgment," Findekáno insisted. "He would never have willingly left us to die. Could you really expect him to fight back against Uncle? Could you expect him to win against his own King? What would you have had him do, brother? The impossible?"_

_"I would have had him act out of loyalty rather than cowardice," his brother spat. "For that is all he was. A liar and a coward. May he rot in the deepest pits of Angband!"_

_It took all Findekáno's strength not to hurt his brother, all his strength to stay the hand that wanted so badly to paint black and blue across the pale, untouched cheek left unmarked by Carnistir's fury. And Turukáno knew it, could see it in his eyes, the animalistic urge to lash out, to harm, to soothe his own pain. And from it, his brother took pleasure._

_"You see, Findekáno, now_ they _know what it is like. They know the loss they have heaped upon us. They know our despair. This is justice. Accept it."_

_So angry he was, Findekáno could not bear even to speak._

_But it seemed his little brother didn't care a whit. Instead, he looked towards the eldest and smirked, a look that felt slimy to Findekáno's gaze, as if some pale shade had replaced the pure soul of the brother he had known his whole life and was directing Turukáno's body like a puppet._

_"You are affronted as well," Turukáno observed blandly. "You need not forgive me. I do not feel sorry in the least."_

\---

It was not the desire to unite their houses which drove him from his tent in the dark, only a bow on his back and a sword at his hip. It was not his friendship with Maitimo either.

It was his fury.

It was the lack of justice.

It was the _need_ to prove to Turukáno that he was _wrong_ , that this was not justice, that this was not fate, that there was still something good left in the world, and that his best friend was not a backstabbing liar and a coward.

Selfish though it was, Findekáno departed.

\---

And selfishly, he smirked at his brother when he returned with Maitimo mostly intact. When Turukáno glared darkly at him, bade him silently with only a hard glance to abandon his post at his cousin's sickbed, Findekáno could only silently jeer in reply.

Turukáno would have been quite affronted himself had he ever realized that _he_ was the catalyst that had returned Maitimo to their arms.

Fëanárioni were not the only ones who never forgave and never forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helcaraxë is the icy wasteland the followers of Fingolfin crossed to get to Beleriand. Turgon's wife died there.
> 
> Quenya:  
> Fëanárioni = Sons of Fëanáro


	17. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it okay to forget? Is it okay to run away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where the Noldor return to Middle-earth in the Third Age.
> 
> Strange ideas about the mind and living in the moment.

When he finally saw the land, Amras felt a lump forming in the back of his throat. It choked out any words he might have spoken had another been at his side, but it did not halt the deep breath that filled his lungs to bursting, filled him to the brim with everything he had been missing so terribly for so long.

Home. This was home.

Stretching out before him forever and ever, rolling green plains dotted with boulders and sparse trees as far as his eyes could see. The smell of the earth and the grass filled his senses, overflowing and mixing with the heat of Arien's rays upon his flesh and the sweet, pure wind whipping against his face and tangling his hair.

Amras, dressed in naught but simple clothing and a cloak, with only a bow and a satchel to his name, had never been happier.

Breathless, his green eyes soaked in the unfamiliar landscape ravenously. It wasn't Beleriand, but it felt _right_ where the evergreen plains of Valinor had felt so _wrong._

Long years in winding halls blanketed in writhing tapestries left him feeling closed in, trapped and locked into the past, into the tragedy that haunted his family's footsteps, a ghost of their selfish greed and arrogance. Escaping the Halls of the Waiting had not changed that.

Everything about Valinor felt wrong. Too cold, too detached, too perfect. Sharp glances followed him wherever he went, scornful and judging. The city was too large and too busy. The buildings were too white and the mountains too tall, their peaks never changing, caging in the time-frozen Undying Lands from the real world. The grass never yellowed and winter never came. The golden fields never withered and were never reborn as the spring arrived and thawed away the ice and snow. It was too tame, and the memories too bitter. And no one could forget, for the people of Valinor lived in the past. They had no future.

There, Amras could never be content.

But this was different.

The Fëanorion threw away all the bitterness that twisted his heart and soured his tongue, threw away the resentment and the fear, the broken hopes and dreams. If he was running away from his problems, from the past, from his family or from all of them at once, who was there to know—to care—but he himself?

With a whoop of delight, he threw out his arms and let the wind embrace his body, nearly lifting him off his feet. And then he ran.

Ran across the empty space, his feet stumbling over unfamiliar rocks as he laughed, carrying him on eagle's wings through the air at the height of their leap so he felt as though he might never touch solid earth again. Faster and faster, until everything about him seemed but a blur, a mixture of pure sensation and ecstasy, empty of all thought and regret, but filled with so much promise that it nearly burst inside him.

Heart pounding in his ears. Feet barely touching the earth as he fled across the land, silent in movement and breath, but screaming out in spirit.

If he never stopped moving, Amras thought he would be content. If his feet carried him wherever he might go for the rest of his endless, long years, then he would find no bitterness in the traversing. If he never looked upon another face, never heard another word, never laid eyes upon another droplet of civilization, he thought he could pretend that the past was but a shadowy haze of a dream.

Darting past the trees, leaves caught and tangled in his crimson curls. Dirt and dust settled into his clothing and boots. Had anyone seen him as he twisted and turned, pirouetting through the sky like a wild creature, they would have thought him quite insane. Maybe he was. Maybe he was completely out of his right mind. Maybe he wanted to be that way. Maybe that was the key to his freedom.

Connected to the land, his feet carried him forth, completely leaving the earth again.

And he forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arien refers to the maia who guides the vessel of the sun.
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor


	18. Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin was warned to stay clear of the shores. Naturally, he does exactly the opposite of what he was told by those pompous, whiny, pointy-eared bastards. What do they know anyway?
> 
> Perhaps he should have listened. Or perhaps not. Who's to say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the AU where Thorin interacts with First Age elves (Chapter 3 and Chapter 12). Takes place roughly at the same time as Broken.
> 
> It should be obvious who the mysterious elf on the shore is. And to what events he alludes.

_"Believe me, Master Dwarf, the shores are better left undisturbed, un-experienced. None who venture there return unchanged."_

No further explanation had been given as to why the shores of Himring aught to go untouched and not traversed. Curiosity and no small amount of suspicion, however, had led the dwarrow to go exactly where he had been instructed to avoid.

At first, he did not understand the words Lord Maedhros had spoken, for the shores seemed peaceful. The moon was at his full height, silver against the gentle waves foaming up upon the beach. Except for the breath and movement of the sea, there was not a sound to disturb the silence heavy in the air, augmented by the gleaming stars watching the world from above.

And then he heard it.

Deep and rolling across the land, across his flesh, was a voice. Were he to name it, Thorin would not call it an elven trill, but neither of any timbre he could recognize. It was smoother than a dwarven voice, rich and honeyed, but certainly not the voice of a man either. If he had to put a name to it, Thorin might have claimed it was the voice of Mahal shaking the earth to its foundations, vibrating down to its core, powerful enough to move mountains and spill oceans.

Certainly, as it rushed through and around him, embracing him in its soft syllables, it shook Thorin to _his_ foundations. More ancient than all the land and the sky, so soft and yet carrying for what could have been miles in all direction, flowing over the land like the wind. How such a sound could belong to a mortal creature, the dwarrow could not imagine. He was not much of a man for beauty of the voice, but none could deny this voice its dues.

Helplessly, the dwarrow felt his eyes fluttering shut, and he did not see the dark-haired figure slowly walking up the beach, midnight locks whipping away from his face as his bare feet left faint prints to be smeared by the gentle waves.

No, Thorin saw nothing of it. Melody consumed him, enveloped him in a reality tangible enough to breathe into his lungs and fill his spirit. Yet even as he did, the sorrow, the sheer regret of the lamentation rising over the world engulfed him, poured the woes of the voice into him and filled him up to overflowing, until he wanted to throw himself down and cover his ears, to weep, to make it cease but never let it end.

Upon the back of his eyelids, the colors began to morph and merge like a living thing, a vision writhing its way into his mind. A vision of terrified faces and contorted bodies and bloody hands. A vision of the downfall of arrogance and greed, a familiar glowing jewel that seared into flesh down to the bone. A vision of vanishing beloved faces and nothing left but dark emptiness. And if those faces were young and familiar, dark and golden together, he did not allow himself to further recognize them lest he lose himself in their empty, dead eyes.

Despair fell over the dwarrow, pulling him down into earth and shadows and chaining him there, apart from the world. Thorin could not remember his own name in that moment, or that the peaceful shore was just before his eyes should he choose to open them.

The melody wove into reality and burned it, twisting it into blood and death and pain beyond imagining. Loneliness beyond imagining.

Just when he thought it would shatter him completely, the sound ceased. Silence laid heavy over his body and soul, broken again only by the breath and movement of the sea upon the shore. Gasping, he came heavily from the trance, eyes snapping open and staring into the purest mithril.

"You should not have come here, Master Dwarf," the strange elf said to him in _that voice._ Just hearing it speak the Common Tongue made him shudder in remembrance and shameful terror. The flash of blood-streaked walls and empty, dark chambers in his mind's eye left him colder than the wind off the water ever could.

"Who... what... are you?" Thorin rasped, rooted to the spot, unable to move but too prideful to stand in horrified awe at the creature before him.

Dark hair tangled by the wind whipped around the tall figure whose face and form brought to mind the sharp angles of Lord Maedhros' dour face. Only the eyes were not cold and stern. They were open and filled, gleaming as if in tears, but no tears fell. Those eyes on him cut deeper than bone and laid him bare.

The strange elf inclined his head, staring down at the dwarrow. "What did you see, Master Dwarf?"

He wanted to tell the other that it was none of his damn business, but the words would not come. Instead... "Emptiness. Loneliness."

Humming, the stranger nodded and looked out over the sea. "You should take care not to let history repeat itself, Master Dwarf. The shadow of silent halls and empty gold lies upon your fëa. And a glowing stone." Thorin looked up sharply but said nothing. "Surely there are things you value more than lifeless trinkets."

Rage burst in his chest. How dare that elf? "You know nothing of it!" he snarled. This elf would dare defile the memory of his home and mock the glory of the treasures of the House of Durin! "Nothing of it!"

Not intimidated in the least by his raging, the elf smiled the saddest smile Thorin had ever seen. "Oh, but I do, Master Dwarf," the voice said, and within it reverberated that otherworldliness, like something kindled of divine Flame. "When the choice is upon you, will you let your greed overshadow the true gifts The Maker has given unto you? Or will you embrace that which truly matters?"

Sputtering, Thorin absolutely refused to let himself be swayed. What on earth did the elf expect him to value above his home and the safety of his people? Above the Arkenstone? "Truly matters? Of course my home matters!"

"Your home," the elf murmured thoughtfully. "What would you give to have it back, Master Dwarf?"

 _"Anything,"_ he growled. "I would give _anything_ to have back what is rightfully mine, to return my people to their rightful home and glory!"

Something in those eyes was both pitying and mocking, and it infuriated the dwarrow. "Dangerous words, you speak, Master Dwarf." The elf shook his head and turned away. "I hope the cold light of the Heart of the Mountain and the golden glow of lifeless treasure please your soul. But you should know that they do nothing to quell loneliness or emptiness."

How the elf knew so much, how he seemed to see right through Thorin, it was disturbing. He was all too grateful to be out of the sight of those deep eyes, endless stars that glowed in the night. "You know nothing of it," he repeated hoarsely.

"Maybe not," the stranger whispered as he walked away, seemingly uninterested in carrying on their argument. "I do wonder, though," he said, pausing for just a moment, "if you know the meaning of the word _anything."_

"Of course I do," Thorin snarled. "There is nothing I possess that I value enough that I would not sacrifice it for my home and my people, my _birthright!"_

"So be it, then." The smile was back, sad and cold and somehow darker, as if something of devious fate lurked beneath the pale exterior. "I do believe your determination will win you your mountain back one day, Master Dwarf. Maybe then you will understand that such oaths should not be spoken lightly in the heat of passion."

And then he was gone like the wind, vanished into the darkness. Thorin could hear nothing but the sea and was in the company only of the blanket of the sky and her twinkling stars.

It was true. He would have given absolutely _anything_ to have Erebor once more, and maybe not for such fantastical and admirable reasons as he would have others know. But nevertheless, he could not let it go. Erebor was as much a part of him as his arms and legs, and to be away from it was like cutting a chunk of his body away, leaving something vital missing.

Still as he stood rooted to the spot, a touch of premonition and the memory of haunting words rung in his mind, echoing into the darkness and emptiness that he feared with all his soul, the secret part of him that fed upon his obsession to madness, the part of him that was every bit as sick as Thrór had been. It welled before him like a great chasm, an abyss hungry and ready to devour him whole, take away everything that made up who he was and leave a greedy, diseased shell behind.

How naught but _that voice_ could bring him to this...

Yes, the shores were meant to remain un-experienced for a reason. He did not think he could ever calm the vibrations that voice had left through his very being, nor could he wash away the feeling of dread that welled in his chest.

Touching something from beyond the edges of the world was an experience that left one raw and exposed. It was painful and dangerous. It changed you.

It haunted your dreams. And your nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mahal is another name for Aulë, who created the dwarrows. They also call him the Maker.
> 
> Quenya:  
> fëa = soul


	19. Fatality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin did not die on the field of battle, but he might as well have. This is NOT an everybody lives!AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously the AU where Thorin interacts with First Age elves. I own his survival through ancient elven voodoo—maybe. Anyway, I have yet to write his interaction with Eöl in an actual prompt, but he _does_ interact with the others. This prompt is a companion to Experience (Chapter 18).
> 
> Possibly triggering chapter!
> 
> Bitchy elves. Almost attempted suicide. Character death.

Later, Thorin would discover that it was only through the skills of his elven allies that he had even survived what was now called the Battle of Five Armies. His people called it a miracle, but Thorin thought it anything but.

If anything, it was divine punishment. And looking into the eyes of his saviors, he could see that they knew this all too well, that there was a greater motive behind their healing.

It was in their ancient, unforgiving eyes and their cold, stern voices. It was in their sorrow and their wary faces. Thorin had never understood any of them before, but he thought that now he knew why they were so somber, as if part of them had died and left their empty bodies behind.

That was certainly how he felt.

Losing Fíli and Kíli was like no other pain Thorin had ever felt. He now only had the upper half of his right leg, but the pain of such an injury paled in comparison to the ache that burrowed its way into his chest and refused to leave. Whatever it was, it squeezed around his lungs until it was hard to breathe and choked out any joy he might have felt at the reclamation of his home, the prosperity of his people and all the riches of Erebor, which now felt like an empty shadow of what he recalled in the golden glory of his youth.

Was this really what he had fought for?

Empty halls covered in dust. Mountains of gold that stared back at him with a dull glimmer. A bright white stone shining like a star, but so cold and distant, its beauty tarnished. There was the Company, of course, but none of them could replace the mischief or the laughter, could give back what his arms seemed to physically ache to hold. And none of them could look him in the eye. His shame was complete.

Now, sitting stiffly in his study with nothing but a stack of requests and piles of paperwork waiting for his signature, Thorin felt completely hollow. Had this really been what he desired?

The dwarrow sighed heavily and lowered his face into his hands, stubbornly ignoring the sting at the corners of his eyes. If he had looked in the mirror, he knew that he would see nothing even remotely resembling his proud self—the proud and stubborn Thorin Oakenshield who had set out upon this journey less than a year past—but would have only a phantom, pale-faced and strained, thinner and haggard, staring back like a faded relic.

If he was honest with himself, this life was killing him slowly. All the people tiptoeing around him as though he might at any moment break and go berserk like a rabid animal. The whispers behind his back, barely within earshot, and the cold glances.

But worse still were the elves. Where once Celegorm had favored him with cool fondness, there was now only blame and fury lingering beneath his icy facade. Eöl did not even pretend to hide his anger and disgust, and were it not for the fact that Thorin had been severely injured and on death's door after the Battle, he imagined the dark-haired smith would have beaten him within an inch of his life and then some. Even Lord Maedhros was hard to look in the eyes; he knew that he had thrown away something the elf lord would have given anything to possess—perhaps in a more honest sense than Thorin cared to imagine.

And then there was the memory of Himring. Seventy-seven years, he had ignored it, but now he could not wash away the experience of walking on the shores, of hearing the mysterious being singing, lamenting to the sea.

Could not erase the memory of his nephew's still, dead faces. Could not erase the glowing, despairing eyes of the stranger.

_"What did you see, Master Dwarf?"_

_"Emptiness. Loneliness."_

Why had he not listened? Why had he not understood?

 _"I would give_ anything _to have back what is rightfully mine..."_

_"I hope the cold light of the Heart of the Mountain and the golden glow of lifeless treasure please your soul."_

_"You know nothing of it!"_

_"I do wonder, though, if you know the meaning of anything."_

_"There is nothing I possess that I value enough that I would not sacrifice it for my home and my people, my_ birthright!"

_"I do believe your determination will win you your mountain back one day, Master Dwarf. Maybe then you will understand that such oaths should not be spoken lightly in the heat of passion."_

He understood. Oh, how he understood!

The price that fate had asked in exchange for his home had not been a price he was willing to pay. But he had paid nonetheless for his foolish pride, for the gold sickness, for losing sight of what truly mattered, the treasure he had already possessed. 

His sweet boys, little Fíli who had aged before his time but remained happy and joyous in the care of his baby brother, and Kíli who had never even known his parents, who looked to Thorin as the only father he could remember having. The pair of them had been full to the brim with life, so excited for this journey, aching to see the halls with which their uncle spoke so fondly, to finally be _home_ and not living off meager work in the towns of men, not saving every bit of coin in order to feed themselves in the winter. More so, they had believed in him, followed him to the very end despite his unforgivable mistakes, and thrown themselves between him and death in a show of love more powerful than Thorin could bear to think upon.

And now he was alone. And he just wanted it to end. To end...

He should not even have been here, should have passed with his nephews and joined them in the Halls of the Waiting. At this moment, Thorin did not know if he could stand another second of his existence, for he dared not call it life. His life had ended on the bloody battlefield that had won him back the ancient halls and countless riches his heart no longer desired.

And if he was sobbing, no one was there to see his despair.

No one was there to stop his hand as it touched the elven blade that had served him so faithfully.

No one was there to stay his hand when he held it to his throat. And even when he came to his senses and dropped it to the floor with a resounding ring, echoing through the room like broken glass, no one came running.

No one was there when he steeled his heart and bit his lip 'til it bled, rubbed salt in his hidden wound and pulled his paperwork close. If there was one thing Thorin knew more acutely than ever, it was that he hadn't the right to run away from the punishment for his greed and pride and blindness to what was truly important.

And no one was there to witness the final breaking of his spirit or the empty shell left behind, atoning for his sins.

No one was there to witness the Battle claim its final fatality.

He was alone.

And he knew he deserved his fate.


	20. Helping Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finrod meets Amarië for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU Amarië is Elenwë's cousin. This is not canon except in my head.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Finrod = Findaráto

Rolling her eyes, Amarië sighed and wondered how long she would be stuck here. She should have known it would be a bad idea to walk on her own, never mind that she had traversed the path leading up to her cousin's humble abode several times before without mishap.

The elven maiden looked down at her ankle in disgruntlement. The slender joint was just peeking out from beneath the edge of her skirt, and it was already swelling and turning a rather interesting shade of purple. Hopefully she had only twisted it and not done anything worse, or she would be confined to bed for _weeks._

Settled in the knowledge that she would be going nowhere until someone walked down the path and found her, Amarië surveyed the wild growth of flowers in the sunshine that dappled the clearing. Above her, the trees were whispering and waving gently with the breeze, their vibrant leaves veined in the bright light. She tried to relax—maybe if she concentrated on nature long enough, it would not seem like forever before someone found her.

It wasn't working.

She worried her lip and glanced down the path towards the house. It wasn't visible from where she sat; in fact she would probably need to walk another mile or so to reach it. In the other direction lay only the road upon whence she'd been walking for the last two hours and which led back towards Tirion.

When her mother heard about this, she'd never be allowed to visit anyone without an escort again! What would people say? Amarië of the Vanyar, too young and clumsy to even visit relatives without getting herself injured! Oh, just thinking about it made her cheeks tinged a pale rose with embarrassment. She just hoped that whoever found her would be kind enough to keep their mouth shut about the whole event and let her pretend it had never occurred.

"Might I ask why you are sitting on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, my Lady?"

Startled out of her thoughts, Amarië looked up and up into quite possibly the most handsome face she'd ever had the good fortune to look upon. And immediately her flush darkened. What a sight she must look!

"I... Oh... I... uh... um... I was just admiring the... uh..."

His eyes were looking straight into hers, brilliant and deep royal blue. They captured and held her attention so easily, for they were filled with intelligence and kindness and appeared very gentle. Added to the good-natured smile and the comely features, he made quite a breathtaking picture. And oh! his hair, golden and falling around his shoulder in thick waves... so dreamy...

"Are you quite all right, my Lady?" he inquired, tugging on his sleeve and looking a touch concerned. It was then, of course, that Amarië realized she'd ceased to speak and had been blatantly staring into his eyes for quite some time without even realizing it.

Mortified, she looked down at her hands curled in her lap and made a valiant effort to ignore the grass-stain that marred her skirt five inches to the left of where her fingers clutched the soft, white fabric. "I, well, that is to say..."

"Is there some way in which I can assist you? Directions, perhaps? Unless you are also on your way to visit Prince Turukáno and Lady Elenwë, in which case I could escort you the rest of the way..." he offered softly. "I mean, if it would please you, of course."

Well, _someone_ had found her, and she didn't want to wait for the next elf to pass this way, because it would likely be this same man on his way back to Tirion, and she _really_ wanted to visit her cousin and see the baby. Besides, if she didn't ask for his assistance, then she might be here until after the mingling of the lights, maybe even longer, and it would be many times more embarrassing were he to come across her in the exact same spot again and think her a simpleton...

"Well, yes, I am, visiting the Lady Elenwë that is," she said quickly, trying not to let her blush worsen. The heat was rising up in her cheeks without her permission anyway. "I seem to have... injured myself..."

"Injured?" he asked, worry plain in his eyes.

"My ankle... I tripped and twisted my ankle, that is all, but I fear I cannot walk..." Oh, she didn't think she could bear to look him in the eyes. What a fool he must think her for coming out here all alone!

The sound of his soft chuckle made her flush deepen and tears prick at her eyes. He was _laughing at her!_ But then his lips softened with a gentle smile to match his gorgeous eyes, and she forgot. "Well, I would not be much of a gentleman if I left you out here injured and alone, would I?" he said, and offered his outstretched hand as his smile broadened. "Let me help you up."

Tentatively, she grasped the offered hand, so much larger than hers. It was very warm, and felt very nice wrapped around her fingers, very strong. Easily, he aided her to her feet, and without even warning her, his arms slipped beneath her shoulders and knees. 

Squealing with surprise, she found herself pressed up against his broad chest, flexing arms supporting her weight as he began walking towards the house. Without thinking, Amarië wrapped her arms around his neck and tried not to think about how soft his hair felt on her knuckles.

"Tell me, my Lady, what brings you out to see Lord Turukáno and Lady Elenwë? Are you and Lady Elenwë friends?"

Oh, he was _talking to her._ Hoping her voice didn't sound too strained or weak, she managed to stutter out that Elenwë was her cousin and that she was visiting to see the baby, little Itarillë.

"What a coincidence, that is my errand as well," he told her, and he was smiling down at her again and Amarië was beginning to feel a bit warm and dizzy... "Lord Turukáno is my cousin, you see. We are friends, and he invited me out here to show off his daughter. I find myself a bit jealous, actually. I love children, but haven't any of my own."

 _Not a father... Oh, is he married? How improper it would be to be carried by a married man like this... And what a shame it would be!_ Amarië could not help but bury her face against his shoulder at the last thought. She shouldn't even _think_ such a forward thing about a complete stranger, never mind that he was clearly of noble lineage being related to Lord Turukáno and any woman in her right mind would be thinking the very same thing.

"Are you staying long?" she asked, biting her lip before adding, "Surely your family would miss you."

"I live by myself, so no one in my humble abode will be missing me, and I'm sure my brothers would love to be rid of me for a few days in any case," he replied. "And you, my Lady?"

"I... I still live with my parents..." she whispered. "I promised I would be careful, and my mother let me visit on my own. I think I'll be scolded if she finds out about this."

The stranger smirked and winked. "Worry not, my Lady. I shall tell no one. It will be our little secret, yes?"

"Y-yes..." When he did that it made him so playfully roguish-looking. And he wasn't married if he lived alone. Maybe... Oh, but she shouldn't linger on such things! "Yes, my Lord... uh... You haven't told me your name..."

"Forgive me. I am Findaráto Arafinwion, my Lady. Tell me who I have had the pleasure of acquainting this fine afternoon?"

"Amarië," she told him, though now that she knew his name she also knew how he was related to her cousin's husband. The heir of the King's third son. Not in the line of succession, certainly, but hardly a poor match. And he was so very kind to her as well. She did not think her father would deny him permission to court her should he request it. But surely it was too soon to be thinking such things...

"May the stars shine upon our meeting, Lady Amarië," he said, inclining his head.

It was then that the house came into view, and Amarië actually felt a little disappointed at the sight, for that meant that Findaráto would be able to put her down and she actually found his embrace to be rather comfortable.

But then she saw Elenwë standing on the doorstep, watching them with slightly widened eyes, and _oh! how embarrassing to be caught in the arms of a nearly complete stranger!_

Their eyes met, and her cousin gave her a _look_ , one that Amarië knew all too well. An idea had gotten into her sweet cousin's head, and while Elenwë was gentle and caring, Amarië knew she could also be a stubborn woman. And she _always_ got her way.

"I see both of our guests have arrived. I hope I do not have to introduce you," Elenwë said as she greeted them at the bottom of the steps.

"Lord Findaráto was kind enough to lend me a helping hand. I am afraid I may be confined to a chair for the rest of the evening. My ankle is in quite a state," Amarië explained, her voice a bit rushed. "It was very kind of him."

"And no trouble at all," her new acquaintance (and the handsomest elf she'd ever met) replied, and she thought his cheeks might be a little flushed as he set her down and held a hand to her back to make sure she didn't lose her balance and fall. He didn't release her immediately, but bowed and brushed a kiss against her knuckles, sending warm breath over her pale skin (and a small, pleasant shudder down her back). "I am more than happy to assist such a lovely Lady whenever she might call upon my aid."

Before she could stop herself, Amarië let out a giggle behind her hand, wondering if she must look like a maiden just past her majority meeting a handsome man for the first time with the way she blushed and twittered. "Why thank you, kind Sir."

"Well, why don't you come inside and see Itarillë, cousin," Elenwë said suddenly, wrapping an arm around Amarië's waist and carefully guiding her up the steps, away from the golden-haired prince. Sly blue eyes glanced back over their shoulders, and Amarië knew for sure now that her cousin was definitely up to something, especially when she added, "Are you going to join us, Findaráto?" and smiled in Amarië's direction with a subtle wink.

If that something involved matchmaking... well, Amarië was hardly one to complain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Arafinwion = Son of Arafinwë (Finarfin)


	21. Breeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Turgon builds the Tower of the King for reasons that go beyond creating impressively tall and kingly architecture ~~as compensation~~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarcasm. Delusions? Divine intervention?
> 
> Of Names:  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Idril = Itarillë

Anyone who thought that King Turukáno built a giant tower stretching into the open sky in order to be alone was an imbecile

To the contrary, it was quite the opposite which drove him to demand the giant stone tower to be erected at the center of his hidden kingdom. It was not to escape his subjects or his daughter or anyone else, and it was certainly not to be _alone with his thoughts._

At the very idea, Turukáno scoffed and opened his eyes. His hands rested upon the railing of his balcony overlooking the city, and the King still felt slightly awed at the sight even after so many years of seeing it every morning and every evening. In the light of the fading vessel of Vása, his city burned a brilliant bone white, the streets lined in reflected gold, the water dancing so many yards below him in the fountain, liquid fire and sunlight. And the people moved amongst their brethren, their voices just barely echoing up to reach his ears as they carried on with their daily lives, safe and protected from the darkness abroad.

But even this visage of peace was not what drew him to such lofty heights in the air.

It was the breeze.

So close to the sky, he felt as if another world eclipsed the hell that governed his reality. With the land stretched out before him and the tower at his back, he could almost imagine that there was a thin veil between him and all below him, a barrier between earthly and divine. He could look up into the blue hues of the sky and imagine that nothing existed beyond the color and the drifting clouds.

He could feel the cool touch against his cheek and imagine, just for a moment, that it was not the wind that caressed his flesh, but a familiar hand, pale and soft, stroking up over his cheekbone and through his hair.

By Ilúvatar, he missed her like he would miss his own arm! Seeing their daughter grown into a blossoming woman with suitors striving for her hand did nothing to quell his loneliness and longing, for Itarillë was her mother's daughter in face and form, if not temperament. She was so very beautiful, and he wished so badly that her mother was there to see her, to guide her. The Valar only knew Turukáno hadn't a clue where to start!

Sighing deeply at the touch on his face, Turukáno opened his eyes. "Our daughter is grown," he began, wondering for what felt like the millionth time if his words would reach his wife's ears so far away, riding upon the blessed winds of Manwë. "I fear she is in love."

He shook his head, glancing down at the lively city below. "Silly, I know, but I worry for her. Even though she has yet said nothing of it, I know she will have none of the elven lords vying for her affections. She has eyes for only one man—an atan! And I—fool that I am—haven't the heart to forbid her.

"I would that you were here. You always know what to say, would have the right advice for both of us, I am certain." Again, the cool touch across his face, and Turukáno gulped, feeling hope swell in his chest. "They call me the wise, but my wisdom never even held a candle to yours."

He paused to enjoy the connection—the gentleness and beauty that he recalled vividly in his memories—for a long moment before continuing. "I expect a wedding upon the horizon, and soon. Atani do not live for very long, and we are in a time of peace for the moment. Mayhap, within the next year or so, we may have a grandchild. Already... so soon... I'm sure you would love them, and you would probably be fond of Tuor as well. The boy is honorable, and a worthy match. Our daughter will be happy..." His voice died away, choked. If he ignored the sounds below and the feel of stone beneath his fingers, he could almost imagine that _she_ was standing right there next to him, her gentle hand on his forearm, her head against his shoulder.

Biting his lip, Turukáno looked up at the sky again. If he dared a glance towards _her_ , he knew she would disappear like a phantom, a dream in the fading light of day. "If you can hear me... I just want you to know that I miss you. And love you. Terribly and dearly. My heart still and always will belong to you, my Elenwë."

As if in reply, the caress returned, sweeping down the side of his face, playfully across his nose and washing over his brows, soothing away the furrow between them. Maybe he imagined the brush against his lips, a silent little "I love you, too", invisible and intangible, yet more real than anything in the world.

Turning away, Turukáno approached the steps, slipping past the thin curtains, only for the breeze to tug gently at his sleeve just once more. A small smile worked its way onto his lips.

"I shall return in the morning," he whispered, pausing for one more backward glance at the wide open sky fading into gold and scarlet, the first stars just barely peeking out from the shadows of the falling night.

And then he descended back to earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Vása = the sun  
> atan = man (as in of the Race of Men)  
> atani = men (plural of atan)


	22. Get Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, I can't imagine Maedhros being all that pleased to be saved. Let the self-hatred reign supreme over the land. 
> 
> Yeah, Fingon's not buying that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mutilation, torture and scarring mentioned. Depression.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Russandol, Nelyafinwë or Maitimo  
> Fingon = Findekáno or Káno (fan-made nickname)  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë or Káno

It was obvious that Russandol did not appreciate being rescued.

His cousin sat in bed, let the healers swarm and look over the gruesome scars carving up his pale flesh, let them poke and prod at his wrist for hours on end. His eyes were listless and dulled, his shorn hair ragged and unkempt. If someone entered the room, he did not even turn and acknowledge their presence.

It had been three months.

Russandol just stared at the wall day after day after day, as if none of reality were truly real, as if he were looking at something just beyond the boundaries of the earth and the sky, somewhere far away.

It was like he was dying, slowly fading away into a shadow of an elf. Like he wanted to fade away.

_"Please, cousin... Please..."_

He shuddered at the very memory.

For Findekáno, it was like finding some else's soul in his best friend's body. Where had his cousin gone, the lively, arrogant prince with the roguish smile, head held high and jaw set firm?

Much as he hated to say it, seeing his cousin this way was pathetic. Swaddled in sheets, unmoving and unseeing, ignoring them all, and getting paler and thinner by the day. Annoyed and worried, Findekáno bit his lip til it bled and stared through the doorway at the pair within. Russandol was on the bed, and Kanafinwë was going about plumping up his pillows, straightening the sheets and fiddling with the curtains, all the while talking to his unresponsive brother as though Russandol might actually turn his head and talk back.

Did Russandol not see how much he was hurting his brothers? Did he not see how much they all loved and missed him? Did he not see that they _believed_ in him, that he could recover from his incarceration and torture, could once again arise and become an elf worthy of high regard?

Day by day, Findekáno's faith dwindled. And he absolutely _could not_ allow it to continue!

Something needed to be done.

\---

Three days later, he entered his cousin's bedchambers. As expected, Russandol did not even turn and look at him, but kept his gaze firmly attached to the white-washed wall opposite his bed. He wondered not for the hundredth time if his cousin could even see or hear him.

"Russandol."

No response. He hadn't really expected one.

"Since your cousin is not worthy of even a simple greeting, I shall continue on without," Findekáno growled, setting himself down in the chair at Russandol's bedside, the chair usually occupied by Kanafinwë. "I must say, cousin, you disappoint me greatly. Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined you could be brought so low, or that you so easily gave up and abandoned your oaths and promises. Abandoned your _family."_

Still nothing. Snorting, he continued. "Do you even care? Truly? Do you not see Kanafinwë here every morning like clockwork? He has been keeping this kingdom in straights since you were taken. But you only ever see him smile. You are not there when he stays up 'til the wee hours of the morning, 'til he drives himself into a pit of despair and weeps in the dark. Do you not realize what you do to him?

"And your brothers have been unbearable. They rant and rave and throw enough violent fits that I am certain all the glassware in the realm needs replacing twice over, but they really are just worried about you, and about Káno. They all miss you terribly. You must know that they look to you as father and caretaker as well as brother, that they want nothing more than to see you better.

"You must know that they love you." Silence. Then...

"Love me?"

Startled, Findekáno looked up to find Russandol staring straight at him, gray eyes dark with unnamable, unbearable pain. "Love me? There is nothing _left_ of me, Findekáno."

"Nothing left?" he repeated in disbelief, staring at his older cousin. "Nothing left, you say, as if losing one hand is equivalent to losing one's heart and soul! What nonsense!"

"I cannot do much of anything," Russandol whispered. "I cannot use a bow or sword. I cannot write messages. I cannot even lace up my own boots or dress myself, Findekáno. You should have killed me when you had the chan—"

"Say not such drivel!" Findekáno shouted, standing so abruptly that his chair flew back into the wall with a loud bang. "You think we do not value you beyond your ability to fight and lace your boots? Do you truly think so lowly of us? Of me? Of _them? Do you really think that one missing limb and a few scars are enough to make us abandon and despise you?"_

Those eyes met his, dead and strained, tired. "Just let me be, Findekáno."

But he couldn't.

"No."

"Findekáno, leave."

"No!"

"Káno--!"

"I said 'no'!" Rage boiled in his belly and he could taste its metallic flavor in the back of his throat. "This is pathetic, Russandol! The cousin I knew would never throw his life away so callously without even thinking about how his loss would affect the rest of us, his beloved family. Moreover, he would want to live! He would want to make a difference!"

"Maybe I am not as you remember me." He began to turn away, eyes shadowed by uneven locks of red hair. "Listen to me, Findekáno. The Russandol you love is long dead."

Infuriated, beyond reasoning, Findekáno grasped his cousin by the front of his tunic and pulled, pulled until they were face-to-face, until that beloved visage was nose-to-nose with his, until he could see every fleck of black on silver in those widened, shocked eyes. "No, _you listen,"_ he snarled. "So you were captured. So you were tortured. So you have only one hand and your body is covered in scars. So _what?_ Is that all it takes to defeat Nelyafinwë Maitimo of the House of Fëanáro?

"You were captured and brought low. I cannot even begin to _imagine_ what you have gone through, but if you fade away now it will all have been for nothing! I did not pull you off the side of that cliff with the blessing of Manwë in my ears for you to lie listlessly and die while those around you suffer! Think of your brothers! Think of _me!_

"Think of your people and get up off your scarred, prideful, princely arse and do something! Become the greatest prince our line has ever seen! Become so fearsome in battle that our enemies flee before you with their tails between their legs!"

Findekáno was left panting, his chest heaving and tears of passion pricking at the corners of his eyes. All the while, Russandol just stared back at him with the oddest look on his face, something that bordered on hope but was too wary to allow even that small patch of wildflowers to bloom in the darkness and ash left from a ravaged soul.

"I don't know if I can do that, Findekáno," his cousin said oh, so softly.

Without thinking, Findekáno grasped his cousin's only hand in both of his own and squeezed hard, feeling the flesh beneath his own, feeling the hard bones and sinews. "I believe in you," he replied, looking straight into his cousin's eyes. "You can do this."

Nothing more was said, but he thought he saw a small smile, the first smile he had seen on his cousin's face since their days in the Undying Lands on the other side of the sea so many years ago. His first glimpse of the Russandol he remembered.

And it was so beautiful.

\---

The next day, when he came to visit, Kanafinwë was there. He only moved close enough to see that the younger brother was holding the older in a gentle embrace, but a powerful one. Russandol's arm stretched upwards, returning it tenderly, stroking the younger's trembling shoulders and back.

And if he saw a glistening trail on both their faces, well, Findekáno was hardly going to say anything.

\---

Three days after, Russandol was out of bed.

\---

Within the week he once more held a sword.

\---

Within the year, Findekáno wondered if he would ever encounter a fiercer opponent or ally upon the field of battle. The glow was back in Russandol's eyes with thrice the brilliance and determination. No longer did he shy from touches. No longer did he hide his handless wrist beneath the shroud of his cloak. No longer was his face lowered in shame. No longer was there a shadow of the man Findekáno once knew and loved, but instead the same spirit, changed and tempered like steel in the forge, and all the stronger for it.

Hair like fire and eyes like stars, head held high and his jaw set firm, Russandol was everything any warrior could ever hope to be. Or any prince.

Coming to stand beside his cousin, Findekáno reached out to clasp a powerful shoulder and squeeze. "Russandol," he greeted softly.

"Findekáno," his cousin returned, voice low but strong.

Those eyes met his, gleaming sharply in the fading light despite the darkness lurking just beneath the surface, the loss of innocence. Still, the face and form were no longer strained and pale, no longer fading away into nothingness. A small smile quirked at the corners of those lips, familiar and breathtaking. 

Nelyafinwë had thrown off his chains and ascended from the pits of hell.

And Findekáno believed.


	23. Villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the Second Kinslaying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely dark. Plainly mentions premeditated mass murder and insanity. PTSD and mental illness.
> 
> Yes, Erestor is Maglor's kid. Because I can.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë or Kanafinwë  
> Erestor = Eressetoron  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Maedhros = Maitimo or Nelyo  
> Fingon = Findekáno

As he looked out into the dark, moonless night from within cold stone walls, Makalaurë wondered when he had lost faith in their cause, lost faith in their justice. He wondered if his faith had ever really existed at all, or if it had all been a lie that kept him going day after day, kept him from completely losing his sanity. Until now.

For he knew that he had lost his faith. Every night weighed heavier and heavier on his mind, a stain that wouldn't go away, could not be washed from his soul. Just thinking about it left his belly roiling in disgust and hatred, not of those who stood in his way, but of himself.

Were they not supposed to be fighting for what was right? Were they not supposed to protect and support their kin against the darkness, not add to their suffering?

Did they not even have a choice?

Of course, in the end, it was never about what was right— _had never been about what was right._ It had been about pride and revenge, and nothing else. They were damned for empty vengeance and greed. As he leaned against the wall, head pressed to unforgiving stone, Makalaurë knew this to be so with every fiber of his being, every ounce of his soul.

Tomorrow they would march on Menegroth.

It made him sick.

There would be more blood of the innocent staining his hands, more upon the hands of his brothers, upon the hands of his child. So young, and yet Eressetoron remained faithful in their cause, believed in his father and uncles with a naivety that made Makalaurë's heart swell and pound heavily in his throat with guilt. The boy had been too young to take part in the slaying at Alqualondë, too young to even remember much but screaming and fire and chaos.

His other child... He could hardly bear to think on it. Like Telperinquar, his firstborn would not share in the shame of their family, would not hold kin with traitors and murderers.

_"You make me sick. I can hardly bear to look upon you and call you 'Atar'!"_

As much as it pained him, it also relieved him in a strange sort of way, brought him peace of mind. Far away, safely tucked in the Havens, his son would sleep peacefully this night, would not revel in the death of kin and the spilling of their precious blood.

"You cannot sleep."

Interrupted, Makalaurë spun around in surprise, only to come face-to-face with his older brother. Maitimo looked even worse than he felt, eyes darkened with bruised fatigue, mouth set in a pale line across his stone-cold features. Neither of them had been sleeping well for a very long time, but whereas Makalaurë was wracked with guilt, Maitimo was plagued by nightmares. The younger brother well remembered the screams that graced these halls. No one spoke of it.

"Do we really have to do this, Nelyo?" he asked after a few moments of staring and silence. "This is madness! It was never meant to be this way!"

No sympathy stared back at him, and he had expected none. As the years faded, and most especially after Findekáno died, Maitimo had changed. The righteous spirit had drained away, as if a little more of it leaked out with every tear their people shed. Tears Unnumbered. What was left comprised only suffering and revenge, the relentless need to fulfill their Oath. The insanity that plagued their line.

"We swore, Káno. We swore to Ilúvatar with Manwë and Varda as our witnesses that we would have what is rightfully ours, and that none would stand in our way. _None."_

It was empty. Makalaurë knew well that, when all was said and done, they would have perhaps three glorious shining jewels. And then what? No one would own kin with them. The Silmarilli would bring back neither the lives they took nor their family lost. They were just pretty rocks. Trinkets.

"Please, Nelyo, there has to be another way," he pleaded softly, desperately. "Is there not something else we can do? Some other path we can take?"

"There is not." Maitimo turned away and looked out into the night beyond the window. "We have requested that they return what is ours, and they have refused. I warned them what would happen if they resisted us, brother, promised them blood if they withheld our birthright. I do not renege on my promises."

Darkened silver, sharper than steel, stabbed deep into Makalaurë's soul. "And neither should you," Maitimo added in a rumbling voice, edged in poison, lip curling upwards in disdain. "Remember that well, Kanafinwë."

Fear burst through him all at once, fear for his life and the lives of his family, fear for his brother's sanity. At the moment, Maitimo looked as though he would slit all of their throats if it meant reclaiming what was lost and taking revenge upon the "enemy". Blood running cold with horror, Makalaurë struggled to keep his knees firmly beneath him, but his legs felt like jelly. He leaned against the wall again, trying not to show weakness, not to tremble.

"Nelyo...?"

The shadow passed, but the memory of it lingered. The leering snarl that twisted those beloved features for a heartbeat vanished back into nihilism. "Get some sleep, brother. We have a long day ahead of us."

And then he was alone again. With a choked sound that Makalaurë absolutely refused to admit was a sob, he slid down the wall into a pathetic puddle of quivering muscle and drained spirit.

What they were doing was as far from right as wrong could be. They were neither righteous nor honorable. They were traitors and murderers, Kinslayers. The day after next, the red sun would rise over Doriath for the entire world to see, and countless would lie dead and rotting in hallowed, beautiful halls, murdered over sins they had no part in.

Would his brothers be among them? His son?

Blankly, he stared at the opposite wall of the dark room until dawn began to peek just over the horizon, damning light, revealing to all the world the taint of his house, once and for all.

And Makalaurë could only wonder who the true villain in this tale was. Because every day the line between good and evil grew fuzzier, the reality grayer and more cracked.

"I am so sorry," he whispered, wondering to whom he was speaking—himself or his son or his brothers or his kin or all the men and women and children who would lose their lives before the setting of the sun this day? Perhaps he spoke to all of them at once.

For there was no justice to be had here. Only blood and shadow. Only darkness and sin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril


	24. Worst Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor's worst day. Need more be said?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argument gone violent. Spontaneous children. This is definitely a companion to Villain (Chapter 23)
> 
> Manafinwë (now Ilession) is a name I made up on the spot that may change later if I ever become motivated to do so.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

There were many days that Makalaurë could have considered his worst.

The day he swore the Oath. The first day (and night) away from his wife, sleeping in the cold, his arms empty. The day he had first spilled innocent blood upon the docks of Alqualondë and betrayed kin.

The day his father perished and Maitimo was abducted. The day he was named High King in their stead. The day he forsook his older brother.

Even the day of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and the following night that dawned red with carnage as far as the eye could see. The night that dawned to the death of their High King.

But none of those came even close to what he felt now, the utter desolation that overtook him as he stood stock-still in the room, alone with only the flickering fire and cold, empty stone. Long since had angry footsteps faded into the distance, but they still seemed to ring in his ears with dire finality.

Family was supposed to come first, and there was little Makalaurë valued above his family. His brothers. His children. His two beautiful sons.

_"This plan... it is insane! How could you agree to this? How could you?"_

_"We have no choice!"_

_"There is always a choice!"_

Shouting and fiery tempers had clashed. Broken glass littered the floor around his boots, but Makalaurë barely saw any of it. His eyes stayed glued helplessly to the doorway. Hoping. Praying for his little one to come running back as he always had before.

 _"Not this time. We swore. We swore before the_ Valar!"

_"It's wrong! Why would you...? How could you even think...?"_

_"Please, understand."_

Bereft, Makalaurë sat down, ignoring the sharp prickle of shards cutting into his flesh. Harsh light, vicious crimson, streaked across the stone, fading, falling slowly downwards into darkness. He had not the energy to stand, to chase. His throat felt swollen, his heart settled at his toes, a sharp sting behind his eyes.

_"But I can't. I can't understand."_

_"Please, yonya--"_

_"It makes me sick."_

_"Manafinwë, you knew it would come to this. You knew what the Oath entailed. Just listen to m--"_

_"You make me sick. I can hardly bear to look upon you and call you 'Atar'!"_

Sharp pain, like fire building upwards in his chest, scalding bile at the back of his throat, its bitter taste on his palate. Makalaurë lowered his head, frantically trying to hold back the hot tears burning their way down his cheeks, dripping onto the stone beneath.

_"Manafinwë--"_

_"Not this time. Not again. The first time... it was an accident. This... this is_ murder, _and I will have no part in this travesty. This sin."_

_"You will not walk away from me."_

Not like Telperinquar had Curufinwë. That's all he could think, of the heartbroken silver eyes turning into something dark and dangerous, into toothy grins and simmering malice hiding beneath an incisive, treacherous tongue. But even beneath all that, something so utterly broken and shattered it could never be pieced back together, something he had never wanted to understand.

But now it was all too clear.

_"You cannot keep me here."_

_"Stop this ridiculousness, child. Are you not part of our House? The House of Fëanáro, the House of your blood-kin?"_

_"If being part of this family means spilling innocent blood, I would rather die."_

Shock and horror. Disbelief.

 _"I renounce my name and my kin. I will hold no kin with murderers or traitors. With_ Kinslayers. _Call me no longer Manafinwë nor Fëanorion. I will be Ilession."_

_"Don't you walk away from me, child!"_

_"I am no child."_

Hissed, spat and filled with venom. Eyes so blue filled with such hatred and fear, and directed at him. Makalaurë thought it might kill him, so powerful was the pain. No battle-wound had ever felt like this, so raw and open, rubbed down with salt and filled with poison, slowly blackening his veins and deadening his nerves, cutting off the lifeblood.

_"Don't you dare turn your back on me!"_

His hand on the other's wrist, fingers bruising as they dragged and clawed. He could recall the jarring pain in his skull, the snap of his nose breaking under the strain of knuckles, the drip of hot blood down his lips.

_"Curse you and your bloody House! Do not dare touch me, murderer."_

_"Manafinwë!"_

_"Shut up!"_

And shattered glass, just missing his head, tinkling to the floor, wine splattered and streaming down the wall, staining dark red on stone. Like the halls of Menegroth would be stained by their sin.

And then there had been footsteps, echoing down the halls. And then silence. Nothing.

Separation could not compare. The shock and horror of ever-stained hands could not shake his soul with such force. Could not shift the foundations of his existence. Could not lift the veil of deceit. Could not drag away the curtain of lies and let in the light that revealed the ugliness beneath. Not like this travesty.

Manafinwë _hated_ him. Cursed his name. Cursed their family and kin.

Should they ever meet again, Makalaurë did not doubt that his child would not hesitate to take a blade to his throat. Not that he wouldn't deserve it. He would deserve it a hundred—a _thousand_ times over again, and thrice that many more. Nothing could pay back the blood that would flow like water, the lives that would end without mercy or regard.

But there was no choice. Not a one. Not anymore.

He stared at the wall, until red faded to the floor, until blackness crawled down like sickness, consuming the light and hope.

Until the worst day faded into the darkest night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> yonya = my son (yondo + nya)  
> Atar = Father  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor


	25. Bewitching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And you thought _Maglor's_ voice was something else. Check _this_ out, Noldorin b*tches!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, in my head-canon, Amras died as Losgar during the burning of the ships. Therefore he never took part in the Second or Third Kinslayings.
> 
> Soul-mates. Hallucinations. Mystery.

It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

That was saying much, as Amras's elder brother was the most renowned bard amongst his people, known far and wide, with a voice that would make a vala green with envy. A voice that invoked the glory of the world, that seemed to bend reality, twist it into waking dreams.

But even that deep, rolling baritone paled in comparison. The voice that now rang in Amras's head had no equal. The tenor was soft, drifting, floating over the land and through the trees, writhing gently through the tangles of the grass, washing across his face as though it were a hand, fingers cold and touch softer than butterfly wings. Ensnared, the redheaded elf could not force himself to turn away, could do nothing but seek out its source, his heart pounding furiously in the back of his throat.

How he navigated the trees, the ancient elf would never quite recall. There was darkness and the soft glow of moonbeams through the wild undergrowth of the deep canopies of Greenwood. But none of that even caught his notice. The silver morphed, wrenching him away from the known world, blending with the shadows into something new, something unfamiliar. His eyes focused slowly.

There were only stars and the quiet of endless water, surface unbroken and unchanged, untouched, reflecting the dome of the heavens unto the world. It was like stepping into another reality altogether, and leaving behind the wildness and wonder of the open land and the connection with the deep, moving earth.

Detached, Amras felt his world bending, coiling towards some inevitable end as he traversed the shores, soundless. Not a ripple broke the water's surface.

And then light. Soft at first, but growing. He finally recognized its source, half-hidden beneath a veil of inky hair. Skin, pale as newly fallen snow, holding that soul-deep sheen of a powerful spirit, one of the very first to walk the face of the marred earth.

Dark eyes beheld him, captured him and pulled him closer.

The song rose, and Amras thought his toes might no longer be brushing the earth at all, that he might be swimming through the thick air as though it had become liquid water. Even the movements of the wind seemed to slow, seemed to inhale and exhale with the ebb and swell of the music.

Cherry red lips parted, and Amras knew it was from this bewitching creature that this dream-universe had come. Or was it a dream? Was this reality? Was the other side the dream? Everything felt so real, so true and pure, so powerful that the temptation to _forget everything_ became unbearably tempting. Not to just forget the past and revel in the being, but to forget the very existence of the world, to go beyond its edges to somewhere not of the earth.

He sat himself in the grass close to the figure, eyes riveted upon that glorious face, upon those lips as they moved and glistened, upon a gaze so old and sad yet so full of life, so full of secrets. Beautiful.

But soon enough his eyes began to droop helplessly. With a sigh, he felt himself curl into the soft blades of grass, felt his hair drape across his body in a blanket of silk. For a moment, he thought he felt a caress against his temple and cheek, through the silken locks over his shoulders and back. Delighted, he shuddered and purred at the sensation.

Reality had ceased to exist before. It could cease to exist again, as long as he could stay here forever, filled with a feeling so sweet and light that it was painful, swelling in the back of his throat, tingling through his limbs.

"Sleep, little one..."

How could he not obey that voice? That voice...

\---

Amras jerked upright abruptly, letting out a yelp. He came up from the earth's embrace, hair tangled in the bushes and full of twigs and leaves, breeches stained with dust and dark soil. His fingers dug deep into the ground, feeling the coolness of rocks and dirt between his fingers, falling over his callused hands and back to its resting place.

"What happened?" he groaned aloud to himself through the pounding in his skull.

Raising one hand to his temple, the elf shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. Everything was very fuzzy. Looking around, he found that he recognized the clearing but could not recall how he had come to be there.

Except a faint vision, just a flash, of glistening water as far as the eye could see and a dark-haired beauty that outshone the most graceful, bejeweled women of his grandfather's court. And a voice... a voice like nothing he had ever heard before...

Was any of that real, or was it all a dream? _Could_ he dream something like that? Surely that voice could not be dreamt, could not be imagined, could only be experienced.

"What happened to me?"

The forest, of course, held no answers. The trees were probably laughing at him.

Had it all been a trick? Perhaps he had been enchanted somehow? He knew there were such sorcerers wandering the earth, and many of the maiar had such powers. But why would they bother with him, a wild, mindless creature submerged in the living world and nothing but, who could barely remember his own name on the best of days.

Unbidden, the face of his enchanter arose in his mind's eye. Glorious to behold, breathtaking and divine. Maybe it _had_ been a maia?

Did it matter?

Why was he suddenly caring? Why was he suddenly _remembering?_ Why was the earth suddenly barren of comfort?

Why could he think of nothing but the voice and its owner?

Of their midnight hair that he wanted so badly to stroke, to braid and twine with the finery of his House. Of their dark eyes, so blue and stretching on farther than the night sky, speckled through with their own glowing stars. Of their skin that he suddenly wanted to touch, just to see if it was as soft and flawless as it appeared. If it was as sweet as he imagined it tasted.

Hunger burned through him, a hunger he had not felt since the days of the darkness before the sun and the moon. A growing thirst that churned in the pit of his belly. Lust. That's what it was. Lust.

Lust and hunger.

The center of his universe was woven anew around a phantom image beyond his eyes, a dream covered in a veil of mist rising from the lake of stars.

Amras was thoroughly and completely captured, cradled in the delicate fingers of a dark-haired beauty who hid not more than a few yards away amongst the trees, watching his work with regretful eyes, longing but fearful eyes. A resigned smile came upon cherry red lips.

But a smile of a very different kind twisted across the lips of the awakened Son of Fëanor. There was nothing more dangerous than a creature of his father's single-minded determination and his mother's redheaded temperament. There was thirst that could not be quenched by anything but complete satiation, by accomplishment and victory.

By claiming. By owning. By satisfying the secret desires hiding in the very darkest corners of his mind. It was the danger of his House, of their madness.

And there was something he _desired._ Some _one._

For a long moment, the world stood still around them. And then Amras breathed deeply of the darkness and opened his fey eyes, unleashing his own Spirit of Fire upon the earth.

Let the hunt begin.


	26. Jubilant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A joyful reunion. Need more be said?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Corny and more than slightly cliche. I don't own Finrod's rebirth.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Findaráto

_Ah, sunlight..._

Warm to his flesh, heating him down to the bone and leaving him feeling comfortable and relaxed as he walked slowly out of the towering Halls of the Waiting and their darkness and coldness. Findaráto closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet, fresh air, the scent of earth and wildflowers filling his senses, burning through his nose after so long without smell.

Alive. After so long in halls of gray, he felt so _alive._

The elf raised his head, eager to feel the wind lift and tangle his hair, delighted at the cool touch. Breathing out a deep sigh, he opened his eyes to a familiar house on a familiar hill surrounded for miles around with green, lush forest.

Familiarity. Home.

Filling him up to the brim with sudden warmth and wonder. Eyes wide, he found himself drifting towards it, walking up the steps that looked exactly the same as when he had last tread them into a house that had remained untouched by the long years. The same doormat with an infuriating stain on one corner and a frayed edge on the left side. The same entrance hall, still smelling of cherry trees and vanilla.

His cloak came to rest on a familiar hook and his boots joined a pair of open-toed sandals beside the door. Awed and bursting with anticipation but at the same time a rising nervousness, he moved through the familiar abode, remembering slowly that turning right from the hall and entering the third door down led to kitchen and the fourth door on the right led to the spacious sitting room with wide open windows looking out towards the mountains. Every door he opened, he found them all exactly as he could remember leaving them, with little personal touches of extra _something._

But still there was a missing piece of perfection.

Finding the dining room, Findaráto smiled gently at the flower arrangement sitting at the center of the small oaken table, pink speckled day lilies pouring out over the sides, twined with purples and soft whites. He brushed his fingers against their petals and marveled at the softness against his rough flesh; flowers had been rare on the other side of the sea. _She_ loved flowers.

Pushing past, he found himself stepping outside onto the patio, looking around curiously, startled. For the inside of the house had remained almost unchanged, but the garden could not have been more different from the simple little herb patch he recalled.

Trellised vines and sweeping beds of flowers spread out in all directions, a maze of color and scent and grace. Something in the back of his throat swelled and made it hard to breathe, welling and rising and ringing inside his chest.

A few more steps, silent upon the greenest grass he could ever recall, and then the soft sound of humming reached his ears, sweet high tones jingling like soft bells in the wind. When she came into his sight, his breath was lost. Just as he remembered her, with long golden hair that outshone any metal or field of wheat, creamy pale skin that looked softer than rose petals, her familiar form wrapped in simple white linen gown with bare feet peeking out, she stood before him gently hydrating a patch of brilliant lilies. With the melody, her body swayed and danced gently, toes curling and pressing into the grass.

"Amarië," he whispered, that sparkling feeling covering him from head to toe, embracing his soul in its exultant glory.

At his voice, the watering can slipped from her soft fingers, falling to the grass and spilling water over her bare feet, soaking into the bottom of her gown. But she did not seem to notice. Her eyes were riveted upon him, stunned blue depths opened wide, encased by thick blond lashes. Rosy lips parted, but no words came forth as they stared at each other, awe-stricken.

Finally, he raised his arms and offered a tiny, weary smile. But a true one. "I'm home."

In the garden, her jubilant cry echoed and resonated with the warmth of the earth and the touch of Arien's rays. Findaráto found himself toppled into the grass with an armful of wife, laughing as teasing little kisses pressed down over his cheeks and nose. A chaste brush of lips brought a beaming smile to his face as he stared up at the most beautiful creature he had ever been privileged to meet. The woman he loved more than anything in the world. His One.

"Oh, Findaráto," she sighed, laying herself against his chest, her golden head tucked beneath his chin as they lay amongst the flowers. "I missed you so very much."

"I missed you, too. More than you will ever know, lótenya." His eyes drifted shut, and the molten, bubbling feeling building within him overflowed. Pure joy. Pure peace. Pure contentment. Stroking his fingers through her hair, he found himself choking back tears. But good tears. Happy tears.

"Home," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Finally, I am home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arien is the maia who guides the vessel of the sun.
> 
> Quenya:  
> lótenya = my flower (lótë + nya)


	27. Languid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head-canon follows the canon in which Amras died at Losgar. Thus the burn-scars. And burn-scars are _not_ pretty if you've ever seen any, just to keep it in perspective. Definitely a companion piece to Bewitching (Chapter 25).
> 
> Obscure slash pairing. Cuddling. Scars.

All the wealth in the whole of the realm of Eä could not have convinced Daeron to move at this moment.

Stretched out in the grass, his body pressed up against that of another. Shared warmth shuddered through him, heating his chilled bones and chilled heart. Silently, the bard pushed himself onto his elbows and stroked his fingers through strands of fiery red hair, softer than the finest of silks. Softer than _her_ hair, from what he could remember.

Pressing it against his cheek, Daeron sighed. The hot scent of his mate mixed with musky smoke filled his nostrils and left an awakening, churning heat in his gut, but he found himself too tired, too relaxed, to pay it much mind.

Instead, his gaze was drawn to his lover's face, relaxed in sleep. When awake, the redhead looked like a fierce, wild creature. Scars laced up over the corner of his jaw and across his right cheek as an intricate network, slicing at the bridge of his nose. And then the sharp brows to match his sharp jaw and green eyes that could pierce down to the soul defined his lover. But while asleep he looked so peaceful. Not a child's face, but a child's innocence and softness. Lips were slightly parted, swollen from kisses, and dark eyelashes fluttered on damask cheeks. No creases bent his brow. Even the burns could not detract from the sweet beauty in the pale gray light of dawn.

Daeron's inquisitive fingers followed his line of sight, brushing over temples and tracing the line of eyebrow from front to tail, loving the way it relaxed beneath his caress, any tension in the flesh falling lax and smooth. He repeated the touch on the other side, and then his fingers trailed down the straight line of the other's nose.

Green eyes fluttered open lazily as he brushed over the raised ridge of scars, half-hooded with fatigue but still burning brighter than any fire, brighter than the stars. "Hm..."

"Good morning," Daeron whispered softly, not ceasing his exploration over sculpted cheeks and ragged burns down to the parted lips. They were soft against his fingertips. Unexpected. A lovely contrast to rugged, twisted flesh and defined bone.

Haziness rested in a veil over those eyes as they looked up at him. It was as if dreams still clouded his lover's vision. "Good morning to you as well, linya..." His burning hot fingers trailed aimlessly over Daeron's side, tracing nonsense patterns into his skin until the elf wondered if he had markings to match the melted stretch of scar tissue that marred his lover's right side and back. It certainly felt as though the touch might have burned away his flesh.

The other made to rise from the cool grass, but the bard pushed a hand against his chest, guiding him back down to the earth with a gentle smile. "Do not rise," he whispered, indulging in tracing the dips and valleys between taut, powerful muscles. "Let us rest a while longer."

There was a sigh of assent, and the redhead closed his eyes again, stretched out on the ground like a great cat beneath his owner's petting and coddling. Fondly, Daeron looked upon him. Yes, definitely like a great cat. Lazy and hedonistic, but ever so dangerous, darkness and a predatory nature lurking just beneath the surface, settled into lithe musculature and ligature, into the narrowed edges and icy calculation of fey eyes.

He did not worry about it now, though. Instead, he leaned over to steal a hot, languid kiss from slack lips, dipping his tongue into the slick warmth and spice beneath. The passion was for now little more than a soft flame, and he was happy enough to pull away when air became sparse. Instead, he laid his head against his lover's bare shoulder, eyes fluttering closed against the steady pulse beating just underneath pale skin, just barely visible blue beneath the deceptively fragile membrane.

There was satisfaction and contentment in the closeness and oneness, a hot golden warmth cradling him, hiding him away from the dewy grass and cool morning mist.

No, Eru himself could not have moved Daeron from this spot. Not now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> linya = my singer (lindo + nya)


	28. Obsessive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Curse of the House of Fëanor. Inescapable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horror. Fantasizing about bloodshed/violence. Insanity/mental illness. Torture (physical and psychological). Dark!Maedhros. Ties in with Villain (Chapter 23).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Amras = Telvo (shortened Telufinwë)  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Fingon = Findekáno

When Fëanáro had been amongst the living, Maitimo had never understood his father.

Always, he had been preoccupied, something always on his mind that drew him away from reality. Always another project, more jewels to be made and gold to be shaped, more inventions to be created. More hours to be spent hidden away in the dark of the forge with only fire and dark thoughts for company. Rare was the time that Fëanáro focused on his family. Rarer still was the absence of fey light in those eyes.

And then Morgoth had happened, and Fëanáro went off the deep end.

Nothing seemed to reach his father but thirst for revenge and the relentless need to reclaim his treasures. Maitimo had realized then that his father had gone completely mad, that his entire world revolved around three glowing gemstones and eradicating anyone who dared to stand between him and his goals. Not his people or his brother or his nephews or even his sons could purge away the hunger that seemed to gnaw right through the essence of everything that the great prince had once been. When Telvo had perished, their father had not even _blinked._ As if the death of his son didn't matter. Nothing mattered but getting back the Silmarilli. Nothing.

Maitimo had not understood. Never understood.

Until now.

No one noticed it. Not Makalaurë. Not Findekáno. Not even himself at first. But Angband had _changed him._

Lying in his own filth, tortured until his mind could think only of pain and hunger and thirst and cold, Maitimo knew he had gone just as mad as Fëanáro had ever been, alone in the darkness in the deepest dungeons of hell on earth. The urge to rip apart those who tormented him with his bare hands became an obsession. Rage burned and twisted in his gut, until all he could think to distract himself from horror was that he wanted them to _suffer_ as he _suffered._ Oh, how he desired to see their blood painting the walls, their innards shredded at his feet, their bones ripped through flesh in a tangled array of gore. How he desired to have the foul taste of black blood on his tongue, slick between his fingers and matted in his hair.

And Aiya! how he wanted to take what most the Dark Lord coveted and rip it forcefully away as had been done to him. How he wanted to leave the towering shadow bereft, knowing that he had been defeated, that he had been humiliated by a lowly elf! How intoxicating the very thought was! And then the bastard could rot in his shame, and Maitimo thought his lust would be satisfied, the vicious animal resting in his spirit sated by rivers of blood and the light of his revenge.

Eventually, he had given up even that hope, but being rescued and roused from his morose hibernation had brought back that fury tenfold. With a sword in his lone hand and no chains holding him to an icy, filthy dungeon wall, he could begin anew. He could create himself over again, create himself in an image that would give his enemies nightmares.

He could make them suffer. He could make them run from him in terror, make them fear him to the very core of their rotten beings. His spirit sang at the very notion!

The quick recovery gave his people hope, brought smiles to his brothers' faces. But none of them realized that something much worse than a broken spirit was writhing just below the surface, begging and pleading to be let loose upon their nemesis—be it Morgoth and his forces or the innocent people of Doriath or Eru Ilúvatar himself! Obsessive thirst for revenge bubbled like lava through his veins until sometimes it felt almost physically painful. Until the phantom burning of his right hand wracked him with agony, nonexistent fingers twisted unnaturally into claws. Until he wanted to scream and tear his hair from his scalp or smash something against the wall into a million tiny pieces that would lie scattered across the floor.

Until he wanted to kill someone and scatter their body as he scattered those shards, bathe in their thick, warm blood until it soaked permanently into his flesh like ink unto pale sheets.

No one noticed the shadow growing day by day, hidden beneath blazing fire and a shield of vicious calculation. When he looked at himself in the mirror, his eyes looked more and more like _his_ with each year that passed.

Losing Findekáno had been the last straw. Just like with his father. And Maitimo could only wonder how long the same violent thirst had been burning beneath Fëanáro's skin before the prince had snapped.

When the time came to march upon Doriath, Maitimo did not hesitate. He smiled and bared his teeth in hunger, in overpowering lust. And he rent apart the people without mercy and coated his flesh in their blood, splattered their bodies across the floors and walls with glee. In his mind's eye, he could almost taste victory, the burn of terror in his nose and the sound of screams ringing in his ears. So close, yet so far beyond his reach...

And then it was over.

When he was presented the bodies of three of his brothers, brothers he had cared for since they were little elflings, he had not even blinked.

The thirst had not been sated.

And he understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angband = Morgoth's second fortress  
> Doriath = Thingol's realm
> 
> Quenya:  
> Aiya! = Oh!


	29. Recoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not peaceful in Valinor. Finrod passes back over Belegaer for a reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where the Noldor go back to Middle-earth in the Third Age.
> 
> Dysfunctional family. Facial scarring. Depression.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Findaráto or Ingoldo  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

Home is where the heart is, or so they said.

It was a particularly sore subject for Findaráto. An uncertain subject.

Once upon a time, when he was far away on the other side of Belegaer, all he had wanted was to return home, to embrace his wife, to see his parents, to not have to _worry and worry and worry all day and night._ There would be no Dark Lord, no armies bearing down upon his helpless people, no glowing stones and ruined friendships. He would not be King. He would not be responsible for his people's suffering. More than that, he had longed for the golden fields and green stretches of evergreen spring going on and on as far as his eyes could see. The familiar warmth on his skin and the earthy scent in the back of his throat. 

He had longed for something that had been tarnished, and he had returned to a shadow of what he remembered.

At first, nothing had seemed amiss. Hidden away with Amarië in their humble abode in the forest, all had seemed blissful and perfect. There was love, restful quiet and no shadow of evil slinking downwards to give him chills in the night. But venturing beyond their little slice of paradise, the wild colorful world had dulled into something gray.

People smiled less than he remembered. Whenever he saw them, they looked distant, as if they were not even present in spirit, but lost in deep nostalgia, in some memory of long ago. And when they looked at him, their eyes did not show recognition. More oft than not, fear stared back at him. The twisted scars across his face, the fire in his eyes, his reputation as being one of _them_ —the exiles—made the nameless elves shift back from him on the streets, giving him a wide berth, like he was some feral animal that might snap at their hands if they reached out too close.

But none of those things would have driven him from his home. Let the people think what they would; they had always done so and it had never bothered him a whit before!

No, it wasn't the people. It was his _family._

It was his father, who could not seem to meet his eyes.

_"Findaráto," he would say, and reach out to lay a hand upon his son's shoulder as they walked together. But his lips were stretched into an unnatural grin, something so fake it looked wrong, waxy and stretched. When Arafinwë turned towards his heir, his hazy blue eyes seemed to look right over Findaráto's shoulder, towards something in the distant past, right through his son._

_"Atar?"_

_And then, when his attention was forcibly drawn, when he looked—_ really _looked—there was such a fierce dose of revulsion in that gaze that it made the younger elf shudder down to his bones. To have such a look directed at him from such a beloved face..._

_The hand fluttered and faltered midair. Slowly, it would plummet downwards, shrinking away as if to touch a body so marred was to touch something unclean. Never had Findaráto felt more ruined._

It was his mother. When she had first seen him, she had not even recalled his face.

_Eagerly, he had been waiting at his father's side, valiantly ignoring the distance—both physical and emotional—filled with thick tension between them, a wide valley opening into an abyss just inches from their boots, waiting to crumble._

_She had arrived, standing in the doorway with her familiar silvery hair and blue eyes, unchanged by time. Just as Findaráto remembered her._

_He had looked straight into her eyes and smiled. And she had recoiled as if he had slapped her, pure disgust showing on her face for a moment before it was covered in a sheet of tenuous ice and a hesitant smile. "Introduce me to your acquaintance, husband."_

_How he kept smiling, Findaráto could not recall. His throat had filled with bitter ash and his eyes had stung, but somehow he continued to grin. Somehow he managed not to fall apart._

_"Amillë," he greeted softly, longing hopelessly for the embrace that he had missed and craved many a night in the dark depths of Nargothrond, and in the dungeons of Sauron. Oh, how he had missed having her warmth surrounding him! Perhaps it was childish, but somehow he had always imagined it to be her who protected him in the dark, who would light his way through turmoil and despair._

_But at his voice, she flinched violently, disbelief in every line of her body, as if she could not believe the horribly scarred creature before her was her precious child. "Ingoldo?" she whispered._

_No embrace came that day. And Findaráto felt bereft. Tainted._

He could not stand it! They could not even bear to _look upon him._

No matter how Amarië tried to reassure him, tried to console him, the growing empty void in his chest would not be filled—could not be filled. Findaráto could not even stand beside them in a room, for they would naturally situate themselves as far from him as possible, as if he were a frightening stranger and not their firstborn son.

Gradually, the fantasy of the Undying Lands that had nurtured and shielded his hope from destruction for so long had crumbled, until reality set in and crushed every last shard beneath its heels into dust. And a new longing set in.

Home had shifted.

"I want to go," he told his wife. It had been centuries, centuries of this distance, and it hurt too much. He did not know how much more he could stand before it left something irreparably broken inside him. "Amarië, I want to go back over the sea."

Her eyes were resigned, but not surprised. When she embraced him, there was no hesitation, and she did not shrink away from touching the raised scars across his cheeks or flinch at their undoubtedly hideous sight. Against his lips, hers were softer than butterfly wings, no more than the faintest brush of skin against skin, yet more intimate and powerful than any kiss he could remember her gifting him.

"Okay," she whispered, laying her head against his shoulder. "We will go."

As long as he had her with him, he knew he could throw away the wrecked dream of better days gone and past. As long as she never recoiled from his ruined flesh or his tainted soul, he thought he could continue on stumbling through the darkened world.

Her acceptance would give him the strength to face reality. To move on. To live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father  
> Amillë = Mother


	30. Vehement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How easily Fëanor incites the Noldor to rebellion! It's just part of his gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In future chapters I know I use this word as a sort of reference to Fëanor in other contexts. I can't help myself.
> 
> Lots of direct quoting from "Of the Flight of the Noldor" in the Quenta Silmarillion. Anything exactly quoted does not belong to me and I do not claim to have made it up.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

From his form, one could scarcely remove their helpless gaze.

From his words, one hadn't the faintest hope of freeing their attention.

From his eyes, one could not glance away, imprisoned with starlight.

Certainly, Nolofinwë had always been peripherally aware of his brother's brilliance, but standing beneath the full force of it, even when directed towards another, directed upon the quivering people around them, was like standing beneath the Flame Imperishable itself!

In the newfound darkness, _his_ face lit with flickering gold and red flame, and he seemed ten times as bright and fierce, thrice as terrible and beautiful. No star above would dare outshine the eyes of the Spirit of Fire. And no decree of the Valar had even a hope of delving so deeply into the hearts of the people as the words of their revenge-crazed prince, whose hands were stained with the spilled blood of his father and whose voice trembled with the throws of venomous passion.

"Why, Oh people of the Noldor, should we longer serve the jealous Valar, who cannot keep us nor even their own realm secure from their Enemy?" the prince shouted over the heads of the silent, white faces, his hands rising with force such that Nolofinwë almost expected to see the mountains shrink back from his gesture; fingers clawed at empty air, clenching tightly to a white-knuckled fist as though they reached for the throat of the Enemy himself. "And though he be now their foe, are not they and he of one kin? Vengeance calls me hence, but even were it otherwise, I would not dwell longer in the same land with the kin of my father's slayer and of the thief of my treasure!"

Breathless, he stood before them, dark hair half-hiding his face as he panted and glistened with sweat. Beneath his assessing, calculating gaze, the people seemed to both shrink away and rise up at once, frightened of his power but all the same filled to the brim with his charisma. When his lips parted again, even Nolofinwë stood riveted, longing fiercely for the next syllable to be imparted upon his ears.

"Yet I am not the only valiant in this valiant people. And have ye not all lost your King?" Those eyes settled opon him and Arafinwë beside him. _Have ye not also lost your atar, my brothers?_ And both of them shuddered; Nolofinwë's throat burned and tightened around his breath. His heart seemed to squeeze in upon itself beneath the cage of his ribs.

Part of him knew what was coming, knew this bitterness had been growing to a head for a very long time, that his brother carried within him some insane notion of rebellion against the Valar, but he had not believed...

And yet the thought faltered beneath the weight of his brother's following words. Words of vengeance and longing for bloodshed, hidden beneath clever taunts disguised as sympathy. Manipulation in its purest form. _Have ye not also lost your atar?_ Helplessly, the thought carried and carried until it was all that Nolofinwë could think and hear. _Leave Valinor. Avenge your father, your beloved King. Come away! Let cowards keep this city!_

How could one resist? How could he pull away from that ensnaring grasp?

"Fair shall be the end," Fëanáro said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, though Nolofinwë could swear it carried all the way to the peaks of the mountains and across the endless expanse of the sea, "Though long and hard shall be the road. Say farewell to bondage! But say farewell also to ease! Say farewell to the weak! Say farewell to your treasures!" With each word his voice rose, until it was towering over them like a wave, bearing down upon them from a height greater even than Taniquetil, mighty and sure. Surrounding them, filling them with boundless strength instead of fear, with reckless determination instead of nervousness.

Another breath, and all breathed with him, their prince, their King. "More still shall we make. Journey light: but bring with you your swords! For we will go further than Oromë, endure longer than Tulkas: we will never turn back from pursuit. After Morgoth _to the ends of the Earth! War shall he have and hatred undying!"_

Too much. Too bright. Too vehement. It was like looking upon a vala without raiment, burning their eyes, scorching their souls. Many fell to their knees, but Nolofinwë stood stock-still, taken and captured, chained as surely as though manacles encased his limbs and throat.

"But when we have conquered and regained the Silmarilli, then we and we alone shall be the lords of the unsullied Light, and master of the bliss and beauty of Arda! _No other race shall oust us!"_

And just like that, the spell was broken. Nolofinwë went cold, even as fervent voices rose up around him in a deafening roar, eyes lit with untamable fire, stoked to life by the silver tongue of their King, calling upon them for aid and for glory. For freedom. For rebellion. A shiver of foreboding shot down the younger elf's spine, so strong it made his knees weak.

Fëanáro turned to him again, close enough to touch, yet none would dare at this moment. Before him, the King looked like a feral creature, his eyes beyond insanity, gleaming with hunger—and for what Nolofinwë could only guess. Revenge? Or was it those stones, glowing so brightly, addling the brains of all who looked, driving them to greed and lust stronger than the bonds of kin unto kin?

They stared at one another, and then the Spirit of Fire lifted his sword—the very sword that he had once held to his brother's throat—and raised it overhead so it shone red, as if it were already stained in the blood of their foes and of their fallen comrades.

A vala in the flesh, a creature of another world. Self-confidence oozed from every pore, thick and sweet as honey, temptation more than any mortal could possibly resist. Calling with a voice so silent yet more magnetic than any word of the lips and tongue could possibly become.

And yet Nolofinwë feared. When those lips parted again, and spoke, the world unraveled around him.

They wove into an Oath more terrible than any spoken. But it was not the oath, nor the determined faces of his nephews as they joined their father in lifting their crimson blades in the light of only torches and the cold, silent stars, that left the younger brother helpless, left his own body burning with the same hot flow of vengeful blood, the same searing passion, the same violent vehemence that consumed all his brethren and people around him like wildfire unto dry wood.

It was naught but four words, spoken to him from the lips of an angel of fire and ash.

"What sayest thou, brother?"

What could he say to that voice, but "Yes"?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taniquetil is the mountain atop which Manwë and Varda built their mansions.
> 
> Quenya:  
> atar = father  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril (in the original text is it written with an English plural ending i.e. Silmarils)


	31. Collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Fate takes the initiative to rearrange the center of gravity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Some cliche. Stalking behavior. 
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Caranthir = Carnistir

Some things were just meant to be.

Like the stars were meant to be.

Like the sun and the moon were meant to be.

Like the joining of two halves of one soul were meant to be.

But Tyelkormo had never really believed in the last one. He had seen enough drama over love, over soul-mates, to know that the world did not work in such a perfect manner, that the Black Enemy's theme had done more damage than anyone could have predicted. Nothing was perfect. Nothing.

Of course, he had not been around when the King had taken his Vanyarin wife—his second mate—but Tyelkormo was more than aware of the affect it had had on his own father and on the people. He knew that it had broken the rules laid down by the Valar themselves, the rules that said a man only take one mate in his lifetime and vice versa. The rules that said there was a Fated for everyone, only One, the one you were destined to be with.

But Finwë had broken those sacred rules without hesitation or regret. Tyelkormo had always secretly, bitterly, wondered if things could have been different had the King been less selfish, had he refrained, or if reality would have degenerated even without the dark cloud of hatred hovering over all of their Houses for as long as Tyelkormo could remember.

And then there had been his own parents. Fëanáro and Nerdanel.

Nerdanel had been Fëanáro's One, yet he had brushed her off at every turn, disregarded her advice, turned away from her pleas and ignored her warnings. He cared more about his crafts and projects and glowing jewels than he ever had about his wife and children, or so it seemed to Tyelkormo, who knew the love of a mother and older brother, but never that of a father. There had been loyalty to family, and obligation to obey, but never familial love and devotion.

One thing was certain. Fate could make you the other half of someone's soul, but she could not make you come together into perfect harmony. And she could not make you yearn. She could not make you _want_ and _desire. She could not control you._

Or so he had thought.

Until he had seen _her._

Seen her dancing in the twilight, her voice raised in vivid song, her hair braided with pearls and her blue and gold dress falling over every curve and lithe muscle so perfectly. His first glimpse of the lady Lúthien had stolen his breath and captured his stone-cold heart. His One. Enchanting. Glorious. Breathtaking.

And she loved another. Not even another elf. An _atan._ A _man._

But never mind that she loved another. Never mind that he was a murderer and a traitor. Never mind that their people despised each other. None of that even mattered to him when his gaze rested upon her sitting in the shade, embroidery in her lap, or watched her walking with her ladies-in-waiting through the woods, laughing and twittering.

In the twilight, he watched her.

He should have felt shame for spying on her, but he could not look away. Never again would he ridicule Carnistir for having been so obsessed with his mortal woman, for Tyelkormo knew that to look away was like stabbing himself in the chest and cleaving a ragged hole out of his heart, bending his ribs and twisting until they cracked. Every time he had to leave her, had to pretend for his brother that nothing was happening, had to return to Nargothrond beneath the watchful eyes of his cousins and move on with his life, he thought he died a little more in secret.

Or maybe he just went a little crazier. Maybe his mind cracked a little more with each loss of her light. Maybe his eyes became a touch brighter and wilder. Who could say?

All he knew was that his Nightingale had slammed into his life and demolished his reality, had crashed headlong into his world, and everything he lusted for and cared about had exploded like the death of a star, blinding him to all else but _her_ and her face and her lips and her eyes. Gravity abandoned him to the wrath of her magnetic pull, and the flame of passion that burned for her scorched his soul.

When he was away from her, he couldn't _breathe._ Every day was torment, stretching on forever. But being close to her was worse still, because he could not touch her, could not even speak to her. He was a Kinslayer, and Thingol had banned them from the realm, threatened to have them slaughtered should they dare defile his lands with their filthy breath and tainted touch. Even being here now, watching her, was putting his life on the line. If Thingol should catch Tyelkormo spying on his only child, his beloved daughter, coveting and lusting for her...

But he couldn't stop.

She was his One. His Fated. They were meant to be. Like the stars. Like the sun and the moon.

Fate, though, worked in ways no Eruhína could understand, nor even the Ainur. And Tyelkormo knew all too well that few happy endings waited at the conclusion of the harsh road of reality. Rare, it was, that the ending was truly fair at the finish of the long journey through insanity and hatred and revenge. And he knew...

He knew that he would never hold her. Never kiss her. Never touch her.

Lady Lúthien had indeed collided with his being, buried herself like a poisoned shard in the fleshy wound of his soul, filling his veins with traitorous, toxic hope. Day by day she was killing him.

Gladly would he die a slow, painful death for her. She was as much a part of him as his heart and lungs, a necessary organ that he could not live without. For her, he knew he would sacrifice anything, would follow her anywhere.

To the heavens. Or into death. Anything for her. His One.

His Nightingale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you will later see, _anything for her_ eventually gets a little out of hand.
> 
> Quenya:  
> atan = man (of the Race of Men)  
> Eruhína = Child of God (i.e. Elves or Men (you might be able to include Dwarrows in there, too)  
> Ainur = Holy Ones (i.e. Valar and Maiar (technically Morgoth also)


	32. On My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor's mind works in very strange ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Mildly sexual content. I don't actually know how the minds of geniuses work. But if Fëanor were my husband I'd slap him for pulling what he's about to pull.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë

For as long as Fëanáro could remember, he had always been thinking. 

And not just about one thing, but dozens of things all at once. As a child, his thirst for knowledge and his endless curiosity could not be sated by any amount of books or educated tutors; his attention could not be held by simple rhyming songs or games like other children. His father had learned this very quickly. The prince devoured everything offered and more. Until there was no more to devour, and then he created more so that it could be destroyed all over again and remade.

They called him a genius. A prodigy. A natural craftsman.

But, call him what they may, Fëanáro felt like none of these things. In all honesty, he didn't often feel much, except that same need, that ambition for more and more and _more._ More projects to complete. More books to read. All his energy was devoted towards fulfilling the fascination that burned and seared in his blood, singing in his ears without pause, driving him forward.

Keeping him occupied in mind and body. Always.

_Always._

Even in the dark. Even with his wife's warm body curled up against his chest. Even when they made love, always in the back of his mind a litany of mathematics, equations, ideas, visions...

And other things. Things he would rather not be thinking about.

_You know what he is up to. He wants to convince the King to—_

_—and the integral of one over the square root of fourteen plus—_

_—extract of adamant did not work, not compatible with the—_

_—maybe a different pattern next time? Maybe silver with red would—_

_Nerdanel was fussing about something earlier. Had better clarify what it was she needed before she decides to—_

_—rid of you so that he can replace—_

"Fëanáro, I need to talk to you. Please, just for a moment." Nerdanel was looking at him, her green eyes bright in the darkness of the room. Though she was beautiful, all cream, plush flesh and fiery spirit, tonight she seemed more transparent than ever, as though there were no substance to her being at all. He looked into her stern gaze and drowned, his mind wandering even as her lips parted to begin speaking again.

_Did Nelyafinwë need something? He knocked on the door at three forty-three and—_

_—plot was probably thought up by that golden-haired wretch of a Vanyarin—_

_—be mad at me again. Why can she not just leave me be?_

_—and then the angle must be one-hundred and fifty three point six degrees—_

_—how to get the Light of the Trees without being sniffed out by the Valar—_

"—that they just need to spend a little more time with their father. There is not much a woman has to offer to her sons once they grow out of the nursery and wish to take up their father's craftsmanship." She blinked, and the spell that held him immobile was broken. "Fëanáro, are you even listening to me? Please, this is important!" Her lips formed a pout that never failed to heat a part of him that had nothing to do with rational thought.

"Hush, nárinya," he purred, leaning forward with a smirk that he knew turned his wife's knees to jelly. A flush rose on her cheeks at the sight of his sultry expression, and triumph bubbled in his belly along with the rising tide of arousal that accompanied the sudden thoughts of—

_—her body entwined with his, her soft thighs embracing, her heels digging into—_

_—must ban Nelyafinwë from fraternizing with those sons of a Telerin whore. They shall give him the wrong sort of ideas about—_

_—subtract twelve thousand six hundred and thirteen from thirty three thousand four hundred and—_

_—and her hair would be like silk against his naked skin. Oh, her lips on his body—_

_—green and blue would do well enough, but if he really wanted to make an impression, perhaps plated gold with some—_

"Fëanáro," she groaned, and her hands rose to his shoulders, shoving half-heartedly. "Husband, please, we really need to... need to talk about this..."

He blocked her words with a deep kiss, sinking into her sweetness.

_—and seeing that expression on his father's face when he looked at her smug visage, how it made him feel ill!_

_—if one of the boys would just properly take after him. Nelyafinwë was hardly suited and Kanafinwë no more promising—_

_—and need to calculate the exact angles to get a finished product with one hundred and forty four perfectly symmetrical facets—_

"Fëanáro, stop..."

_Why was she speaking again? She should be moaning—_

"Stop!" Nerdanel forcibly pulled away, and for once Fëanáro felt his thought process roughly derail. "What is _wrong with you?"_

Frowning, Fëanáro stared into her eyes, wondering if he'd done something terribly wrong besides attempting to seduce his wife out of lecturing him on the importance of family and coddling his grown sons, who, he might add, were all quite capable of taking care of themselves. "What do you mean, what is _wrong_ with me? Nothing is wrong."

"Then why won't you _speak_ with me?" Just like that, her voice cracked, and she sat up in bed. Any attention he would have given to her body—clad in only a thin shift that hid none of the secret, intimate curves of her familiar shape—was diverted to her face. She was near to tears, and that never boded well for him.

"Don't cry, nárinya," he crooned, sitting up to pull her into his arms, even as—

_Perhaps if he kissed her and ran his hand down her back just so, the way she liked—_

_—so had Nelyafinwë needed something important? Was that why—?_

_—and then there were two hundred and thirty invitations to be handwritten, and he would not give leave to any servant to mangle them by—_

_—maybe if he changed the angle to eighty seven point four—_

_—and then he would have to track down that two-faced son of a Vanyarin prostitute and—_

Sharply, his wife tugged on a lock of his hair. "You aren't listening. You aren't even _looking at me,_ Fëanáro. Please, what's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong."

"You lie. To me. Your wife? Your One?"

"I am not lying to y--"

"Do you think me stupid, Fëanáro?" she burst out.

"No, of course not! I--" he began, but she cut him off sharply, her temper flaring.

"Well, clearly your _wife_ doesn't rank high enough on your list of 'objects of import' to even warrant a conversation in your own bed in the middle of the night, but never mind that, as long as you can seduce her into being silent—"

"It's not like that!" Fëanáro burst out, but his voice lacked conviction. Because it _was_ like that. He had been ignoring her. Again.

"Then what is it, husband? Tell me so I can understand!"

Silence fell between them, and her fingers curled tightly in his nightshirt, clutching the soft fabric until he thought it might rip. In the back of his mind, the voices continued going about their own business, but he almost didn't hear them. For once, she had him firmly anchored in the moment, trapped and cornered like an animal with nowhere to run or hide. And then she was pulling away.

His hand caught at her arm, but gently. He didn't want her to think he was angry. "Please forgive me, I just..."

"You what?" she snapped. But for all her anger, tears were finally escaping, wetting her cheeks, and seeing her upset was making him ache and causing his guts to twist unpleasantly into nausea.

"I just... I have a lot on my mind," he whispered. "Forgive me. I don't mean to... There is just so much that needs to be done, and with my latest project... and Nolofinwë has been meeting privately with the King again, and..."

Just like that, she sighed deeply and looked away from his eyes where they burned brighter than the stars, half-hidden and glowing beneath his bangs. "I understand you are worried," she said softly, "but I wish you would realize that _I am worried, too._ I have a lot on my mind as well. Including you and the boys. Our family. I worry about all of you. Things aren't as they should be, Fëanáro. Something is wrong."

Swallowing almost audibly, he dared take her hand in his and press a dashing kiss against her knuckles. Traitorously, his mind wondered if he could use a bit more traditional seduction technique to draw her away from this melancholic, guilt-inducing mood that she had worked herself into. Perhaps...

But he knew that would just bring about trouble in the morning. She would be angry, and then she would not speak to him all day, and she would deny him the warmth of their shared bedchambers tomorrow evening. It simply wasn't worth the trouble, especially since neither of them were likely to actually enjoy a physical joining at the moment, what with her in tears and him scrambling to fix whatever it was that he had done wrong.

"Forgive me," he said again. "I do not mean to worry you."

The look she gave him was somewhere between sorrowful, hopeful and resigned, as if she dearly wished he was being truthful, that he really _was_ sorry, but knew with all her soul that he would not change his ways. In the morning, he would still venture out to his forge, perhaps head into the city, stop by the palace to see his father and visit a half-dozen clients, then return home to work out in the forge again. He would not go into the house until dusk, perhaps later, and he would not spend time with their children. Most likely, he would not even eat dinner at the same table.

Finally... "We can talk in the morning." Nerdanel lay her head down on her downy pillow and turned away from him, so that the fiery rivers of her curls streamed over his abandoned hands and brushed against his face. It was all he could do to move up behind her, slotting their bodies together the way they had been created to fit, every groove and curve aligning.

But somehow the rest of them didn't seem to mesh. For all that their bodies seemed in harmony, she was right. Something was missing. There was discord between their minds and souls.

And he had no idea how to fix it.

"Sleep well," he whispered against her ear.

Knowing that he wouldn't sleep at all. The voices rose in amplitude, clamoring for his attention again already now that his mate's upset had been diverted and her anger mollified.

As long as he could remember, thoughts had consumed his life.

And, come the dawn, nothing will have changed. Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Vanyarin = Minyar elves (golden-haired typically)  
> nárinya = my fire (nár + nya)  
> Telerin = Tatyar elves in Aman


	33. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is not oblivious to his own fall into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions blood, murder and torture (semi-explicit). Possible mental illness/PTSD. Companion to Obsessive (Chapter 28)
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë Maitimo  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

The reflection that stared back at him had changed.

For hundreds of years, it had always been the same face and form—unchanged and un-weathered by time. Not a single flaw visible. Just flowing red hair and his mother's eyes, fiery but at the same time gentle, caring and longing. The eldest son of the Spirit of Fire, who wanted nothing more than a brood of a half-dozen or so elflings and a quiet life as a scholar within the safety of the walls of Tirion, looked back with a small flicker of a smile, shy but bright.

No more. The familiar expression of faint wistfulness and joy, the sharp features with only laugh lines to their name and the bright silver eyes of that man called Nelyafinwë Maitimo morphed by the day. And what they turned into...

The first thing he had noticed after three decades without his reflection were the scars. Raking down his shoulders and around his ribs in jagged, blackened lines, burns melted into his flesh, claws that had scraped down to the bone, marring the perfect symmetry he had once been named for. Every new valley and trench carved into that creamy skin was something unfamiliar and poisonous, something frightening. Something that made his throat tight and his blood chill.

At first, it had felt like a representation of all that Morgoth had taken from him, body and soul. Ripped his spirit to shreds. Violated and ravaged his soul. Taken every last drop of hope until even rage and lust for blood dwindled and left him empty.

Just like his body, his spirit would never recover. No matter how much he pretended to be whole and hale for his brothers, for Findekáno, nothing would make him the man he had been before the chains and the racks and the endless hours of starvation and frigid cold to bare skin. Too much blood and death. Too much torture and fear. He was like the vast earth, torn and marred, his symmetry broken by the Black Enemy's theme. Nothing of the naive, innocent young prince he had been in the Years of the Trees remained.

Gradually, any last tiny shard of Nelyafinwë Maitimo disappeared.

The smiles were long gone. The image that stared back at him each morning from the looking glass never had curved lips. Instead, they were pale and bloodless, lines wrinkling at the corners, tense and fierce. Maitimo hated looking at the stark expression, devoid of something important, something he could no longer seem to recall.

In its place, his eyes blazed, but held no joy. At first there had just been sorrow, that broken shell that his cousin had cut free from the cliffs of Thangorodrim, a flame that had been doused and strangled of oxygen until it was naught but a faint wisp of smoke and a single glowing ember in the night. Despair had blanketed his being, but slowly it had lifted.

It had lifted and released the violent rage—the madness—boiling beneath.

Rage he was all too familiar with. The need to tear flesh from bone and rend bodies into pieces. It was something he had first tasted in the darkness of Valinor upon the docks of Alqualondë as he thrust his spear through helpless victims, watching them tumble into the water below and stain it with crimson. Watching the life flowing through their veins dripping down his blade, pooling around his boots, soaking into the leather until the sickly warmth touched his toes.

In captivity, the need to taste the blood of his enemies had only grown. Grown into a monster that he kept locked away in the farthest, darkest corner of his mind where he prayed it might never again see the light of dawn.

And now it was unleashed.

Unleashed in wild eyes, eyes that reminded him so much of Fëanáro's terrible light that the mere sight of them had twisted his innards into knots. Fey and filled with divine heat. Suddenly the face that stared back at him resembled his less and less, resembled his father's more and more each day, until he thought he could see a shadow of fire and ash hanging over his shoulder, overlapping with his body, filling up the emptiness that had been left inside him, hollowed through suffering and festering infection of the soul.

Haunting. Pulling him deeper into the bleak, swirling depths below, crawling up his body, longing to overtake him. To drown him.

And then appeared the grins. Like an animal, fangs bared and ready to rip off strips of raw flesh and devour, to drink blood like the finest of wines and savor the copper and salt on its tongue. At first they were only shadows, half-hidden from his sight, mirages that he thought he dreamt over his waking gaze.

Once Findekáno had been killed, they became all too real. Tangible.

It was just too much. Too much pain. Aching in his bones, deeper still than that, until he could not sleep without nightmares plaguing him. Until he could not rise from bed without longing for the death that would bring him either eternal damnation or peace. Until he longed to fall to his knees before the Valar, prostrate himself humbly and kiss their sandals as he begged and pleaded to just _make it end!_

Part of him could not take any more. The part that shriveled and died, withering beneath a slow-acting poison, a sickness that no medicine could hope to ease or heal. Some days, he could not remember why he bothered to _wait_ , why he didn't just ride out and _slaughter them all!_

One day, he woke up and looked in the mirror. What stared back at him looked more like a monster than a man. Blankly, he stared at that stranger with ragged hair like fire and eyes bruised and ringed with darkness. The majority of his mind dismissed the image, turning away from the blatant, frightening truth glaring holes into his back.

The small part that was left, the part that could still be called humane, could not help but wonder if the reflection in that glass was his soul.

If, finally, he was beyond redemption.


	34. Kneel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What goes through Sauron's mind on a day-to-day basis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly quite disturbing. Blood, torture, gore, the works. Kind of explicit. Psychopathy?
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon or Gorthaur (Sindarin)  
> Morgoth = Melkor

"Mairon, come here. I wish to speak with you."

It was always the same. That rumbling voice, deep enough to rattle the foundations of the mountains and the earth, seemed to vibrate through every inch of his being, shaking him to his core. Like a good dog, Sauron came to heel, staring up into spine-chilling crimson eyes. No pupils or sclera were to be seen, and if he had not been so used to the sight, even he might have found them to be disturbing, especially set in that wrinkled, black-skinned face.

Truly, Melkor was something to behold, something stomach-churning and repulsive. A wry smile bent Sauron's lips even as he fell to his knees at the foot of the great dark throne, beneath the glowing lights of the remaining two Silmarilli, poisonous and searing hot. When the other had gone missing (and oh! how angry his master had been!) Sauron had laughed so hard he could not breathe, rolling on the ground until tears pooled in his eyes. The look on Melkor's face had made his blood _sing._

You see, he _hated_ his master.

He hated everything about that creature and this place. He hated being Morgoth's lieutenant, his messenger boy, ever at his beck and call, existing merely to perform the duties that his master found too detestable to dirty his hands with. _"Mairon, do this"_ and _"Mairon, do that"_ day-in and day-out. And Eru— _Oh wait, that is not right—Melkor_ forbid that he dare to complete something to anything less than his master's absolute satisfaction.

He was the best for a reason.

They called him Sauron and Gorthaur the Cruel, because he knew how to take a victim, how to hold them on the edge of death for days, always conscious and breathing. He knew how to strike to make them suffer, what arteries could be cut, what skin could be peeled from the muscle and what muscle from the bone without killing the screaming, writhing subject at his disposal. He knew how to make his prey speak their deepest, darkest, blackest secrets, how to make them plead and beg for their torment to end, to die and be free of their suffering at his hands.

All of that prowess had come from somewhere. Rare was it that he tried something on a victim that had never been tried on his own body. Personal experience trumped any instructional text, after all. Melkor was not a forgiving god and master, so the lieutenant had plenty of first-hand experience to work with.

And Sauron... At the very notion of prostrating himself at the feet of another, of kissing boots slicked with slime and muck, of sweet-talking and ass-kissing and begging for mercy, his entire spirit recoiled in disgust. It was out of sheer necessity that he knelt before this filth and proclaimed undying loyalty to the end of eternity. Both of them knew he was lying, but, for now, Melkor knew he held the lesser ainu's leash tightly.

Sharp black nails more suited for a beast's paws trailed down his cheek, slicing the flesh open to the bone, down around his lips and sliding under his chin as if to mime scratching beneath a pet's muzzle. Part of Sauron, a part he was not afraid to deny at all, wished longingly to exchange their places; he would love to see if Melkor could take a dose of his own medicine, lower himself to the cold, hard floor at another's feet and allow his ugly face to be ripped apart. Hatred coiled taut in the maia's gut, waiting to spring.

"My lieutenant," the Black Enemy growled, his voice low and rough, almost shattering the foundations of the iron fortress at their roots, "I have a new project for you."

_Oh lord, here we go again.._. Sauron would have rolled his eyes, except that would only invite Melkor to gauge them out, and it took several days to grow back eyeballs and recover his sight. Not to mention is was uncomfortable and made him vulnerable to be sightless. Expressing his annoyance at being treated like _a tool to be used at his master's discretion_ was not worth being caught blind and unawares by Gothmog and his pathetic, sniveling underlings later. The Balrogath were none too fond of him, and neither had he much fondness for them.

"I am ever at your service, my master," he crooned instead, leaning into the stinging nails carving open his face as though they were the gentlest, sweetest of lover's caresses.

Melkor pulled away, but his red eyes were looking straight into Sauron's ever-smirking visage. The maia's pride would not allow himself to let go of the passively defiant expression; a wince or a cower would leave him more raw and sore than any amount of Melkor's "loving" handling.

Luckily, his master did not seem in the mood to punish him over such a minor transgression today. Whatever this assignment was, it must be important to garner personal attention from the boss himself.

"We have a guest that I want you to _speak with."_

Torture. He could already taste the blood streaming from his fingertips to pool in the cups of his palms and dribble in rivulets down his wrists. How he would love to lap up the sweet liquid with his tongue, taste its coppery thickness upon his palate, languish in it to his own pleasure. Definitely, this lieutenant was in the mood to take out his frustrations on some poor prisoner of war.

"And who might this _guest_ be?" Sauron purred in reply.

"Maeglin Eölion of the House of the Mole, Lord of Gondolin."

That brought pause to the lieutenant. Someone so important? From Gondolin...

_From Gondolin..._

Just like that, the maia's grin widened. _My, my, someone is becoming ambitious_. Melkor was going after the Hidden City, a target that had long been beyond their reach. But with all of Beleriand overrun at the Noldorin scum running southward with their tails between their legs, one small elven city, no matter how secret, could not withstand the entirety of the armies of the Black Enemy.

Yet some part of him wished that Melkor would fail. That part of him wanted to see the form above him on the ground in the dirt and in chains, dragged like a dog to his fate. That part of him wanted to witness his tormentor's ultimate humiliation at the hands of some pathetic, powerless _mortals_. Oh! how such a sight would kindle the fire within him, stoking and building it to a fiery blaze of passion and ecstasy. But not yet. Not yet. "It will be done, my master."

Not yet, but one day. One day, the monster above him would be overthrown, would be brought low, would _fail utterly_. And then there would be nothing—no one—to stand between Sauron and his ambitions. No one would be able to stop him from starting where his foolish, blind master had left off. And if there was anything Sauron knew, it was how to learn from mistakes, be they his own or those of another.

One day, the world would be crawling forth to lick _his_ boots, begging _him_ for mercy, sniveling and prostrating themselves on the filthy floor just for a scrap of _his_ favor.

The very idea left him almost dizzy with pleasure, and in a mood light enough to enjoy having a little bit of fun. Hopefully this gondolindh would be difficult to break, or he might end up disappointed. The thought of a challenge made his eyes flutter in bliss.

"I want him to remain alive."

Sauron sent a curious look upwards, but nodded. That was his specialty after all. "Let me take leave of you presence now, my master, so that I may carry out your directives immediately."

It was insubordination at its finest, but for once Melkor let it slide, merely laughing and tearing back more of the flesh on his lieutenant's face, along with some of his scalp and rich, dark hair. "Get thee gone," he ordered. "I do not want to see this face or these lips until they can speak to me the location of the Hidden City."

"Of course." Sauron rose and bowed deeply. For now, he would play the humble dog faithfully following his master's every command. Being the tormentor would tide over his lust for power over body and spirit, just enough to keep his wilder tendencies in line.

But someday Melkor would be gone, and Sauron would rise in his place, the feared Dark Lord, the wiser and craftier of the pair, and all the forces of darkness and light would kneel at his feet. Glee at the very thought bubbled in his belly as he left the room to search out his unfortunate prey.

He looked forward to that day with eagerness and a dark, thin smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril  
> ainu = holy one (vala or maia)
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Balrogath = plural of Balrog  
> Eölion = son of Eöl  
> gondolindh = elf of Gondolin (this isn't precisely Sindarin, but it's not Quenya either; possibly Mithrimin dialect)


	35. Locked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin had to have been married, right? Children do not spontaneously appear unless you are an asexual bacterium or a strawberry plant.
> 
> Well, the wife who carried his son ~~(who was not created through mitosis)~~ was keeping a little secret from him when he left for Beleriand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, this is all about OCs. The OFC is Curufin's wife, Lindalórë, because Celebrimbor did not spontaneously appear out of thin air. And the OMC, Teldanno (roughly Last Gift), is Curufin's second son who he never knew about. Imagine the _pleasant_ surprise waiting for him when he finally got home.
> 
> Rough childhood. Dysfunctional family. Aman is not a happy and wonderful place.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë Atarinkë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

_It_ caught his eye again as he traversed one of the long, empty hallways of his mother's large, open house in the dead of night. There was nothing particularly special about it—this door—except that despite growing up in this house with only his mother for company, he could not have said for the life of him what was on the other side of that wood.

For as long as Teldanno could remember, that door remained locked. Even had he wanted to open it, he knew that the only key lay around his mother's neck, against her breast, safe and secure.

 _"What's inside?"_ he had asked eagerly as a child, almost bouncing in excitement and eagerness as young, curious souls were oft to do. _"Emya, won't you unlock it?"_

Her huge green eyes had looked down at him, glistening and lined with sorrow. At the time he had not recognized what it was that made her smile wither and die upon her beautiful face, that made her so clearly, blatantly unhappy that he also wilted. It had not been his intention at all to upset his mother; she was all he had, and he loved her greatly.

With soothing, familiar arms and comforting warmth, she had embraced him tightly. _"Not today, hínya. Some mysteries are just not made to be unraveled. Maybe when you are older."_

Only, she never _had_ told him, shown him.

On the very cusp of adulthood, in that annoying and mischievous phase between bratty adolescent and hot-tempered man, he didn't like having secrets kept from him. There were enough laying around in broad daylight already. Secrets that they tiptoed around as though they might jump up and bite. Like his father.

His father who he had never met. His father who everyone seemed to despise, sometimes even his mother. His father, whose very name his mother had banned from being spoken in his presence.

Curufinwë Atarinkë.

No matter how she shielded him, she could not stop Teldanno from discovering the truth of his grandfather and father, from discovering why other parents took one look at him and shooed their little ones in the opposite direction, as though he were diseased. He had grown up a lonely child because of it—shunned—and somewhere in the back of his mind he bitterly laid the blame on his father's shoulders for _abandoning_ him and his mother to go off murdering innocent kinsmen and fighting in a bloody war across the sea.

Could the door be hiding something of his father's? Or was it something completely different? Even now, the curiosity, the _need to know_ , burned in his heart, melting into his flesh and bones until he couldn't hold still for it. _He had to know!_

And he had a plan. A plan that involved taking the key from around his mother's neck as she slept and unlocking that frustrating door so the mystery of what lay behind it could be purged from his system, so he could concentrate on his studies at the university and lay his nonexistent father to rest and forget all about being related to the cursed House of Fëanáro. His mother would never even realize what he had done.

His footsteps were quick and silent as he approached her bedchamber, only Tilion present to witness his sneaking as he slipped into the room and went to the bed. His mother was on her side, her eyes staring off into space, distant and glazed over, and she didn't so much as twitch when he came into what should have been her field of vision. No, she was definitely asleep.

Getting the chain from about her neck without pulling at her delicate skin was a little more difficult, but after five minutes of gentle tugging, he lifted his hand and came away with the ornate gray key swinging before his nose. Quickly, he retreated.

And, of course, he didn't notice her blink, didn't notice her breath hitch softly as he closed the door behind him, its click echoing in the night's stillness.

Too focused on his destination, he left in a rush and found the door, near breathless with anticipation of what might be on the other side. When he inserted the key, it rattled in the lock to the rhythm of his trembling fingers.

The door opened, creaking softly, into a yawning maw of darkness.

Gulping, Teldanno stepped over the threshold. The moonlight was blocked by heavy, dark curtains, and when he pulled them back in a rush of cold, stale air and dust, the light poured into the pit of darkness, mottling the walls and the floor with silver, uncovering the treasures that had been locked tightly within, hidden from sight.

There were pictures.

The largest was a portrait of his mother and a face he did not recognize, but a face that looked enough like his own that he knew it was his father staring back at him with a devilish smirk and stark silver eyes, eyes that seemed to draw him forward and drown him in their intensity. And it was only a picture! To think what truly meeting the man's eyes would have been like...

Moving past, he found more paintings, more of his mother's smile which looked alien to the young elf. In these pictures, she looked so _happy_ , a kind of happy that her young son knew with jealousy and hate in his breast that he didn't have the power to return to her. His father had stolen away the bright young woman in these pictures, had ripped her apart and left her alone in a gray, empty house with a son to raise on her own.

Another large portrait revealed itself soon after, and Teldanno paused, staring at his parents, and at the bundle in his mother's arms. Immediately, he thought was that that bundle must be _him_ , their infant son, but he then paused, blinking. His legs wobbled and turned to jelly, and he had to lower himself onto the floor, stirring the thick layer of dust on the wood, lest he topple over in shock.

A sibling. That had to be a brother or sister. He had been born _after his father had left._

 _I have a brother or sister_. The thought was like a bolt of lightning to the brain. It had never even occurred to him that he might...

And just like that, his hatred for his father doubled.

Was it not enough that he took away his wife's happiness and love and smile? Was it not enough that he had abandoned his son to be fatherless and shunned all of his childhood? What more could he have taken? Teldanno had once asked himself.

Here was his answer. He looked around, and more pictures appeared, of a young elf with his mother's eyes and father's bearing, pictures of this stranger growing from infanthood to adulthood, until he found with his eyes an image of that same green-eyed stranger standing side-by-side with his father, the top of his head several inches higher than that of his sire. His brother had been taller than his father.

Fiercely, a sob of anger and overwhelming _something_ caught in his throat and choked him. He didn't know what to think about this, what to feel. Even looking at them, smiling and happy, father and son, made his belly feel as though someone were stabbing and twisting into his gut with a sword. If his eyes were stinging, he would never admit it.

"You should not be here, yonya."

He shot up so fast he almost lost his balance. There, in the doorway, was his mother. She was still in her nightgown, her hair undone, a candle held in one graceful hand so that its soft glow penetrated the icy stillness of this formerly undisturbed crypt.

"Amillë," he choked out in a rush, his tongue tangling over the words he wanted to say. "I... Please forgive me, I was foolish. I..."

"There is no need to apologize," she crooned, running her hand over his cheek, her touch soft as butterfly wings. He was taller than her, he realized with a start, as he looked down into her gaze. "I thought this would happen someday. You are more like your father than I would like to believe sometimes. You have his curiosity and his stubbornness."

The last thing he wanted was to be compared to _him_ , but Teldanno bit down his harsh reply. Now was not the time; he didn't want to upset her further, didn't want to make the tears pooling at the corners of her beloved eyes fall. "It was not my place."

"No, I should have told you sooner." She moved past him, standing in front of the family portrait, her eyes on, not her husband, but her son. "Forgive me for keeping them from you."

His breath caught. "Amillë?"

"Your brother, Telperinquar," she whispered, her lips trembling, her hands shaking badly. "Your father loved him more than anything. He took to raising a child like a fish takes to water, wanted to be the best father in all of Valinor." Just then, her voice caught, hitching in the back of her throat, and her shoulders started to shake. Quickly, Teldanno took the candle from her hands and set it aside, instead grasping at her icy fingers, entwining them with his.

"You don't have to—"

"He couldn't bear to be parted from his son," she continued in a shaky voice, as though her younger child had not spoken at all. "When they marched for the sea, he took his son with. Even when I pleaded that he allow Telperinquar to stay, he insisted that a son's place was at his father's side and would not hear of my arguments."

When she looked at him, Teldanno shuddered at the broken glass of her spirit shimmering beyond the glossy veil of despair in her eyes. "I lied to him about you. I knew that if I told him the truth, that I was expecting again, he would want to bring us with. And one day, he would take you away, too. That one day, he would take you away to war or trailing after those cursed gemstones; that one day, you would not come home to me. And I couldn't bear to lose you, too."

Her arms came around him, but when they sank to the floor it was Teldanno who held and supported his mother, not her embrace which comforted and soothed the turmoil riled and searing in his heart.

"Forgive me," she sobbed softly against his shoulder.

"There is nothing to forgive," he crooned, closing his eyes and rocking her against him, her head tucked beneath his chin as she cried, as if he were the father comforting his daughter. Regret overwhelmed his curiosity, regret that he had even unlocked this place to begin with. Clearly that key had kept more than just his older brother secreted away inside.

How long they stayed there, on the floor, he wouldn't rightly remember later. Eventually, when his mother had stopped crying, he had taken her back to her bedchambers and left her to sleep. Then he went to find that room again, to take one last look at the dusty frames that held the past at bay behind layers of misty glass, and then to pull the heavy wood shut tight, so that the air hissed around the corners, spitting particles of dust into the air to dance like snowflakes in the moonlight.

He locked the door nice and tight. Then he returned the key carefully about his mother's neck without waking her.

After that, the last bit of mischievous child in him seemed to crumble away into nothingness, burned to ash by the fiery hatred wrought through discovery. Many a night afterwards, he had dearly wished that he had never touched that key, that he could still pretend his mother was all right, that she was not weighed down by the loss of her son, by the callous abandonment of her husband, her One.

Some secrets, he realized, were better left locked away. Safe and secure in blissful ignorance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tilion is the maia tasked with guiding the vessel of the moon.
> 
> Quenya:  
> Emya = Mama  
> hínya = my child (hína + nya)  
> yonya = my son (yondo + nya)  
> Amillë = Mother


	36. Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of family reunions and black eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. OMC and OFC appearances. Directly related to Locked (Chapter 35). Violence between family members.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë Atarinkë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

It started with an unexpected knock at the door.

A knock in the hour just after the setting of the sun, when the great purple shadow of the Pelóri stretched over the darkening lands of Valinor, when the stars were revealed from their veil of sunlight, and Teldanno was happily settled before the roaring fire with a heavy tome in his lap. Beside him, in a plush armchair, his mother was tucked between thick cushions with her knitting needles, humming softly to herself. It was just like every other evening, quiet and peaceful, spent in companionable silence.

Except that sound, banging, echoing through their house. His mother's needles paused, her green eyes flickering upwards. The golden firelight flashed across her pale face, highlighting the worry lines that Teldanno despised, etched around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, between her slender eyebrows.

It came again, heavy enough to rattle the doorframe. Sighing, Teldanno set aside his book and stood. "Stay here. I shall see what business our visitor has with us at this time of night."

With a gentle smile, she went back to her knitting.

Slipping out of the room, the younger elf made his way down the empty hallway towards the front door. Through the frosted glass ornately set in heavy oaken wood, he could see the silhouette of a figure, tall, probably male. With pursed lips, Teldanno paused on the other side to unlock the door, taking care as he swung it open just enough that he could see outside around the edge. Being raised a lonely child had not resulted in a particularly sociable adult, and he wanted to get rid of this interloper as quickly as possible.

As it would turn out, there were two interlopers on the front porch. Two dreadfully, terribly familiar interlopers. And he would not be getting rid of them anytime soon.

The one in front, his curled hand still raised as if to pound upon the door a third time, was a few inches shorter than Teldanno. A face that haunted his nightmares burned into his irises; there was no mistaking that posture, those eyes, the sheer intensity of presence that surrounded and engulfed him as he stood within touching distance of the stranger.

Curufinwë Atarinkë was standing in the doorway, as tangible as the cold wood beneath Teldanno's white-knuckled fingers, hard and stubborn. _His father_ was standing in the doorway. After _six thousand years of abandonment._

For a long moment, the pair blinked at each other. The empty pit that settled in the younger's gut suddenly heated, was filled with scalding water, scalding rage that quickly rose to boiling point and spilled over the edges. And anything that got within the blast radius of _that_ explosion was just _asking_ to get burned.

"Who are y—?"

There was pain shooting through his coiled fist, stinging. But satisfaction unfurled in his belly as well. The sound of flesh upon flesh was loud in the growing darkness. Gasping slightly, he watched the figure topple backwards into the second, sending both of them sprawling out in the dirt at the foot of the short row of steps leading up to the porch.

_That felt good_. That was all he could think as he stared down at them, at the man who was wide-eyed and sitting up from his undignified position on the ground. Baring his teeth like an animal, the grandson of hot-blooded Fëanáro snarled down at _him_ , wishing _he_ would stand up and approach again just so the young elf had the pleasure of knocking him back onto his derriere a second time. Once had not been enough to quell his growing, blistering fury, not by a long shot.

Sputtering, Curufinwë glared up at him. "Who the name of the Valar are you? What are you doing _in my wife's house?"_ Fury—a familiar reflection that struck Teldanno straight in the gut—flashed across that face, along with a dash of betrayal and fear.

"What right have you to come here, filth?" he spat out, wishing he could do more. Wishing he could spit flames at that two-faced traitorous bastard. "Get thee gone, scum!"

"I am not going anywhere!" Curufinwë was back on his feet and nose-to-nose with Teldanno, somehow coming across as a thousand feet tall despite actually being the shorter of the pair. A hand grasped at the front of the younger's tunic, nearly lifting him from his feet (against the laws of physics) as he was dragged forward and downward. He had barely a moment to wince before a fist came crashing forward, planting itself firmly in his eye socket.

Tomorrow his face was _not_ going to be pretty. And _by the Valar_ it hurt!

"Both of you calm down!" Hands were grasping again, pulling the pair apart. It was the second stranger, the stranger with his mother's green eyes, half-a-head taller than the first. "Let us speak like civilized creatures and not roll around on the ground like ruffians!"

"Does it not _bother you_ to return home to find _another man_ living in your _mother's house?"_ Curufinwë shouted, and Teldanno felt his heart swell in his throat at the confirmation of the second stranger's identity. His older brother was taller than him, too.

"Please, just let him speak, Atar!"

"We already know what he has to say!"

" _He_ would like to know what you are doing here in the middle of the night!" Teldanno snapped. "You can't just... just come _prancing back here like nothing happened!_ You left! _You left!"_

"Why you—"

They made a grab for one another again, slipping between the middle party's fingers, and that was when a slight figure appeared in the doorway, her gray and white gown swirling around her ankles, her eyes wide with startled fear as she beheld the two males preparing to make a second attempt each at knocking the other's teeth loose from his skull.

"Lindalórë!"

"Amillë!"

They both straightened, looking up at her with stark, white faces and shaking hands. Between them, the green-eyed stranger stood, staring at Teldanno as though he were some sort of mutated six-legged forest creature instead of a perfectly respectable elven scholar.

"Amillë?" he whispered, tilting his head to one side, clearly confused. "I don't understand."

Sneering, Teldanno took several steps back from the pair, back towards his mother. She was trembling now, her shoulders shaking slightly, a hand raised to cover her lips. How dare they upset her so? Ai Ilúvatar, he wanted them _gone from his sight! How dare they come barging in like they belonged here after what they did to his mother? To him?_

But his mother's hand on his shoulder stayed any further action. "No, Teldanno."

"But—"

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. He met her eyes, and then drew back.

Curufinwë moved forward, and it took all the young elf's control and concentration to keep from launching himself at the other man again. The urge to _harm someone_ had never been this powerful before, this overwhelming. He blamed his father's blood.

"Lindalórë, what is going on here?" his father— _his father, how he hated admitting it, even in his mind_ —rasped out. "Who is... who is this?"

On his shoulder her hand tightened, squeezing soothingly. She knew him too well, knew that the tension in his body, ready to rock forward at the slightest hint of threat and pummel his opponent, was coiled so taut it would take but a tiny nudge to set him off. With disgust roiling in his belly, Teldanno wondered if she had had _practice_ with his sire. Nevertheless, she still held his gaze, and the sparkle in her eyes, formerly unknown to her son, was all the convincing he needed to reign in his wild fury. It spoke of pained joy, of bitterly disappointing eagerness, of _love._

"Curufinwë, forgive me," she said, and the betrayal flared again in his father's eyes before his mother continued. "This is your youngest son, Teldanno, born in the year 1496 in the reckoning of the Valar." _The year you left_. The words sat heavy in the air.

With satisfaction, the young elf watched the betrayal melt away into something intensely painful to look upon, but no less than his sire deserved. Those lips parted. "You never told me."

"No," she agreed, remorseless, guiltless. "Come inside. We shall talk, husband."

The interlopers moved past, and Teldanno resisted the urge to hiss curses in his sire's face, instead focusing on bringing the heavy door shut and locking it with a satisfying click. Not that it mattered. Curufinwë probably would not have even noticed a dragon flying through the sky at the moment, with how distraught he appeared. Still, Teldanno could not help but feel that even once the shock wore off, the suffering that this knowledge would bring his father would not be enough to satiate his thirst for revenge.

No amount of remorse would fill all his mother's memories of long days and loneliness. No amount of apologizing would return Teldanno his childhood, free from the shadow of his family line.

But he would not stand between his mother and father. Curufinwë was still her One, murderer and traitor or no, and the young elf had grown enough to know that it was not his place to step between two adults. Never mind that it had been his shoulder upon which she had cried all these years. Never mind that she lost a little more of her sparkle every day, fading away into bleakness. 

But now, just looking at how she moved, at how her hand automatically reached for _his_ hand, how her lips quirked _without a veil of sadness_ , the second son _knew_ that she still loved the father, still wanted him. If Curufinwë could bring back even a shimmer of the woman Teldanno could remember seeing behind that locked door, he thought he could at least _tolerate_ the man for his mother's sake.

Nevertheless, he would still have to paint his father's face black-and-blue. Curufinwë Atarinkë still owed his youngest son _at least_ a broken nose and two black eyes.

_Three,_ his mind insisted as his face throbbed. _Definitely three._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pelóri are the mountains which encircle Valinor.
> 
> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father  
> Amillë = Mother


	37. Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the death of Elenwë.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Canon character death. Kind of sappy and/or cliche.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Idril = Itarillë

_She is gone._

For the longest time, he could not bear to even move. The bite of ice and snow on his numb fingers disappeared. The entire universe had stilled, and nothing remained except the darkness opening up before him, the jagged walls dropping down into frigid water and an icy grave below. The cold burning his face vanished; the screaming of the wind in his ears was silenced. Nothing could reach him except the crimson stains in the ice below, the clouds of red spreading out through the water, slowly fading away into nothingness.

There would be no body and no burial. She was just... gone.

As if she had never existed.

At first he did not register the hand gripping his shoulder, pulling him away from the chilling sight, nor the familiar embrace that wrapped around his shoulders, safe and warm. The white landscape disappeared from his vision, blocked out by a soft shoulder padded with thick furs. A steady heartbeat and deep, soothing breaths drowning out the ringing that had overtaken all his other senses.

"Hush," that voice rasped against his cheek. "Hush, yonya, hush..." Fingers carded through his hair, stroking over his scalp in a slow rhythm, a rhythm ingrained into his very being. _Atar._ As he became more aware, he could hear an awful keening noise in the distance, resonating with his soul, realized that it was not someone mourning far away at all. It was coming from _him_. Thick and heavy in his throat, burning and aching, sobs rocking his entire being as his fingers made to clutch at the presence cradling him in strong arms.

A chin settled atop his head. "Hush, hínya, hush..." His atar was with him, holding him as he had when Turukáno was a young child, crooning, singing softly into the endless stretches of icy wasteland until the younger elf could almost forget all about the hellish land that they were traversing, and about the abyss that had swallowed up his One and carried her away.

Caged tightly in visceral comfort, he fell into the warm darkness, a lullaby as old as the earth hovering just beyond the edge of consciousness, welcoming him into the world of the starry sky and the still, cool water in the warm night.

Welcoming him into _her_ arms.

\---

Losing loved ones was not easy. It hurt worse than any wound or cutting word he could remember. Turukáno had never known such heartbreak before. Bereft, he felt a hole where his beloved was supposed to be, her warmth soothing him, balancing the hereditary fury and pride that burned hot beneath his skin. Without her cool presence, soft as a breeze brushing over the vastness of his soul, something essential was missing.

He now knew how the families of those elves who had died at the hands of his kin must feel, what the wives and children must have felt when their fathers and sons and brothers had never returned home from the bloody shadow that had fallen over all of Valinor in the Black Enemy's wake.

It was as if his entire world had been ripped apart.

"Atar?"

The voice was soft, barely more than a breath. He turned away from the horizon line at which he stared in the distance, nothing but white ground and black sky as far as the eye could see, and instead faced the young woman, barely grown into adulthood, still so naive with such large eyes.

Sad eyes. A lump formed in his throat. He had lost his wife, but his daughter— _their daughter_ —had lost her mother as well. Her blue eyes—her mother's eyes—were ringed in red, tears frozen and clinging to dark golden lashes like tiny crystals, glistening little lights in the blackness. The pain that lined her features seemed to take away the last vestiges of innocence from her glowing face.

What he wouldn't give to make that hurt go away! Was it not his job to protect her from the pain and hurts of the world?

Had he not failed her? Failed as a father and a protector?

His arms opened without thought, and she came to him, pressing up against his chest, resting on his shoulder, her limbs wrapping around him as if he were the foundation that would hold her feet to the earth. As he laid his hands on her back, traced the heaving line of her spine and took a deep, soothing breath against her golden curls, some of the emptiness filled also with a small amount of hope and happiness, of comfort. His child. His sweet daughter. _Yenya._

Without realizing it, he squeezed her into a tight, warm embrace and ignored the wet warmth on his own cheeks and the budding despair in his heart. She was safe, his Itarillë, and if he could make her even a bit happier then that was enough for him. Her light would not be lost in this darkness.

And as long as he held tightly onto that light, that hope, he could continue on.

Survive. Breathe. Live.

For _her_. For them both. Elenwë and Itarillë.

"Hush, hínya, hush..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father  
> yonya = my son (yondo + nya)  
> hínya = my child (hína + nya)  
> yenya = my daughter (yendë + nya)


	38. Urban

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeglin meets Idril for the first time... and doesn't realize who she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sappy puppy love. Canon character death. Maeglin just got dealt a shitty hand in life.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maeglin = Lómion

The last few days had been trying.

Perhaps trying was putting it lightly. Lómion was exhausted. He had barely gotten a moment's rest since his mother had passed, since he had watched his uncle's men shove his father off the city wall into the abyss below. The crack of bone against rock still rang in his ears and haunted him when he dared close his eyes. 

And beyond that, he felt crowded and uncomfortable, claustrophobic. There were so many people. Guards. Cooks. Servants. The young elf (who had only ever known his parents' humble cottage hidden in the enchanted wood) had quickly retreated to his fortified chambers, hardly daring to venture beyond his own door unless he absolutely required food or water.

And that was how he found himself sitting on a balcony connected to his rooms, overlooking the flurries of life below, sightlessly watching all those tiny ant-like specks running back and forth. Logically, he knew they were people, but there were so _many_ of them! He had never seen so many people in one place!

"You should not sit here by yourself."

Startled, he turned to face the owner of the soft voice.

And promptly lost his breath.

She was glorious. His eyes took in her slender form, the golden crown of her curls and the soft, rosy hue of her cheeks. The urge—the _foreign_ and _uncomfortable_ urge—to slide his fingers thought the river of molten sunlight on her shoulder, to brush his knuckles on creamy skin, made his hands curl into fists, feeling too slick and heavy to move. Sucking in a soft breath, he met her eyes and felt lost immediately in blue. Embarrassment quickly followed, and he shied away.

To think, she was seeing him like this, an unkempt hellion with his hair is disarray and dark circles lining his eyes from lack of sleep. He must look quite the horrid sight to such a lovely woman.

Immediately, he stood and bowed. "Forgive me, my lady, I—"

"There is no need to apologize," she assured him, and Lómion was startled to feel her hand touch his arm, just a gentle brush, but one that made his entire body tense and left a searing brand where her fingers had been. "The last few days cannot have been easy for you."

He could not look her in the eyes again. Suddenly, his boots were very interesting. No one had ever told him how difficult it was to speak to a woman who was not his mother. Certainly, his father had never seen fit to mention such a thing—not that Lómion would ever have considered asking for advice from the old—

The thought cut off abruptly, jagged edges cutting at him as he pulled away. His father was dead. _Dead._ Sure, they had not gotten along, but...

"Yes, I suppose you are right," he whispered.

"I think you need a distraction," she suddenly said, and he chanced a glance just high enough to see that she was smiling. "How about I show you around the city?"

_Down there? With all those people?_

Lómion did not want to tell this divine vision that he was terrified of going down there, which was probably why he'd been hiding up in the upper levels of the palace is the first place. Until his mother had brought him here, he had never even been outside Nan Elmoth, let alone _met anyone_. Down below them, hundreds of those little ants moved about the white streets. _So many people!_

"I do not know if that..."

"It will be fun!" she insisted, and her hand wrapped warmly around his. Lómion's breath ceased for a moment, and then his heart was suddenly beating a tattoo against his ribcage, as if it were trying to break its way out of the prison of his chest. Was this a normal reaction to being in the presence of a beautiful woman? But his mother was beautiful, and she didn't make him feel anything like this at all!

Before he could sort out his tangled thoughts, she was pulling him away from the balcony, away from the sanctuary of his dark, cold rooms, and down towards the urban sprawl below. With _people, people, people... ___

__"Aiya! Wait a moment! I—"_ _

__"You should not stay in your room and brood," the gorgeous creature scolded teasingly, giggling softly, and the sound sent tingled of warmth over his entire body, as if it showered the heat of Arien down upon him like rain upon the earth. "I'll take you to the marketplace! Have you ever been to one before? The one here is _huge!_ Of course, we get trade from the other elven settlements..."_ _

__Her voice filled his ears, and though he stopped hearing coherent words, he basked in the sound. Before he knew it, she had him out on cobblestone streets, and other elves were brushing close enough to touch him, barely an arm's reach away. Lómion was ashamed to say he might as well have clung to the woman's skirts like a child to his mother, but she didn't seem upset with him. In fact, when he realized she was more amused than anything else, he blushed so hard that it reached the tips of his ears._ _

__"I've never been... I mean, that is to say... I..." Would it sound ridiculous if he told her he'd never met _anyone_ before? Would she think him a dullard?_ _

__"So you _haven't_ been to a market before?" Her smile widened, and his embarrassment began seeping away, replaced with her brightness. "You seem rather... shy... but really, there's no reason to worry. I think it's quite fun."_ _

___Fun?_ He glanced around at all of the moving bodies so close together. "I am simply not used to so many people or so much noise."_ _

__"You shall get used to it quickly. Trust me." She winked and giggled again, and he suddenly forgot all the reasons why wandering around the city, brushing shoulders with all these strangers, was a _very bad idea._ Without permission, his arm looped with hers, and his feet carried him forth wherever she went, weaving in and out of unfamiliar faces but hardly having the sense to feel nervous at their proximity._ _

__Instead, he watched her. Watched how her hair swirled when she turned towards him, how her neck stretched into an elegant arch that looked so delicate and strangely appealing. _Is her skin soft?_ he wondered again. _What did it smell like? Sweet? Like blossoming flowers in the forest's small sunlit clearings, pure and gentle?__ _

__After a while, he stopped noticing the other people, only remembering what she spoke, only seeing what she pressed into his hands. Only hearing her breathy laughter ringing, ringing, ringing..._ _

__By the time the sun set upon the city and they were headed back, he vaguely realized that it had happened, or rather, that _nothing terrible_ had happened. Blinking, he glanced around, and then his eyes came back to her. Painted with the vibrant, fiery oranges, the rosy pinks and deep golds of Anor, she was even more magical to gaze upon. Ever had he dared imagine what the Princess Lúthien—the most beautiful woman ever to grace this earth—looked like, but none of his imaginings could compare to this beauty before him._ _

__This woman and her cheeky little smirk and her playful little giggle. This woman with her soft, gentle hands and endless patience. "That was not so terrible, now, was it? Are you feeling better?"_ _

__Helplessly, he nodded, unable to look away or think of the proper words to express what he felt at that moment._ _

__"Excellent!" She seemed so very pleased with him. "I hope you learn to love living here."_ _

__Lómion flushed. He thought he just might get used to all the people and the dizzying labyrinth of pathways and streets, the urban center that overwhelmed his poor reclusive senses. Grudgingly, he had to admit that his first adventure into the city had been relatively painless._ _

__"Maybe," he admitted._ _

__Her face lit up again, outshining the sun with ease, and his heart fluttered._ _

__Maybe he _could_ come to love living here, amongst these strangers. Beside _her._ _ _

__Maybe._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Aiya! = Oh!
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Anor = the sun


	39. Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Took one look at this prompt and had a dumbfounded moment (because what the hell was I supposed to write for this anyway?). In response, I wrote Orodreth characterization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can follow canon but does not have canonical elements.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Orodreth = Artaresto

Elves did not get sick. They did not die.

It was a very basic fact of life. At most, in the years of everlasting light and peace, one needed to know how to care for bumps, scrapes and the occasional broken bone or burn. There was no bloody, painful ravaging of bodies, impaled upon blades, rent and torn apart through violence and hatred. There had never been a need for healing. For healers.

Until Alqualondë, Artaresto had never seen anyone die of wounds before.

Not like this. Not in the cold blood.

But what he did remember more vividly than anything was standing on the docks overlooking the blood-stained harbor and feeling... helpless. Bodies were strewn about, and he tried hard not to focus his eyes, not to allow himself to make out entrails peeking out of slit stomachs or brain matter dashed against stone. To pretend that all these elves were just sleeping.

The willful delusion was not to be. He remembered hearing a breathy, gurgling voice, remembered kneeling next to a man, barely breathing, with a spear embedded in his stomach. 

\---

_Reaching out, his hands hovered over the shaft where it split open flesh and poured blood onto the earth below. Despair burst in his chest as he leaned over the stranger, touching a blanched face with shaking fingertips, his gaze meeting half-hooded, pain-hazed eyes. Red slowly dripped from the corner of softly moving lips._

_"I cannot..." He shook his head and felt his eyes sting. He couldn't understand what the other elf was trying to say as those lips moved, more splatters of dark spreading down onto unblemished white._

_He could do nothing more than sit there, than stare into vibrant, terrified eyes and watch their brilliance fading into death. Such wounds could not be treated with mere bandages. Artaresto's hovering hands settled, instead grasping the fingers of the poor dying creature before him, not knowing what else to do but wait for the inevitable._

_Gently, weakly, the other elf squeezed back. A tiny smile twitched on those lips._

_The breathing ceased._

_And Artaresto could do nothing. Nothing at all. The hands gripping his went limp and slipped down to rest on the ground, still and free, empty of life._

\---

The young elf had had many a nightmare about that death, and many more deaths after. The feeling of helplessness—of uselessness and barrenness—never dissipated. He wanted so badly to help, to do _something_ as he watched those around him dying, falling to the ice or the cold or the spears of the enemy. He wanted to help his people, protect them, guard their health and well-being, keep them whole. 

But he could not. Each time another perished before his eyes, he would think back and remember the elf on the dock, and his heart burned.

Menegroth was a welcome respite.

There was peace within the Girdle of Melian. Certainly, they had warriors, but they had safety as well. There was not a new report of the death toll each evening, nor were there tents littered with warriors, struck down by weapons or by festering wounds, and no one to attend to them, no one to help them. It was quiet, the trees cradling their small world, housing them inside, blocking out the darkness and the light, leaving them in an eternal dreamland.

And then one day there were shouted words. A warrior was carried into the city, his entire left side bloody, a ragged wound stretching from shoulder to hip, part of it down to the bone, showcasing ribs lined with the marks of a vicious blade. It made Artaresto's stomach turn.

He didn't want to watch again. He _could not._

The young noldo turned away, and he didn't look back.

\---

"The warrior from yesterday, I mean... How... How is he?" Artaresto's throat constricted. He must have looked pale, drawn and sleepless, for Celeborn sent him a confused and slightly concerned glance. A hand settled on his shoulder.

"Beleg?" the prince said. "He is doing well for having taken such a nasty wound."

_Well?_ Surprise must have shown on his face, for Celeborn continued. "Are you quite well, friend? You look like a ghost."

Indeed, his face was probably the color of spilt milk. All the blood had drained from his cheeks. "I just... Well, it did look quite serious when he arrived." Artaresto bit his lower lip and looked anywhere but at the prince. "I have seen warriors die from lesser wounds."

"Our healers are quite skilled in such matters," his companion soothed. "Beleg will be well within a few weeks, and probably out on patrol again shortly after."

Artaresto was hardly soothed in the least. This was the first time he had heard mention of _healers. Healers? They had healers?_ Something visceral shuddered through his body, a strange sort of delight, of eagerness that bordered on pain. His eyes widened as he beheld the prince. "Healers?"

"Indeed." Celeborn laughed softly. "Do your people not have healers as well, Orodreth?"

"No. There was never any need."

Shock. And then... "What do you do when your warriors come back injured from battle?" he burst out, indeed sounding as though Artaresto had said something horribly scandalous. "I know that your people fight often with the Black Enemy. Surely you must..."

"There was never any need," Artaresto repeated. "We do our best, but none of us has ever had to treat such severe injuries before. Until leaving Valinor, the worst wound I had ever seen was a broken arm. My cousin had fallen out of a tree."

They lingered in silence for a long moment. "Perhaps," Artaresto continued, licking his suddenly dry lips, "Perhaps you would show me to... to wherever your healers are?"

"The Healing House," the other said automatically. "Of course, I will show you."

\---

The fascination was immediate.

His first steps into the quiet sanctuary were like steps into another world. A world that he came to love all too quickly. So much so that it consumed him.

He loved learning about medicinal remedies to sooth the pain of those around him. He loved learning to ease suffering, to fix, to heal... to _save_. He loved standing at the bedside of his patient and watching his hands work as if from a great distance, watching the days pass, watching those under his care become hale and whole again. When his patients departed, he loved seeing them on their own two feet, cheeks flushed with healthy color. 

And he loved feeling that helplessness that had haunted him ever since Alqualondë slowly drain away, the empty chasm behind filled instead with satisfaction, with affection, with delight.

Equally, the loss of a patient was terrible, like the loss of a good friend. But it was not a loss through helplessness, through inability to act. Even then, he could rest quietly knowing that he had done all that he could to ease suffering, to send his dear patients into Mandos' arms as gently as he could bear, knowing they would at least be somewhere without war and death and blood.

Artaresto did not think he could stop even if he tried.

He was saving them, protecting them. His family. His people.

This was where he belonged. Not on the battlefield with a sword in hand. Not in a war council with maps and strategies and thoughts of death in his mind. He belonged in the Healing House, smelling of sweet herbs and the airy open windows letting in fresh air with thoughts only of helping his fellow kinsmen, of patching up their hurts and weariness. 

Artaresto did not doubt this for even a moment.

He was a healer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> noldo = Noldorin elf


	40. Older

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andreth ages, but Aegnor is still as in love as the day they first met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romance without a happy ending?
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro

It felt like the blink of an eye.

They had parted, their hands lingering just beyond the reach of the other, only thick empty space holding them apart. And how he had desired to kiss her, to take her up in his arms and twirl her around, to plead for her to stay with him forever. How he wished he could erase the sad little frown from her brow, the heartbroken lilt of her lips!

But it was not to be.

Logically, he had known this when he had first fallen for her in the reflection of the moon-glistening lake in the mountains. Even by elven standards she was enchanting, this daughter of the House of Bëor, but it was not her soft heart-shaped face and classical beauty which drew him, entrapped him helplessly in her innocent web of glory.

It was her eyes. Deep, dark eyes. Eyes filled with kindness, pure and good, untouched. This woman had seen the horrors of the world, of war and hatred, but she still had hope, still cared for those around her. She still had that special light, a brush stroke of the Flame Imperishable striped across her soul.

Like a divine creature from above, she fell into his world and took over at the foundations. Every soft touch to his face and hair, every tender, affectionate little smile on her soft lips of rose petals, every laugh rising like breathy bells, sweet and uplifting in the distance, they cemented his conclusion—that this woman was his One and only, the One he was meant to spend his eternity with, joined in bliss.

Except she was mortal.

Except he was not.

Except there was a war growing in the distance, hanging over their heads like a thunder storm waiting to break into screaming silence over the land.

He had turned away from her, away from her light, the light that fuelled his every breath and step. Aikanáro did not dare glance back, not for a moment, because he knew that he would not be able to take the next step with her eyes piercing through him, begging him, pleading with him to change his mind, to renounce his words, to take her as his bride, to allow them happiness in the darkness that fell upon the land like great stormy waves upon the broken shoreline. No power on earth could make him deny her a second time.

No, he dared not look back.

\---

To Aikanáro, three decades was not much. His beautiful mortal woman would be over fifty, but fifty was little more than an infant to his people.

At fifty, a mortal's life was more than half over.

He had not meant for to see her again. The temptation to take her up in his arms, he knew, would be overwhelming in its intensity, damn the consequences. Though he loved her more than his own life or the lives of his kin, Aikanáro could not afford to let personal affairs seep into his life as a warrior. It was his job to fight for his people and nothing else.

But there she had been.

Her face was lined, no longer smooth and creamy. Crow's feet perched at the corners of her eyes, laugh lines drawn at the edges of her lips, still as soft as rose petals and just as lush and pink. Her hair, once the deepest of browns, long and thick, was now lined in gray, branching out from the roots to leave silver frosting her mane.

She was older, and she was beautiful. So beautiful she took his breath away.

The elf lord bit his lip and watched her walk, watched her talking to his elder brother, watched as they conversed with vibrant hand gestures and resounding voices, a wise woman and a wise elven prince as equals, as friends. From the shadows, he hid and observed, silent and still.

How he longed to go forth, to greet her, to kiss her until she could think of nothing but him.

How he missed her.

Before the temptation could consume him, Aikanáro fled. Andreth had not even seen him standing in the distance, half-hidden in the shade of failing day. And perhaps that was for the best.

\---

When she finally did see him again, it had been another three decades. She was over eighty. _Eighty!_

To an elf, eighty was barely out of childhood. To a mortal, eighty was the evening of life, the first frost of autumn before winter's chill.

The laugh lines had deepened. Her body was frail and slightly hunched but still slender. When he looked upon her hands, they were strange, foreign things, veined and wrinkled. The mane of dark locks he had once wished to write poetry upon for hours was now white and softer than snow, laying about her shoulders in flurries.

And she was still beautiful. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Nauren," she greeted him in the softest of voices, changed but still as strong as it had been in her days of youth. Stronger, even, but wiser as well. "I have missed you greatly."

He gripped her hands, almost afraid to touch them for how delicate they appeared. But then they squeezed back against his hold, a firm grip of muscle and tendon, and he lifted her knuckles to his lips— _damn propriety!_ —and pressed kisses against the craggy joints. Raggedly, he breathed of her scent and felt his world tilt.

Her power over his emotions had not dulled in the slightest. He loved her so much it hurt to breathe apart from her, away from her side. Now that he was with her, touching her...

"I missed you as well, meleth-nín," he whispered, eyes closing tightly.

A long moment passed, and they slid open, glancing upwards, and met her gaze. It had not changed. Deep darkness, sweet and rich like the earth, filled with honey and kindness and unnamable beauty. Though her body had grown older, her spirit was still young and sweet.

She was his One, and that would never change. His love for her had only grown stronger and richer with the years, like an ageless wine.

He did not thing he could turn from her a second time.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

Never again.

"I missed you, Andreth."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Nauren = my fire (reference to Aegnor's mother-name)  
> meleth-nín = my love


	41. Vital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I don't think that Nerdanel immediately fell in love with a dude like Fëanor. I think he's an acquired taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love-hate relationship. Poor Nerdanel.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Prince Fëanáro was a pompous bastard.

He was also completely, utterly vital to her survival.

And she hated it.

Now, Nerdanel had never been a woman who required a male presence to carry on with her day-to-day activities. She was a craftswoman, an artist of the highest order, and she did not need a lover to order her around, to tell her what she could and could not do _because she was a woman_. She did not need a husband to protect her or watch out for her or advocate on her behalf _because she was a woman._

She did _not_ need a _man._

But it seemed that her heart was not interested in listening to sense or logic or reason.

Every time _he_ walked into the room, her eyes would land on his lithe form, following him as he moved about with such arrogant confidence, but with such poised and deadly grace. Every time he sent her that smirk—the smirk that made her redheaded temper rise to fever pitch and red blotches decorate her lily white skin—her traitorous heart would dare to skip a beat in admiration. Every time he touched her arm or brushed against her back with intent, her breath would catch, and it would seem as though her veins filled with air rather than blood, lifting her right off the ground in delight.

She hated him. Hated him _so much_. Some days she wanted _so badly_ to _smack_ that smug look right off his (horribly, terribly attractive) face.

But she could not stop looking at him.

The days when he did not come to the forge to work with her father, she found herself anxiously anticipating the next day—and the next and the next—until he finally appeared again, the same as he had always been. Those days, she would glare holes in his (muscular, amazingly sculpted and shockingly bare) back until she thought he might actually burst into flames from the sheer spite she radiated.

And it seemed to do naught but amuse him. And that infuriated her even _more._

"Has something attracted your attention, my lady?" he would ask, his voice smooth and honeyed, but taunting all the same, egging her on until her hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists.

"Nothing at all," she would reply. _Lying. Blatantly. To his face. And to herself._

(Because she always noticed how perfect his backside looked whenever he bent over wearing only leather pants. Nerdanel was beginning to think he did it on purpose.)

A knowing look would appear in his fiery eyes, and for a moment she would be star struck by the sheer _beauty_ of the stallion before her, prancing and parading with white-hot pride and a temper that could rival her own red-headed vivaciousness. Then she would realize how she must look, freckled and red and breathless, and she would huff and turn back to her sculpting and not dare turn around and look at him again until he walked out the door in the evening. Whether out of embarrassment or something else, she did not know.

But, eventually, she (secretly) began to look forward to his visits to the forge.

(Though she would never admit it aloud.)

And, eventually, she felt bereft on the days when he was away. She would enter her father's forge, and her heart would sink down into her belly when no tall, dark-haired prince stood straight and picturesque at her father's side, his rippling shoulders flexing as he hefted and wielded a hammer as though he were born to it.

Eventually, she even began to miss the touches, the brushes on her arms and back, the teasing little smirks that he sent her way. On those days, when she pined, every face her fingers sculpted seemed to form itself into _his_ face, until all she could think of was Fëanáro staring back at her, his lips curled up at the corners, catlike with satisfaction, his jaw square and set, held high like the prince he obviously knew he was.

By Ilúvatar, she _despised him._

But she could not live without him. That much she knew.

The realization was not as shocking as she had imagined it would be. She hated him, yes. But she _loved him passionately_. Without him there, her days felt empty and listless. When his heat settled at her back, she felt so _safe_ , so _comfortable_ , as if she could lean back against his strength but all the same not be a weak-willed woman, not be powerless, not be yielding.

And she found that she liked it. Nerdanel did not even bother to hide it from herself, not anymore. It was irrevocable, and something _needed to be done._

The next time he appeared before her, that the stupid smirk taunted her and those eyes bored into her, burning her skin, she knew that moment of action, that moment that would decide her fate, had arrived. It was then or never, her heart said, though her mind screamed for propriety, for reservation, for forethought. Visceral feelings boiled under her flesh as she stared into the endless depths of his eyes, falling deep into pools of molten silver until warmth swallowed her body whole, devoured her completely. How red her face must have been! 

"Has something attracted your attention, my lady?" he asked again.

This time, she looked at him. _Really looked_. Looked at his face, which had haunted her dreams and waking moments. Looked at the set of his jaw. Looked at his hands clutching tightly at the thick fabric of his apron. Had that gentle desperation always been present?

"Yes." No hesitation. No forethought. Truth.

And she kissed him.

How delightful it had been! The heat and the spice on her tongue, the surprising softness of his parted lips, the tilt of their bodies as they pressed together. She almost hadn't wanted to pull away for love of the sensation.

But the look on his face when she did had been truly _divine._


	42. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first dawn of Anar and the first dawn of a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journey across Helcaraxë is finally over. Mentions dying of exposure.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Turgon = Turukáno or Turno (Note: nickname created by members of Noldorin icon family on dA and isn't canon)

Always, Findekáno had been an optimistic person. He had always believed the best in people, always steadfastly held faith that circumstances would always take a turn for the better if you waited long enough and worked hard enough. It was how he dealt with life; it was his most basic natural state of being.

But so long in darkness took a toll even upon his vibrant soul.

Endless days of nothing but blackness and cold, white snow and broken, craggy ice—deadly frozen water beneath—as far as the eye could see would wear down any man's heart. Everywhere he turned, there was naught but suffering and death, mothers who had lost husbands and sons, fathers who had lost wives and daughters, children who huddled alone because their parents had slipped through the cracks and fallen into the black abyss below, never to be seen again.

More so than that were the bodies, the fallen forms lying on the ground, slowly buried until nothing remained but a small lump on the ground, almost indecipherable from the bleak landscape. They would never be unearthed, neither be buried nor cremated. Frozen forever in the wasteland that would be their graveyard.

Yet Findekáno tried to persist, tried to remain hopeful that something better awaited them on the other side of this hell. He knew not how many days—how many _years_ —of starless skies had passed over their heads, but he hoped and prayed that friendship and a luscious world lay waiting on the other side, just as Fëanáro had promised them all. On the other side, Maitimo awaited. Adventures and valiant battles to be fought awaited!

He could not give up hope.

\---

One day, so long after they had taken their first shaky steps upon the ice, he finally saw it, that which he had yearned for so passionately since hearing his uncle's all-encompassing words.

The other side.

Mountains rising jagged and dark overhead and against the sky. And the sky was clear, clear and blue. And lightening. The stars lingered, but with each long, passing moment they seemed to fade more and more, and light seemed to overcome the darkness that had for so long defined Findekáno's world.

_But the Two Trees were destroyed. Their light was destroyed._

How could there be light now?

Moving faster, heart bursting with sheer anticipation, Findekáno found himself nearly running forth, not heeding the cries of his kinsman as he crossed from snow-slicked ground to sturdy rock for the first time in so, _so long_. Steady beneath his feet, firm at the foundations. He climbed upwards frantically, for the light was breaking through the blue, turning golden along the horizon.

And then he turned and saw it.

Against the raging cold waters and the mountain peaks, a vast kaleidoscope of colors burst over the sky, like spilled watercolors mixing together in the wind. Orange and pink streaked over the drifting clouds, and a vessel of gold and fire rose up from the waves to send light across the desolate land and open sea, reflecting so brightly that it almost hurt Findekáno's eyes. And it was beautiful. So beautiful.

Gasping and grinning, he turned to find his brother at his shoulder. Turukáno met his eyes, wonder reflected in the silver depths usually so full of sorrow. Neither of them had ever seen the likes of this creation, for even Laurelin did not have this affect when she waxed upon the vast green hillsides of Valinor. Stunned, they watched as the sphere tracked higher into the sky, rising over them and branching out pure warmth into their chilled skin, filling them with heat and thawing the desperation and hopelessness that had frozen into their traitorous hearts on the vast plains of Helcaraxë.

Filling them with a new excitement, with a new hope for something better waiting for them just in the distance. Their hell had ended.

"We have arrived," Findekáno whispered reverently, his eyes unable to move from the sight of dawning, the dawning of their new life. "Turno, we are here!"

His brother's smile was softer, but it was genuine, and Findekáno's throat closed tightly. He longed to embrace the other, but held himself back as his younger brother nodded and let out a long, wearied sigh. "We have," he agreed. "We are here."

Slowly, the wash of colors faded into brilliant blue stretching across the dome of the sky, broken by only white clouds and the warmed wind against their face. As they watched, breathless, the younger elf pressed against his older brother's shoulder, and they stood side by side, sharing the newfound warmth and hope kindled in their spirits.

From here they would go forth, and to what end Findekáno could not say.

But he was ready. Life awaited below in the world of light.


	43. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron wants the world and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sexual content. Mostly world-domination plotting.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Annatar  
> Sauron refers to Eru as "Father" because I don't know what a maia or vala would call him.

For as long as he could truly remember—as long as he had walked upon the earth in the raiment of a man—Sauron had had one ultimate desire, one need that consumed his entire existence and demanded his complete and utter attention at all times. It was all-encompassing, had driven him to such desperate lengths that he had knelt at the feet of his most hated enemy and master, demeaning himself and uttering oaths of false loyalty if only to stay in favor with the power that could have crushed him without a second thought. If only to further himself, to gain, piece by piece.

But in the back of his mind, he had always desired more, _so much more_ , than that ugly existence. He had never been satisfied as Morgoth's lieutenant, his revered, reviled tormentor, the best of the best and greatest of the greatest. It had never been enough to be feared by all upon the earth, by the Elves and the Men and the Orcs and even his own fellow servants of darkness. Always, he had hungered for more.

More power. More, more, _more_ until he could _languish_ in the golden, honeyed feeling of being obeyed and worshipped, until it surrounded him and cradled him and bent to his will.

Oh, how he had hated his master, Melkor.

But Melkor was no more upon this earth. And Sauron was free.

Free to pursue his greatest desire, his unquenchable lust for power, the longing to have the world driven to its knees by his armies, ravaged by his forces, begging and pleading for his nonexistent mercy and licking the toes of his boots. What a delicious image it would be, to have all the free peoples of Middle-earth prostrated before him, utterly in his hands, chained more efficiently and effectively than any metal of the earth could hope to bind, for they would wear chains of devotion, obedience and terror.

The very idea gave him a noxious high, a feeling that made him glow with pleasure. All he had to do was think of that, the goal waiting at the end of his long, arduous task, and his golden face would become more radiant than the stars.

No one would ever look at him and think him a monster, though that was what he was.

And then something had gone terribly wrong.

Something had changed. Sauron now had a new desire—an unwanted desire—one that nearly trumped the urge to burn and consume and remake and _own everything and everyone utterly._

It was but an elf. One elf.

But what an elf he was.

Tall with a face that would make the Valar weep, with eyes sharper than any spear and brighter than any divine light. The sheer fire that burned within this elf's spirit tingled against Sauron's flesh and soul, as if it radiated sheer strength of will and turbulent, vehement determination. Radiated all he wanted to subdue to his will. This elf was the embodiment of everything Sauron desired and wished to control, wished to contain, wished to chain and lock up and hide deep beneath the earth so it would never see anything but _him_ again. Never see Anor. Never see Ithil. Never see the starry dome overhead.

He lusted. Oh, how he lusted! Oh, how he desired! Oh, how he longed to _possess!_

Celebrimbor was _his._

From his raven hair to the rippling muscles of his smith's arms and back to the delicious curve of his rear end to the tips of his elegant fingers and toes. Every sultry inch belonged to Sauron, and he would allow no other to touch what was his.

Some days, he wondered which lust triumphed in his mind. If he forgot, even for an hour, about his plans and schemes, about the purpose of the bejeweled rings forged in the fires of Eregion, then he would never admit it to himself. _Nothing_ could be more important than succeeding where his revolting former master had failed, than obtaining all that he had ever panted after for as long as his spirit could recall existing in Eä.

Yet, even as he thought such things, things that had once given him unspeakable pleasure, the imagine of naked, glistening flesh and the sound of hushed, breathy cries would ring in his ears, and Sauron wondered bleakly how this _elf_ had gotten under his skin, would wonder why the image was never complete unless that raven beauty was in his sight.

More than anything, he despised Celebrimbor for being everything he wanted. He both hated and loved his dark noldo, reveled in their time together, in the fucking and the writhing and the joining, but at the same wanted to slit open the long white throat so oft bared to him in trust just to remove this obstacle, this test that the Father himself must have put down on his long, winding road to block his stubbornness and obstinacy, his will to dominate and his lust for greater things than even Melkor could claim to his accursed name.

Scowling at such thoughts, he found that he held a deformed, twisted bit of metal beneath his hammer. For once, he had lost his focus. Thinking about _him._

In disgust, Sauron tossed the metal into the fire, listening to the sharp clang of gold against rough stone. The misshapen ring landed amongst the flames, lit up with orange and red and ash, reflecting back all the hatred Sauron felt at the moment, and all the passion.

Perhaps it was time to put the final pieces of his plan into motion?

"What has you so frustrated, Lord Annatar?"

That voice. Sauron resisted the urge to shudder and glare as he faced the elf that haunted his dreams and all his waking moments without thought or effort. Celebrimbor was truly a sight to behold; any man or woman would be lucky to have such a bedmate. And in the firelight, with no shirt to cover his sculpted body, with sweat streaming over a heaving chest and lithe muscle, he was the epitome of tantalizing.

The lust panged.

"Nothing of great importance," he lied as easily as he breathed. "What brings you here?"

Eyes met his, and the look in them was all too familiar. Even though he was a maia, even though he should have perfect control of his being, the heat still bubbled in the pit of his belly like lava at such a half-hooded look of pure longing and promise. What temptation had the Father heaped upon him? Had he been one to lament, Sauron would have been weeping for the shame of his weakness at only a heated glance!

"I was looking for you."

But how could he resist such a blatant offer? Even now, he felt himself drawn away from the forge and the fire and the twisted gold in the flames, the promise of his dominion over all beings lingering lost in the darkness of the horizon, just beyond sight. His throat was dry and tight as a gentle, cool touch _burned_ at his forearm.

Sauron allowed himself to pull that body closer. "So I see," he replied, his voice low and hoarse, reverberating with the power of his fury and need. The body against his shivered delightfully.

So easily, that face and that form consumed his thoughts.

And Sauron could not help but wonder if this divine creature truly _was_ a test lain out by the Father himself to put a stop to all his plans and schemes, to halt the corrupted, fallen angel in his tracks, to cage him with bars more solid and terrifying than any iron or mithril.

Because if he had to choose between the lust for power and the lust for this fiery spirit, he could not say with any certainty what he would choose.

And that instability wracked him with his first taste of _fear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Anor = the sun  
> Ithil = the moon
> 
> Quenya:  
> noldo = Noldorin elf


	44. Memorial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because the Noldolantë was hardly finished on the docks of Alqualondë or the shores of Losgar. It went on much, much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death. Murder. The Third Kinslaying. Lots of music references.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë

He named it the Fall of the Noldor.

Chronicles of sins, of the murder of innocents and the ravaging of purity and goodness, of curses wrought through oaths and the tragedy of sullied hands, that was what it comprised, all that it encompassed. None could hear it without sinking into tragic sorrow; none could bear the tone of despair and self-loathing without the weight of all their evil deeds crushing down upon them until they sank to the earth on their knees and wept. This Makalaurë knew.

This he had intended.

As a shrine, a gift and a curse all wrapped in the same divine package, a melody and a harmony woven into perfect dissonance until all the world trembled at its foundations. None who heard it could ever forget.

And they shouldn't. How dare they push those memories away? How dare they look past the evil things that had come of their own two hands?

In a way, it was a punishment. For himself. For his people.

Makalaurë never wanted to forget.

But more so, it was a never-ending memorial, built upon blood and screams and unnumbered tears. No matter how many years passed, the construction never ended, was never finished. Makalaurë would sing until his voice was raw and hoarse, until his fingers bled upon his lyre, but it was never long enough to recall every pale face frozen in shock and terror, never long enough to recount the wildness of their killers' eyes, the madness of their souls.

Never long enough to revisit all the tragedy.

And even as he moved, a new chapter was being written. Even as his blade swung in an arc of deadly sunlight and cleaved through muscle to bone, it continued on from his lips, new words ringing in his ears, demanding his attention, locking his pitiful reality into place in his mind, branding it to the backs of his eyelids so not even the darkness they offered would be a safe-haven from sin.

"Makalaurë, the house!" It was his brother's voice. From the corners of his eyes, he saw the scarlet of a tattered cape mix with the vibrant fire of untamed curls.

His feet carried him, and all before him fell at his hand and the steel of his sword regardless of their innocence, regardless of their age or sex, regardless of whether their faces were contorted in fury and betrayal or in horror and terror at the sight of him, the demonic harbinger of nightmares come to life. Crimson soaked into his boots, splattered on his face, stained his clothing, dripped down the silver inscriptions of his sword, turning the words red to reflect the carnage.

Those words—other words—were upon his lips, a melody singing in the core of his being, lamenting bitterly as he gutted another elf, a woman, unarmed, begging and pleading for his mercy. Her face stared up at him, empty, and he was across the threshold of the house.

When would it end? _When would it end?_

The inside was clean and quiet, lifeless. Elwing had fled, and he was not surprised. Nevertheless, he stepped farther into the domain, searching for survivors. If there was one thing he had learned, it was to never give the enemy the chance to live and thrive, to stab you in the back.

_It made him sick._

Empty rooms were opened. They were lived-in, well-worn and loved. Tapestries, hand-woven, hung upon the walls. Paintings adorned the hallways, images of the calm open sea and the peaceful sunset. Portraits of a woman and her husband and her two young children with rosy cheeks and shy smiles.

His eyes settled upon them, the pair of identical young faces, and the melody struck a sharp note, stabbing inwards and leaving him breathless.

_When would it be enough?_

There were whimpers in the last room, and he knew what was coming. His stomach rolled over with nausea at the knowledge of what sin would sully the sanctity of this nursery. Two more faces, eternally youthful and round-cheeked, streaked with tears and filled with fear, would be added to the Fall, to the tragedy, remembered for their sacrifices to lust for revenge and the ravages of insanity. But these thoughts did naught to quiet the weeping in his soul as the door creaked open and parted the shadows.

They hid in the closet, curled close together, shivering as the light spilled down on their huddled forms and the hinges squealed in protest of movement.

Tiny, helpless, innocent, sweet, a young melody like the spring and a harmony of the deep earth. Silenced. Makalaurë felt his eyes burn as his blade rose, aiming for the back of an exposed neck. It would be clean. Almost painless. Fast.

_Would it ever be enough?_

But he could not do it.

They were weeping and hiccupping and staring up at his silhouette with terror-stricken countenances. And he was so tired—so, so _tired_ —of slaying and murdering. His arm strained from the weight of steel and then fell, the sword slipping from limp fingers and clattering to the floor. His fist clenched and relaxed. Freedom from that weight was like freedom from heavy chains, chains of the cursed fate of his people. He felt his knees crumble with relief beneath him.

"Do not cry," he crooned before he could stop himself. "Do not cry. I will not harm you. You are safe. Safe. I promise."

He knelt before them—what a sight he must have looked, smeared in the life blood of their kin and other unpleasant, unknown carnage!—and such relief was in their faces as they embraced him and curled against his shoulders that Makalaurë did not care for the consequences of his actions. Beneath his breath, he hummed a lullaby of his childhood, a new soft strain to weave into the Fall, a new layer of their never-ending tragedy.

No more blood today. Not by his hands. The noldo bowed his head and wept.

Because _when would it be enough? When would enough blood be spilled, enough bones be broken, enough souls be sacrificed to finish the towering memorial, the reminder of their Fall, so that none could ever forget the pain wrought by arrogance and vengeance?_

He embraced the children tightly.

_Would it never end?_


	45. Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Fingolfin had died in the Battle of the Lammoth?—a theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely bizarre AU idea. Non-canon character death. Identity dissociation?
> 
> Of Names:  
> Argon = Arakáno (never refers to Fingolfin in this story)  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno

No one could ever know their little secret.

Arakáno kept it locked tightly away in his heart and pushed away the agony that seemed to radiate through his chest with its every pulse, pushed away the shame that trembled precariously at the corners of his mind, driving him mad.

Pushed away the guilt that burned against his soul like acid. Was it not his fault? Had is impetuousness not been the catalyst to tragedy?

Because Nolofinwë was dead. He was gone. And Arakáno could blame no one but himself, nothing but his reckless foolishness.

He had cradled the body against his chest, begged and pleaded and sobbed, listened to the frightening gurgle of blood filling the lungs, watched as crimson streamed from the corners of his father's silently moving lips. Shaking fingers brushed against his face, leaving behind great smears of red and black, but they could not hide the tears streaking their way down his cheeks at whispered words and crushing, overwhelming sorrow. The death rattle of those last few struggling breaths still echoed in his ears, haunting him in every waking moment and in every dream.

His brother had taken one look at them on the ground—the younger brother's shaking form and their father's limp, cooling body—and his face had hardened, his eyes the only indicator of his horror and despair. The next words had struck Arakáno's soul like lashes of a whip. "No one can know."

It was more important to have a leader than a prince. Arakáno was not needed.

But Nolofinwë was.

Covered in gore and stricken with grief, the youngest child of Nolofinwë had not resisted, had gone thoughtlessly along with the plot, had taken up his father's sword and circlet, had banished the young, fiery spirit from his body and replaced it with the shoddy ghost of someone greater.

The first time he was called "father" nearly stopped his heart.

The first time he was called "your majesty" left him raw and aching and full of shame.

He was not some great king or great leader or wise father. For Ilúvatar's sake, he had gotten his father killed in a foolish dash across enemy lines without covering his back! It was his inexperience and rashness that had created this mess in the first place! How could Findekáno expect him to play at being King? For that was what he did. He played.

Pretended.

Lied.

Danced around a secret so great that no one aside from his siblings could ever discover it. Every time he saw his cousins, he wanted so badly to scream it aloud in absolution, to throw off his veil and proclaim the truth—that he was _not Nolofinwë and never would be! Call me by my true name, I beg ye! See me!_

But he learned. He dared not do anything less.

_"You will make me proud, hínya,"_ his father had spoken to him, the last words to ever leave his lips as he died within the circle of Arakáno's arms, as he had pressed his sword towards his youngest child. How could Nolofinwë utter such words after what the youngest child of his loins had done, after the shame his son had heaped upon his family?

However, the words had served their purpose. He dared not fail his father a second time.

Oh, he learned! But it seemed to never get easier. The guilt seemed never to ease. No redemption was to be found in filling shoes too big, shoes that belonged to someone else. Like a thief, he languished in a life meant for someone more noble and righteous. Like a pauper, he answered to respectful bows and reverent words meant for the eyes and ears of someone older, someone who commanded that respect as easily as he breathed, someone who had died for all the right reasons and all the wrong choices.

Eventually, the definite lines parting that someone from true identity altogether disappeared.

Eventually, Findekáno called him "Atar" and Arakáno kissed his "son's" forehead in parting, whispering a blessing over gold-woven braids, and Findekáno would smile in return at his sweet words like a flower blooming from the ashes of golden years.

Eventually, Turukáno came to him to reveal all his woes—to scream and rage and curse and then curl up into a ball in his lap and weep—as if he were the man who had held the boy in childhood after nightmares in the darkness, comforting strength and confidence.

Eventually, he wondered who it was that had truly vanished and who it was that remained behind. When he looked in the mirror, it was not his self that he saw staring back, but a reflection of advice just beyond reach and soft reassurances that didn't quite reach his ears.

Eventually, he no longer wished for those things. Eventually, the words came naturally to his lips.

And that was the day Arakáno ceased to exist, and Nolofinwë took his place.

They never spoke of the secret. There had never been need, for it became less a secret each day, less a lie and a falsehood. He kissed his sons' foreheads and did not think of them as brothers. He kissed his daughter's cheeks and wondered when she had grown into a beautiful young maiden.

And he no longer pretended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> hínya = my child (hína + nya)  
> Atar = Father


	46. Zeal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Celeborn ended up married to Galadriel. He had absolutely no say in the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a firm supporter of the canon-verse where Celeborn is a Prince of Doriath, not a Telerin elf (who would just so happen to be Galadriel's first cousin in such a case, and elves apparently don't marry kin that close in blood relation).
> 
> Seduction. Dub-con marriage. Intoxication.

Every time he turned around, she was there.

Silver and golden, more brilliant than Ithil and Anor combined, more heavenly than all the stars blanketing the sky, more mysterious than any shadow, more intense than the heated eyes of the King himself. She was always there, with her frozen gaze and smile-less face, angelic and breathtakingly empty.

Peering around corners in the dark. Watching him in the gardens from beyond the arms of trees. Standing on the balconies overlooking the forest, a star watching over the earth.

And always— _always_ —her eyes were settled upon his form, trailing after him as he took his evening stroll amongst the shadows of the towering oaks, watching him as he walked down the hallways, eyeing him as he carefully cut his venison into precise little squares and thoroughly chewed every single bite. Never once did he ever see her look away.

As if every movement of his body somehow offended her perfect, glittering world. As if his very existence somehow interfered with her reality, somehow turned her universe on its side and left it intolerable to her delicate sensibilities.

On and on for days, she glared, colder than the frigid wasteland of Helcaraxë. It sent shivers down his spine, a feeling of ice stabbing between his rigid shoulders, burning on his flesh beneath the layers of his robes.

Quite frankly, it was frightening. Terrifying. _She was terrifying._ And she hated him.

Truly _hated him._

\---

This evening, however, was a rare evening in which he did not look over his shoulder to see the golden-haired angel staring at him from the shadows. Across the table, her brother was sipping leisurely from a goblet and looking as though he wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his bedchambers and sleep for a decade or five. Celeborn knew exactly how the other man felt.

"You look tired."

The silver prince looked up over the table at his Noldorin companion. "Excuse me?"

Finrod sent him a sharp look and pursed his lips tautly. "You look like you have spent a week with the forces of Angband on your heels, Celeborn, my friend."

He felt that way as well. Tired, his limbs aching fiercely with imaginary strain, fatigue sinking its teeth into his alcohol-drenched mind. Looking up at his companion, Celeborn frowned, his brows furrowing in worry. Without thought, he uttered the first coherent message that reached his mouth. "I think your sister hates me."

Golden eyebrows rose imperiously, incredulously. "What gave you that impression, friend?"

Was it not obvious? "Every time I see her, she glares, as though... I think... Well, I believe I may have done something to offend her."

They stared at each other for a long while, Finrod's blue eyes narrowing with calculation, washing over his face in burning waves, almost as intimidating as his younger sister's. The prince fought back the urge to flush an unflattering red color and look away from that piercing, knowing gaze.

"I think she likes you."

_What?_

Startled, he stared at the older elf. "Her eyes stab spears through me whenever she sees me, as though I have committed the greatest of faux pas! As though I were a bug crawling on the ground before her unsullied white slippers!"

"Worry not. Her zeal is part of her natural charm," Finrod informed him. And then the golden noldo smiled. "She most assuredly is fond of you."

 _How did he reach such a conclusion? That is illogical!_ Celeborn shook his head and downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, feeling his head spin slightly. Then he turned.

And there she was, draped in white and staring at him from the doorway, a goblet cradled between her slender white palms. As soon as he looked, she stepped forward, and he could not help but watch the swaying movement of curvaceous hips beneath lace and silk as the foreign, glowing beauty crossed the room in long strides. Elegant. Entrancing.

Her long, graceful movements slowed, and she halted beside Celeborn, her gaze firmly fixed upon his face. The prince felt himself begin to shrink back in his seat, and it was only sheer force of will and a healthy dose of pride that kept his back from bowing beneath the weight of her intensity. Again, he wondered if Finrod was merely delusional about the true nature of his younger sister, because Celeborn could have sworn it was hatred that gleamed like stars in those frozen blue eyes.

"Would you like more wine, my lord?" she asked, and her voice shuddered through him like a wave of golden heat and frigid water dripping down his spine.

"O-of course," he stammered in reply, and found himself ashamed to lose control in such a manner before a woman of such high breeding, whether she was the most glorious and terrifying creature he had ever seen or no.

But then she held out her goblet to his lips. _Was it poisoned? Would she attempt to kill him with her own brother as witness?_

"Will you not drink, my lord?" Her voice captured and held him suspended in light. "Celeborn?"

Had his name always sounded so wonderful, so exquisitely perfect? Helplessly, his eyes found her pale rose lips, focusing on their movements, on the soft flesh, the fuller upper lip, the gentle, warm glisten as they parted to breathe, to speak.

Without thought, he drank, his eyes never leaving her. The wine could have been vinegar for all he was aware of its rich taste. He was drunk of something else.

And then she was gone.

_What happened?_

He looked to Finrod, only to find the golodh smirking at him slightly, cradling his goblet just as before, amusement evident in every line of his body. "You see, friend? She _likes_ you."

\---

She still followed him. Now that he watched, he could tell it was not mere coincidence which entwined their paths so often and so tightly. It was with purpose that she stepped outside when he passed—to "breathe fresh air", she claimed—or stood and decided to wonder in the woods during his evening walks—"to connect with nature", she explained.

Celeborn was beginning to wonder if she was waiting for the opportune moment to stab him in the back and drag his corpse off into the darkness to feast upon his flesh and blood.

 _Do not be ridiculous_ , he would tell himself. But then he would see her in all her glory, eyes half-hooded and ringed in golden lashes, following him steadily without blinking, a statue, unreadable, unmovable, a mountain built of soft rosy skin and an unbreakable spirit.

"I did not expect to find you here, my lord."

Shocked, he almost toppled from where he sat on a bench in the gardens. The smell of night and spring was in the air, and he could not believe that he had allowed the peacefulness and the sweet scent of blossoms to carry him so far from reality that he did not see the approach of the star that was this infuriating, frightening, amazing woman.

"I did not expect to see you here, either, my lady" was all he could think to say.

Without further comment, she bent and sat beside him, just beyond touching, but so close that he could feel the heat of her body. Strange. He had always imagined that she would radiate cool poise and nonchalance, but it seemed that she took more after Anor than Ithil. The golden crown upon her head was radiant, almost creating sunlight of its own accord and casting it warmly down upon his skin. If only her eyes would light up to match perhaps he would not feel like a rabbit beneath the fierce gaze of a hungry falcon.

They watched each other silently, Celeborn itching to stand and flee but knowing that his pride as a prince and a man would never allow him to retreat from a woman, even one such as she. Instead, he tried to focus anywhere but her eyes and breasts, somewhere in between, like on her creamy, swanlike throat or plump lips or the golden curls spilling down her shoulders to her shapely hips and—

Not a direction he wanted to go.

"Marry me, Lord Celeborn."

_Of course, my— What?_

He must have said it aloud, must have been gaping in a most obscene manner like an open-mouthed fish on dry land, but she said nothing of his expression, merely stared deeply into his eyes, as if she could connect their souls through sheer force of will. "I want you to marry me, Lord Celeborn."

No, he apparently had not dreamed those words. They were real. Terribly real.

"We do not even know each other, my lady."

She frowned softly and gave him a piercing and annoyed look, as if to silently reprimand him for being so concerned with inconsequential details. As if men and women who barely knew each other's names married all the time. "Perhaps you are right. Come and take dinner with me in my rooms, and we shall discuss our marriage afterwards."

 _Come and take dinner with me in my rooms..._ Had he just been propositioned by a Noldorin princess? By this haughty woman? Dazed, Celeborn could do naught but stare.

For the first time she touched him, her white hand a searing presence on his elbow, guiding him upwards and almost lifting him aloft as if on wings. Without effort, she steered him forth like a mariner steers his ship, and Celeborn was helpless to fight the tides of her zeal. He was cornered and struck silent with shock.

When he recovered, they were already being served roast and rich red wine within the fine comforts of her guest quarters, her large and soft bed curtained with velvet but a few feet away, rumpled from where she had slept the night before. And she seemed not the least embarrassed to have a man witness the insides of the chambers where she had probably only that morning walked in nothing but a thin shift to bathe, her naked body nearly uncovered. The very thought left Celeborn stuttering and flushing like a stripling instead of a seasoned prince.

She gave him more wine, and he drank eagerly beneath her heavy gaze.

By the end of dinner, he thought he might have kissed her and spoken every thought he had ever had of her lips and hair. Might have called her _his_ Galadriel and whispered drunkenly that she was the most divine creature he had ever laid eyes upon. But he was not entirely certain of the last part, or what may or may not have come after.

By the end of the night they were engaged.

In the morning, they woke up together, and she was wearing only a shift. Her body was pressed against his in the most ludicrously, unseemly, _wonderful_ manner.

And for the life of him, the Prince of Doriath could not remember what had happened to him.

Only that, the very same morning, Finrod Felagund had laughed at his shocked questions and confounded expression. "I told you, Prince Celeborn, my sister is very fond of you. Once she sets her mind to something, it cannot be changed. Not by her father, nor her brothers, nor her king, nor even the Valar themselves. It is part of her womanly charm."

Womanly charm indeed. Celeborn could only nod and agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Ithil = the moon  
> Anor = the sun  
> golodh = Noldorin elf


	47. Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor discovers Annatar's betrayal. You can kind of imagine how that goes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild sexual content. Mentions torture.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Annatar

Around them, the darkness curled and twisted, blackening the world to Celebrimbor's eyes with the rising of the new moon. It was nights like this that he had once despised, that would remind him of the curse that lay heavily on his shoulders, that kept him apart from all others. Isolated.

Alone.

But he was not alone.

Safely, he was wrapped in powerful arms, cradled, comforted, warm. A familiar chin, square and sharp, rested atop his head. Every time he blinked, his eyelashes brushed the delicate skin of his lover's throat, blue veins visibly throbbing so close that he could count the pulses. About him, the thick musk of sex twined with the other man's natural lavender scent, perfuming their room so intimately it made him shiver.

Annatar. His beloved. His One. The only one he would ever love with all his soul.

He had become used to this comfort wrapped around his body, holding back the chill of shards of memories that he never wanted to piece back together. He had become used to the presence at his side, driving back the knives that waited in the dark, the nightmares that haunted these chambers, waiting to ensnare and devour him. Protecting him.

But tonight he had no rest, felt no comfort. No protection was to be found in this embrace.

Celebrimbor held still, hardly daring to breathe where he lay entwined with Annatar, golden hair blanketing their glistening bodies. He hardly dared to _think_ lest he wake the other, lest he be discovered.

His world had collapsed, and he could be certain of nothing. Not his lover. Not himself. Not his own mind. The tower of his trust had broken at the foundations, crumbled and toppled and buried him beneath thousands of tons of stones carved from secrets and cemented in place with the glue of sweet memories.

Sweet memories of lying together, sharing heat, their laughter lighting the shadows crawling over the land until they were banished from his sight. Memories of strong hands guiding his arms, of gentle touches that barely brushed skin yet burned hotter than white flame. Memories of lying beneath the wide open sky, blanketed by only darkness and cushioned by only the thick grass and earth, where nothing existed in the world but them, two becoming one.

Memories of being together in the most intimate way two beings could be. So close Celebrimbor could not be certain where one ended and the other began.

It only happened once in all an elf's life, and he had chosen Annatar.

What a fool he had been.

_"You should not trust so easily that which appears divine,"_ Galadriel had warned.

_"I would not keep his company in my kingdom even were it to kill me,"_ Gil-Galad had informed.

_"Watch him closely. Keep your council quiet to your breast,"_ Círdan had advised.

Blinded, infatuated, fascinated, he had ignored them all. For they had never met Annatar, never spoken to him, never basked in his golden warmth and his sweet, deep amber eyes. They could not possibly understand how he felt! They could not possibly condemn this stranger on a mere whim of their ancient hearts! For what did they know?

More than he had. They had trusted their intuition and had not been blinded with powerful, false light and slippery, seductive words.

Even now, even with the afterglow hazed around him, Celebrimbor shivered, listening to the steady, deep breaths of the man wrapped around him. Those hands that touched with such tenderness and control could wield a whip or a knife with equal proficiency, could make a poor soul scream and wail with but a slash, could draw forth the blackest secrets from a heart in but an hour. Stained in blood and horror, they now felt spidery and unclean where they rested on his back, no longer reassuring, but traitorously threatening.

Everything he thought he had known now felt wrong. Sullied and violated. This was the maia—the _man_ —with whom he shared even the sanctuary of his mind and body. Pain rippled through him at the thought, almost physical in the destruction it wrought, in the sting of tears it brought to the eyes that had not cried since the long lost days of terror and fire wrought by Fëanor.

Without Annatar, how could he be whole? Without the golden presence, the sweet lavender and amber gaze, the comforting strokes on his shoulder and the sultry voice in his ear, the nights without loneliness and despair, the days full of laughter and company, how could he possibly survive?

Without his other half, who was he supposed to be?

In the wake of devastation, what was left? Not his freedom. Not his dignity or pride. Not his innocence. Not even blessed ignorance. There was nothing left to him but knowledge of betrayal, for even the fury that burned in his heart of hearts was tempered and smothered by the powerful devotion he felt towards his other half.

Reality had been uprooted, revealed for what it was—nothing but a naive daydream. The truth slashed across his spirit like a rusted blade and left him broken on the ground. Uncertainty. Terror. Confusion. Betrayal so powerful that he wanted to scream and cry, to break something, to wrap his fingers around Annatar's throat and strangle him so that voice and those hands could never do harm to anyone ever again, so the maia could never fully carry out his ultimate betrayal of Celebrimbor's unwavering trust.

Frightened to death, the Lord of Eregion closed his eyes and prayed. He would need all his strength to balance on the edge of the disaster that had uprooted his soul. The war was only just beginning, and if he did not do something he would lose before it even began. Now the betrayed would become the betrayer and the cursed would become the savior.

And then, when all was said and done, when the last vestiges of his scarred and shattered soul had been crushed to dust by hatred in beloved eyes and agony from familiar fingers, he could close his eyes and welcome the peace that lay only beyond the cage of the body.

Maybe there, he would recover. Would rebuild himself from the ground up, would reclaim some of who he had once been before Annatar had welded himself into all that Celebrimbor was and would ever be.

But he would never be the same.

The damage had been done. Irrevocably and irreversibly.


	48. Blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and his wife being young and adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unabashedly cliche. Poor girl doesn't know who Maglor is yet.

He was the most striking man she had ever seen.

As she stared out her window onto the busy streets below, Vardamírë heaved a wistful sigh, twirling her long, pale hair absently about her slender fingers. Two stories below, she could see him, that stranger. He walked the same route every single day without fail, and he always passed in front of her father's shop on the opposite side of the street.

From his form, she could not remove her eyes.

Everything about him left her breathless, though she knew not even his name, had not even heard his voice. Tall, graceful, and utterly handsome, he could hardly _fail_ to capture the attention of any woman with two eyes and a healthy dose of longing in her breast.

Dutifully, she gazed. He paused occasionally at a cart here and there, perused the market at a leisurely pace. Sometimes he would smile, and her breath would catch. For all his natural beauty, Vardamírë found that she admired his crooked little grin the most. It was vibrant and genuine, not the mockery of politeness that she sometimes witnessed on the obsequious merchants and traders. And when he laughed—by the Valar!—her heart fluttered like a hummingbird, ready to carry her off into the sky through sheer will!

At the thought, she closed her eyes for but a moment, some strange foreboding coming over her. It was a magical thing, the voices rising from the din below, but overshadowed by the sweet breeze that flowed around her, tangling in her hair and caressing her eyelashes. She imagined that one of those voices ringing in her ears was _his_ voice.

When she opened her eyes, it was to molten silver.

Below her, his face half-lit with the early morning light of Laurelin, he watched her curiously, his head canted ever so slightly to the left, lips just barely parted.

He could _see her!_

_Oh Valar!_

Gasping, she felt heat rise unbidden to her cheeks, blood rushing beneath her skin. What must he think of her, some baker's daughter spying on him from her window when she should be doing her chores?

Quickly, she fled from view—embarrassment swirling in her belly—and resumed her morning ritual. Best not to keep her parents waiting.

But even as she turned away, she wished she could stay just a little longer and watch him. Now, at least, she knew his eyes more clearly and intimately than the back of her own hand. Silver, hotter than molten rock, brighter than Telperion, shockingly brilliant in his intensity. No precious jewel could compare.

Then she scoffed and tied up her pale hair. What did a baker's daughter know of such things?

It was, after all, but a daydream.

\---

It was many a day afterwards that Vardamírë found herself sweeping the shop near to the end of the day, just as she did every afternoon. But she felt weightless today, a sweet bubble of happiness pooling inside her at some unknown thought just beyond the edges of her mind. It was the strangest feeling, but it was welcome.

As she always did, she stepped out into the doorway overlooking the street, singing softly under her breath. Around her, the elves shuffled to and fro, their bright eyes resting on her and then dismissing, moving away.

But then her movements paused, a foreign sensation coming over her, pricking at the nape of her neck, tapping gently to claim her attention. It felt as though someone was guiding her with invisible hands when she turned, her bright blue eyes entangling with familiar stars.

Across the way, he stood. From here she could see him so clearly, could see the dark lashes, long and rich, that lined the pale eyes, could see the waves of black, silken hair that pooled on his shoulders and curled over the curve of his back, could see the startled stillness of his figure, frozen in motion between the revolutions of the world. Unblinking. Silent. Captured.

For a long moment, they stared at one another, and the heat crept once more upon her cheeks. The urge to flee itched in her feet, almost lifting her legs as though she were a puppet upon a puppeteer's strings of fear and uncertainty. How easy it would be to retreat back into the shop, into her comfortable little life and pretend she had not seen him, to hide up in her room and daydream about his sharp features and kind smile, about what his voice might sound like against her ears, brushing over her soul, and not risk the disdain that could blossom in his bright eyes.

But she would lose her chance.

Shyly, she smiled into his stunned visage and continued her melody, soft against the cacophony of reality, a stillness that surrounded and cradled her in the midst of movement and the flow of time. Slowly, she turned from him and continued sweeping, though all her body longed to look back, to watch, to gaze, to wish, to hope...

When she glanced back, he was gone.

\---

"You have a beautiful voice, my lady."

Startled, she nearly dropped the tray of pastries settled atop her gentle fingers. Vardamírë turned and met eyes that haunted her dreams and lingered in her fantasies, eyes that burned straight down through her skin and blood to something deeper. _By the Valar!_ —that smile that she so adored, that stoked her hidden longing, was tilting at the corners of his lips, just beyond her sight.

"H-how may I help you, my lord?" she asked, attempting (perhaps foolishly) to curtsey while holding those fresh pastries. It was probably not a wise idea, but— And then she overbalanced, one sandaled foot caught in the hem of her gown, and—

"Here, let me—"

A hand at her waist, just above the curvaceous swell of her hip, hot through the layers of linen that cradled her body but steadying and powerful all the same. The other hand snatched away the tray, moving it to the table and settling it safely upon the flat wooden surface. For a moment, Vardamírë stared at the white swirls of steam that rose from golden-brown bread and wondered why the hand touching her had yet to move. And why that did not bother her more.

"I... My lord, I... Forgive me for..."

His eyes went back to her face, and familiar heat settled high in her cheeks. How unattractive that must be, to show her infatuation so blatantly. Why, he must think her a simpleton or worse!

But his eyes were not repulsed. His lip did not curl with disdain. His smile did not for a moment waver on his incredible face as he guided her up from the half-curtsey she had tried to fold herself into. "There is no need to apologize."

And her blush only darkened further. Mortification burst to life in her belly, stabbing like cold little knives on her insides. She turned away, hands rising to cover her cheeks, as if the coolness of her smooth flesh would soothe away the unflattering color that suffused her skin. "I must look a sight," she muttered, more to herself than to her companion, to whom her back was now turned. Oh, how she wished the ground would open its gaping maw and swallow her whole!

Gentle hands held her back from fleeing, though. One caught at her wrist, pulling her hand away from her blotchy face, turning her around so that his eyes shone once more upon her. "You look glorious, my lady."

It was the kind of thing those oily flirts in the market oft said to the flighty young women who gathered there for empty flattery. But when she looked up at his face, the sincerity of the words struck her more harshly than could a physical blow, rooting deep in her belly and blooming into a golden glow that shuddered through her entire tingling spirit.

His eyes were shyly downcast, an equally red, blotchy flush marring the pale perfection of his handsome features. It crawled up his neck and over his cheeks and set up camp on the bridge of his nose, redder and sharper than a vibrant rose, and more vivacious.

Forget striking beauty. Forget perfection of face and form. Forget molten silver eyes and wordless, nameless infatuation with a phantom daydream. 

This blush was the most adorable, sweet, amazing thing she had ever seen.

And just like that, she knew what all those strange feelings had been telling her, that gentle breeze on her cheeks and the intuitive, visceral burning in her heart. She looked at him and saw.

"So do you," she whispered in return.

And it was the absolute truth.


	49. Nimble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The challenge of Fingolfin through a fresh perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of those prompts that I took one look at and went "What the hell do I do with _that?"_
> 
> Attached to the story Kneel (Chapter 34)
> 
> *quoted directly from the Lays of Beleriand, which I clearly do not own and did not write
> 
> Lame fight scene. Character death. Schadenfreude.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Eru = Father (called this by maiar and valar because I'm too lazy to look into Valarin)

The battle before him would be sung unto legend until the End of Days.

Eagerly, Sauron narrowed his eyes upon the challenger, the brilliant white star cloaked in the night sky and studded in silver. A sword, glistening as a shard of ice caught in the sunlight, temporarily blinding all who dared gaze upon it, was lifted aloft towards the blackened sky. Like lightning, he flew across the land towards the fortress of darkness, and Sauron could imagine the desperation flowing through those veins like fire. It made him salivate with anticipation!

The High King of the Noldor threw himself down upon the ground, springing forth and landing upon his feet as a deadly feline would its prey. In the air around him, molten intensity felt tangible, so thick that the air seemed un-breathable. In that, the Lieutenant languished.

Eyes darkened into pits of agony and despair gazed upon the three towering peaks of the Thangorodrim, like unto the peaks upon which the Silmarilli crowned Melkor's brow, and though those eyes wept, the voice that issued forth did neither falter nor waver in its deeply hewn pitch. It rolled and washed over flesh, resonating with bone, and none could fail to hear its power.

_"Come, open wide,_  
 _dark king, your ghastly brazen doors!_  
 _Come forth, whom earth and heaven abhors!_  
 _Come forth, O monstrous craven lord,_  
 _and fight with thine own hand and sword,_  
 _thou wielder of hosts of banded thralls,_  
 _thou tyrant leaguered with strong walls,_  
 _thou foe of Gods and elvish race!_  
 _I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!"*_

It sent shudders through the Lieutenant of Angband, for he _knew_ his master better than any other. He knew what lingered in the darkest corners of the heart of the Black Enemy, knew his every strength and every weakness. Glee burst in the cage of his chest, its fists rattling the bars of his ribs until it seemed his entire being vibrated.

Melkor—the all-powerful, the unstoppable, the greatest in all things—quailed in _fear._

For all that his master was, Sauron knew one thing. His master lacked all that this creature before him possessed. Lacked the skill of foot and agility of sword. Lacked the steadfastness of heart and the ironclad center of determination. Lacked the creativity of strategy and the icy burn of spirit.

Lacked the bravery to banish the cowardice.

The cowardice that urged the Black Enemy to deny the challenge, and all the same left him backed into the corner of acceptance. For there was no way Melkor could deny this King his challenge and insult— _the Lord of Slaves indeed!_ —without appearing foolish and frightened, without showing his shameful weakness before all those who cared to watch with their own two eyes and freedom of thoughts.

He would look weak before _Mairon_ , who did not feel fear in his breast, did not tremble at the sight of the Valar or this mighty King—not even the Black Enemy himself!—and did not doubt the strength of his own bravery and zeal to succeed.

In a way, Sauron almost _commiserated_ with this elven creature of defiance. For this briefest of moments, they were one and the same, nimble in mind and body and spirit. For this briefest of moments, Sauron wished that this elven king would rise victorious from the ashes that settled over his kingdom, the ashes of his people as they were consumed by the vicious flames of defeat and wretched hopelessness. For this briefest of moments, the Lieutenant of Angband felt _camaraderie._

And then Morgoth came forth, clad in black armor, wielding the Hammer of the Underworld, towering as a mountain before the star of Fingolfin son of Finwë. He accepted the challenge, voice rumbling to the foundations of the world.

The elf did not flinch. He did not quiver in terror. He did not even blink.

And he fought as one possessed by the strength of Tulkas.

As he watched, Sauron breathed a deep lungful of the smoky air, the scent of charred bones and melted flesh filling his head until the Lieutenant was drunk with lust for death, his vision burning with the dance of the killer and the survivor. Before his eyes, Fingolfin wove between the great swings of Grond without hesitation, too swift to be struck, akin to the painted light gifted upon the earth before thunder shook the ground, and thrice as terrible.

When the first blow struck Melkor, the very universe trembled with his mighty roar of rage. Sauron quivered in bliss. How he loved that pain! How he delighted in the lightning feet of his master's beautiful adversary!

Thrice more, Fingolfin son of Finwë struck the Lord of Angband before Melkor so much as dented his crystalline shield or scarred his glittering mail. But for all that he wished, Sauron knew that this elf—this kin of spirit—would fail in his quest, would topple before the unbending might of the greatest in all things. What a shame it would be, but so lovely all the same!

Twice more, the Black Enemy was wounded, but those small victories would not turn the tide, would not win the war. As his mortal body—forever young but marred all the same—weakened, Fingolfin crouched upon the earth and mis-stepped, tumbled unto the caldera left in the wake of Grond's terrible weight, as fallen and as broken as his weeping people.

Melkor's voice rose in a cry of victory to the skies, a cry of defiance to their Father, who watched them even now and shook his head in dismay, Sauron imagined. Yet in his breast, the Lieutenant felt a strange hope kindled.

For as the fallen hill of Melkor's left foot was hewn by the blade of ice in the hand of the Noldorin King, he knew this victory was as false as Melkor's lordship of the skies and the sea and the land. Not a one of those mighty realms was solely in _his_ possession, he who lacked sorely and surely as Arien rose from the East—the lack of whit, the failure of dexterity, the mockery of originality, the inadequacy of determination and a will to dominate, they crippled his master as cruelly and tangibly as the sharpened point of the elf's mighty sword.

The snap of Fingolfin's neck and the scream of his spirit as it departed to the Halls rang in Sauron's ears, and the Lieutenant smiled.

For all his kinship with the puny little creature rolled up in a deathtrap of mortal flesh and broken spirit, Sauron had learned a great lesson from this battle. The Lieutenant of Angband watched as Melkor retreated back into the deepest, darkest pit of filth that could be found.

Were he to succeed, he would need to surpass the agility of body and mind that this unimaginable young soul had possessed.

Brute strength was not the path to ruler-ship of the world. His glowing eyes burned between his master's broad, slumped shoulders with wicked delight at the knowledge, knowledge shared and denied, feared and secreted away for later use.

He would have to be quick and light—brilliant. He would have to fall from the sky between blinks of mortal eyes, settle himself deep in the earth and shake it with the voltage of his adamantine will before any living creature could wince away from his touch. They would never see him coming.

He would be nimble. He would be victorious.

He would be all that his master was not.

The mountain of defeat that was Morgoth disappeared into the depths of hell. As soon as his haunting shadow had retreated, Sauron leapt for the skies and cried in the purest of ecstasy. Energy flamed across his flesh.

The world would kneel at his feet. And it would weep. And he would smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grond and the Hammer of the Underworld are one and the same.  
> Ice descriptor in context with Fingolfin's sword is a reference to the meaning of the sword's name.  
> Arien is the maia who guides the vessel of the sun.
> 
> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril


	50. Remain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor disowns his family. It's in the Silmarillion twice. And it uses the word remain. Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disowning. Punching. Dysfunctional family. Mental illness.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Curufin = Curufinwë

Shame burned like a brand under his flesh, too hot to bear, nearly bringing a stuttering cry from his trembling lips.

Telperinquar could not allow himself to think of the horrors that his dear kinsman—one of the bravest and most beloved friends he had ever claimed—had faced in the deep, hopeless darkness of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, could not allow himself to think of the fates of the elves who had gone forth faithfully beneath the banner of their honorable king.

For he could imagine all too well from the words of Beren what exactly had become of those they had sent forth from the gates of Nargothrond with naught but the clothes on their backs and steadfast loyalty in their hearts. In his head, their names resonated, bounding from hidden corner to hidden corner and filling him with a terrible echo. The images that formed in those secret nooks broke convulsive shudders over his flesh, quaking through his muscles.

Dead. They were all dead.

And he knew who was to blame.

Knew it as surely as he knew his name and his father's name and his grandfather's name. Knew it like he knew the art of metallurgy with his arms and the intricacy of craftsmanship with his eyes. In his mind again, he could see his father's dark, sneering smile reflected upon the wavering mirror of his memories, blazing eyes gleeful as Felagund threw down his circlet and declared his people forsaken.

It was not out of fear or impotence that the Fëanárioni abandoned their most kind-hearted and generous cousin to the certain torment and nasty end awaiting him at the hands of Morgoth's Lieutenant. It was out of treachery that they withheld their sword arms and locked themselves away in their chambers "in grief" at his wretched fate.

It was disgusting. Revolting. Just being _near_ them made him feel unclean.

"We will be leaving immediately." The familiar voice that Telperinquar had once held more beloved than any other now sounded foreign, gravelly and raw, like some sinful and evil spirit had possessed that familiar form, twisting it into a malformed mockery. "Pack your things, yonya. We depart before Arien's rays darken."

That voice he had once held more beloved than any other now filled him with smoldering rage, something that lingered just on the edge of desperate hatred and teetered towards revulsion. When he looked, his father was throwing together a pack—more than they had allowed Felagund and his companions, the young prince noted—and beyond him Turkafinwë was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed lazily and without concern, a light in his eyes that made his nephew want to back away. It was the light of a wild animal beyond logic and reason, teeth bared and prepared to remove fingers of the unwary.

But even that could not deter him now. Bile crept up the back of his throat at the thought of _owning kinship_ with these men, though he loved them with all his being despite the plainly evil shadow lurking beyond the edges of wild silver eyes and upon sinful and broken souls. 

How far did they expect his unconditional love and familial loyalty to extend? To greed and treachery? To hatred over bitter words? To glee at the unfortunate fate of his kin?

To betrayal of subject unto king and cousin unto cousin? Of elf unto elf?

As much as he loved his father and uncle—and let it be known that Telperinquar loved his family; let none think it otherwise!—he could not step over such a deadly line, the line between salvation and damnation, the line that would seal his fate as a cursed son of the House of Fëanáro until tumult and madness carried him unto his deathbed with a knife in his back and blood of the innocent staining his hands. He could not join them in fleeing these halls on the tail of misfortune and bitterness.

He would remain and repudiate.

He would not hold kinship with monsters, even if one had brought life unto his body and spirit. Even the loyalty of a son to his father would not bind him in chains of molten steel, burning him and caging him and breaking him. Telperinquar would not allow it.

As a son of the House of Fëanáro, no force on earth could stop him once his mind had been decided. Not even the force of his father's own sheer stubborn will.

"I shall not."

Curufinwë froze mid-motion, his forearm half-buried in his pack. The elder elf did not turn around to face him, but Telperinquar could see the beginning of shivers of fury run through the taut lines of that body, like the tension of a coil about to snap and whip a weal of fire across his flesh. "You _will_ come with me, yonya." The words were harder than steel and diamond, unbendable and unbreakable.

But if he yielded now, he would never be free. He had to tell himself that. _He had to._

"I shall not go anywhere with traitors."

Eyes like shards of glass sheered into his skin, leaving behind painful, invisible gashes bleeding determination. In those moments when he first beheld his father's face, Telperinquar thought he witnessed the second coming of Fëanáro, so powerful was the fire that glowed like a star beneath the veil of his father's body. Rage fuelled the flames of spirit until Curufinwë seemed a hundred feet tall, looming over his offspring, who had in truth grown four inches above the sire's lofty height. The urge to shrink away like a castigated child itched in every muscle Telperinquar possessed, but he steeled himself, locked his trembling knees and clenched his sharp, cleft jaw. And he looked into those rattlesnake eyes with disdain near dripping from his incisive gaze.

"What did you say to me?"

"I said I shall not go anywhere with traitors," Telperinquar repeated fiercely. "Nor will I own kinship with them. Go forth and be gone! Do not darken the doorstep of this kingdom with your filth any longer than necessary!"

For a second the light that blazed from his father's eyes was nearly too bright to look upon without burning up into ashes. Terrible and filled with darkness so powerful its stench permeated the room, Curufinwë came upon him like a phantom in the night. The younger elf could not anticipate the blow, only notice the throbbing deep in the flesh of his cheek and jaw mixing with strong pleasure boiling in his blood. A fist curled in his tunic and pulled him forward until hot breath washed over his ear. "Say that again to my face, boy!"

He did not need to speak. An eye for an eye. A fist for a fist. A bruise for a bruise. His father stumbled away with an equally aching jaw, and Telperinquar came away with smarting knuckles and a smirk on his thin, bloodless lips.

"Leave it, brother. We have not the time for spineless whelps." Where Curufinwë had been filled to the brim with white-hot anger, Turkafinwë bubbled over with sick amusement at the entire situation, unbothered that his kin looked ready to filet each other open to the bone. And though his words twisted the visceral pride in Telperinquar's gut until it was knotted tightly and almost physically painful, the young elf would not allow those words to spur him into foolishness. What was pride worth when it came at the price of his dignity and self-respect?

Calmly, he hefted his father's pack and grasped the front of his father's tunic, tossing both into his uncle's waiting arms. "Get thee gone!" he snarled. Equally infuriated and with a last hiss of loathing words, Curufinwë picked his ruffled self up from where he was cradled against his brother's broad chest and stalked away looking ready to do someone severe injury.

Turkafinwë just laughed and laughed. When he reached to ruffle his nephew's hair and press jolly kisses to his cheeks, Telperinquar did not dare resist, did not even dare breathe. Curufinwë, he could handle. But his uncle was too unpredictable, too mad with greed and envy, too stained with the cursed oath to allow for relaxation in his presence. At any moment, that amusement could change to ice cold hatred.

And the young elf knew his uncle would not hesitate for a moment to slay him should the fancy come upon him in a sudden rush of passion. In that way, Turkafinwë was less man and more animal, a hedonistic creature of instinct and desire. Rabid.

"Behave yourself, dear nephew," the silver-haired noldo purred, running his spidery fingers over Telperinquar's sharp, purpling cheekbone once more. And then he was gone.

And the young elf was alone.

Gulping, he slammed shut his door and pressed his back tight to the heavy wood, feeling suddenly weak from head to toe, as though he were made of water. All of his actions suddenly fell down upon his shoulders at once in a landslide of unwilling guilt, unwanted pride and no small amount of pure disbelief.

For he had defied his father, whose will and fire were second only to that of the Spirit of Fire himself. The crushing burden dragged him down to his haunches, spine creaking against the door, the back of his head thumping loudly on the hard surface. "Aiya! Ilúvatar," he breathed.

But the shame that had been churning in his belly was gone. Those monsters—murderers in all but name, traitors in all but word—were no kin of his! Not anymore.

And he was no longer a son of the House of Fëanáro, though that blood flowed still hot through his veins. It had been harnessed and tamed, locked away and disowned.

Telperinquar hoped the breaking of familial bonds would be enough. Enough to allow him to keep his home here in Nargothrond. Enough to allow him to retrain the trust of his friends and comrades and kin. Enough to keep the curse of his vehement blood at bay.

He would remain.

Remain the last of his House with nobility in his breast and honesty in his voice. No Oath would govern his will or take his life.

To hell with the curse. No doomed words would decide his fate. At this thought, breathlessly, Telperinquar laughed.

The golden glow of blossoming satisfaction was _magnificent._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárioni = Sons of Fëanáro  
> yonya = my son (yondo + nya)  
> Aiya! = Oh!


	51. Snore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sundering of one spouse from another leads to heartache. On both sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to Locked and Punch (Chapters 35 and 36). Reminder: Lindalórë is an OFC and is Curufin's wife (in my head-canon).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

The most difficult part of sleeping in the same bed as her husband had at first been his obnoxiously, abrasively loud snoring.

She imagined it was much akin to hearing a fierce mountain cat snarling down upon its unfortunate prey. Those first few nights in her marriage bed, Lindalórë had found herself unable to sleep for the steady, powerful vibrations rumbling through her husband's chest and shaking her down to her bones. No amount of comfortable down pillows (over her ears or otherwise) could quiet his deafening racket enough for her to find rest.

Yet after a week, she found it endearing.

After a month, she could not sleep _without_ the cacophony of sound buzzing in her ears.

And now that he was gone, she could not sleep at all.

Bad enough that she was approaching her ninth month of carrying a child alone without useful hands to reach up to the top shelves of the kitchen cupboards for midnight snacks, without a soothing, deep voice murmuring words of love against her belly, without clever hands to massage the vicious ache from her back and feet each evening.

But now she could not find rest in her own bed.

It was a large bed, spacious and soft, the mattress full of the fluffiest down that gold could purchase. _"Nothing but the best for my darling,"_ Curufinwë had purred in her ear, his voice full of husky delight and heartbreaking affection. He made sure the sheets were the gentlest, smoothest of silks and cottons so her soft skin could not be bothered. He made certain the curtains were let down at just the correct angle each night so that, come the waxing, the fiery glow of Laurelin would not wake her at an unholy hour in the morning. 

So many things she had relied upon him for once, and until he had vanished she had not even realized what an essential part of her life he had become, like a necessary limb that, in its absence, left her crippled and unable to function as an individual.

Without him here, her bed was not welcoming. The silk sheets were cold and barren, as uninviting as the hardwood floor. They smelled like soap and sunshine instead of masculine spice and smoke from the forge. Many a night she found herself shivering, arms wrapped about her waist as it grew rounder with child, and desperately she wished for the comfort of his rippling arms and deep snores against her smarting back.

It was too silent. So silent it seemed as though she were the only soul left in the world.

Alone. Bereft. Cold.

All too often, in the darkness, Lindalórë clutched at her nightgown and wept bitter tears at her fate. And then, spent from weeping and choked with despair, she desperately wished that the deep, rumbling purrs would rock her into pleasant dreams.

But if wishes were horses...

And every time, she awoke to an empty bed and terrible peace.

\---

Many a year later and a great many leagues across the sea, another lay awake.

His nest was neither soft nor silken. It was a mere bedroll laid upon the rocky forest floor. There was no pillow to be found that might cradle his head and naught but the distant, dwindling fire to warm his chilled body. Though he had slept upon the hard ground—rocks digging pits into his back—many a time before, he found no rest this night. And it was not because of the unfortunate ubiquity of sharp stones.

Across the fire, his brother was sleeping soundly. At his side, his son had settled down for the night and had fallen into Lórien's embrace almost as soon as his head had hit the padding of his fur jacket. Somewhere between them, the lady Lúthien was probably having sweet dreams of prancing in the woods hand-in-hand with her handsome mortal lover, rosy-cheeked and laughing and too in love to see the lurking monster staring her straight in the face.

Tyelkormo was in love with her.

He had been for a long time, ever since his first glimpse of the Princess of Doriath, though he knew not that Curufinwë was aware of the obsession. Seeing that look on Tyelkormo's normally sneering, poisonous features was worrying. The sickness of infatuation, of helpless, guileless affection, was slowly drowning his brother. Soon enough, Tyelkormo would think of nothing but her—if that was not the case already. Of her hair. Of her lips. Of her eyes. Of her voice whispering his name in the darkness, a small ray of hope leading his way out of madness. Hopelessly ensnared by a venomous daydream, by false redemption.

It was painful to watch. Seeing his brother's enamoured features was like being stabbed, like having that serrated knife twisted and turned until he just wanted to roll over and beg for death if only for the agony to cease tormenting him. 

Because he _knew_ how Tyelkormo felt. _He knew. He understood._ And he knew how this situation would end, knew that someone would be harmed.

He wouldn't wish this hurt on anyone, because he could swear it slowly killed him a little more each day. Each moment. With each breath, the air worked to suffocate him with invisible ropes of longing.

He _missed Lindalórë._

He missed her like he would miss his right hand. He missed her like he would miss his eyesight. Without her, he didn't feel like himself, did not feel strong or powerful or complete. Something terribly important and vital to his existence was missing, had been ripped away and had left behind a ragged, bleeding, gaping wound that festered and refused to heal.

Just beside him, Telperinquar rolled over and heaved a loud breath before letting out a snore that would deafen an orc. _"He gets that from his Atar,"_ his wife had told him when he had first noticed, her lips smiling fondly as she stroked his hair. _"Your snoring could wake Ilúvatar himself!"_

Was she relieved that his snoring no longer graced their shared bedchambers?

Did she miss him at all or was she furious and cursing his name? Did she think about him still—every day and every night—as he did her? Or had she found someone else, someone who could give her everything he could not offer in exile and shame?

His hand slipped into his tunic, grasping at heated, delicate metal, the finest piece that he had ever crafted with his own two hands and vermilion heart. Fingers traced intricate patterns of the locket, so familiar he could have drawn them exactly a hundred times over in his sleep. Underneath the metal warmed by his flesh and fire, her image was lying in wait, her green eyes wide in innocent beauty and wonder, captured forever as she had been before tragedy had torn them asunder.

By the Valar, he missed her!

"Forgive me," he whispered into the black night. No one was awake to hear him.

No one was awake to witness the tears that followed. He gifted them unto the earth in silent entreaty, a plea and a wish wrapped into a package of unending sorrow. For just a moment of smelling her sweet scent of lily of the valley and clean silken sheets. For just a moment of her soft warmth cradled safely in his arms. For just a moment of her endless, loving gaze.

But no unnumbered amount of tears would ever be enough to change the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father


	52. Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Noldolantë has come to its conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to Memorial (Chapter 44).
> 
> Scarring. Mentions murder/bloodshed. Maglor has two spontaneous children (from Worst Day, Chapter 24).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

The last sliver of star-shine disappeared beneath the treacherous waves and into the ocean's cold, black embrace, lost for all of time.

Gone. Forever until the End of Days. Forever until the world cracked and split and fell to dust and ashes beneath his feet.

And the chill of stark night and the air of the wild sea washed over his splayed hands, soothing away the blistering, unbearable heat of purity and light rotting away sin and darkness. But the marks did not fade, the inflamed crimson lines etched into his palms, shaped into the echo of glistening facets. _For none could touch their brilliance with hands unclean._

Strange silence and stillness held him in their embrace, tight and sound, whispering with Ulmo's song raging at the corners of his broken mind.

_It is over. Done. Finished._

Alone, he stood on the shores that would mark the end of his journey—the journey of the House of Fëanáro and all who claimed its kinship. His eldest brother was broken beyond reconstruction, driven mad with terror and desperation. His sons were long fled from shame and horror at his actions. His younger siblings were all ashes upon the wind, their names whispered like filthy, black secrets on starless nights. The bloodshed cursed to sully their House and lead them to their deadly, fitting ends was fulfilled, for there were no more finely-hewn swords to cleave kin by the hands of kin, or hearts forged of steal to spill blood over greed and vengeance.

Makalaurë alone was left.

The lone elf knelt in the sand, his breath caught in gasping sobs of fresh, clean air—the air burning with the poisonous fumes of freedom. Below, the edges of the ocean's fury collided with the cracks of the dry earth, their screams and wails the final melody and harmony, etched forever in his ears as the face of the Silmaril was tellingly upon his hands and the light of the Two Trees accusingly upon his tainted soul.

Trembling digits touched his sharp, glistening cheeks, palms rising to block all sight from his eyes. What he should do now, he could not say. Makalaurë had never known such crushing despair as that which swallowed him whole, the intense and complete horror of knowing that all his kin had fallen and failed utterly in their quest, had been lost to their own madness and the brutality of their own foolish actions. Blood slickened the floor beneath their boots until it rose to their ankles—to their calves—until they were wading in it with no way out, with nowhere to turn. Until it was up to their chins. Until it was over their heads. 

The list of names and faces grew longer and longer. That he could remember them all was a miracle, a punishment harsher than whips of fire pronged in steel thorns. Three days, it would take to recite them all, and at the end his lips would crack and his throat would ache, but neither would pain him so much as his bruised heart, decorated with lacerations of self-loathing and scarred with weariness of death, pumping thickly in the back of his throat. That list seemed content to never end, because no amount of death would ever be enough to satisfy the shrine built to arrogance and foolishness.

Until finally he added his brother's name. Maitimo. Lost to himself, killed by flame and molten earth. He had thrown himself over the edge with a smile of wicked delight and eyes as fey and bright with madness as Fëanáro's had ever been.

But at the same time, there was relief. Horrible relief, so powerful and terrible that shame beat down upon his shoulders at the feeling, heavier than all the mountains in the world. Who should feel such a thing when their last of kin had just committed suicide, when their sons would not look them in the face because of their evil deeds? Who would _dare_ to feel such a thing, with hands that had slain innocents pleading for mercy, with a soul that could turn the other way at the sight of rampant killing and hatred?

It was there all the same, coiled in Makalaurë's breast, a snake hissing in his ears with the final strains of the finale of their epic tragedy. Rising like a tide inside him, it shook his limbs until they fell limply to the ground, shook his heart until all he could do was scream and cry and wish that the torment would cease and never end.

_Over, over, over! It was over. Done!_

No more death would spread like ink across his marred, abused soul. No more teary, pleading eyes could haunt him in his waking nightmares. No more bone-deep sorrow would douse the white-hot fire of his spirit.

Because they had failed, and he was free. Free to waste away singing upon the shores of Middle-earth for the rest of eternity in the hopes that _someone would hear and understand_. In the hopes that the same horrible acts would never be repeated, that _someone would learn_. Forever, the ceaseless noise of crashing waves, of water breaking against rock and foam spitting against cold air would host his prelude to doom, his chorus of the fallen, his epilogue in which the wanderer ceaselessly burned out the candle of his spirit day by day singing and singing of the cruelty of vengeance, of the emptiness of victory and the grace of defeat.

Until the end of the world and after. Makalaurë looked down into the dark abyss that had swallowed the last hope of redemption for his family, for his father and brothers, for himself, and laughed bitterly through his last tears.

His theme was complete. As Nienna had sung a lament for the darkening of the world in the ancient days before the mountains had been carved and the sky and sea parted, so too would Makalaurë sing his lament to the darkening of his kin when at last he joined the choir of the heavens at the feet of Ilúvatar and was judged before His gaze.

He would sing of the graceless fall of his cursed kin, for their tale was finally fully upon his tongue and ringing through his restless mind, ready to burst forth like a tide held beyond a cracking dam. Ready to stand as a memorial to remind them all of what every soul was capable of becoming.

It was done.

_Noldolantë._


	53. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because in my story the Noldorin exiles return to Middle-earth, and nothing happens for no reason. They've got friends in high places, even if they don't know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a little fun trivia, you should all know that Mandos' name (and I swear I didn't make this up) is Námo the Just. "Námo" means "the judge" in Quenya.
> 
> Lots of killing. Genocide. Uxoricide. Suicide. Prejudice. Precognition.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Mandos = Námo

"Something must be done."

Eyes precisely the hue of the open sky stared down at him. They darkened with each passing moment as Arien's rays began to hide beyond the Door of Night, as if a mirror reflected the heavenly dome through the man before him, the living incarnation of the sky and the air. Those jewels were set in a face curved with warm laugh-lines and sun-kissed damask cheeks.

But Manwë was not smiling today.

"What dost thou mean, mine brother?"

Of course, he could never understand. None of their brethren, for all the power, could understand. It was not their burden to _see_ the way Námo _saw_. The world turned and revolved, the seasons changing, and with every decision made, every word whispered, the images that consumed his waking moments and dominated his dreams few and far between morphed and twisted into new patterns, new realities waiting just beyond the corner of time. A pat on the back here. A kiss on the cheek there. A single secret word overheard behind closed doors. And suddenly everything was different.

"Thou knowest that I cannot speak aloud of such things." Let it never be said that the Valar did not learn from their mistakes.

And what a mistake it had been, to speak aloud the Curse of the Noldor. What a fool he had been! And still, the Eruhíni were paying the price for his stupidity and pride. _For once a Doom is spoken, it cannot be rescinded._

And they paid. And they paid. They were still paying, paying in blood and spirit and kindred. Paying in the innocence of their children. Paying in the happiness of their abandoned family. Paying with their own lives and hopes and dreams.

Paying unnumbered tears. The payment would never end.

_"You see that boy? That one there?"_

_"He looks like him—like crazy old Fëanáro—"_

_"Sweetling, you mustn't play with him."_

_"What a strange child."_

_"What if he turns out as_ they _did? A monster."_

A little boy with green eyes who knew naught more than his father's name, shunned for something that had happened before he was born. Too late to save. Too late to stop. That boy was a grown man with a bitter, festering hatred for his father and father's kin. A lonely child who had grown up too quickly, who had become the adult in his home before he was even old enough to marry, who spent his days worrying that his mother would never smile again, who desperately wished he could be enough to bring her happiness and contentment.

"It is not right. Thou _dost_ know of what I speak."

_Whispers, whispers, behind every curtain and in every dark corner..._

_She held his only hand tightly and wished to be anywhere but in the court._

_Anywhere but within earshot of those nasty jabs, spears that wounded more terribly than steel. Deeper than any blade could reach._

_"Did you hear?"_

_"They will never have children."_

_"What woman would procreate with that vicious creature?"_

_"Serves them right. Kinslayers."_

A woman who had never left the sanctuary of Valinor, but who could no longer enter a shop on the streets without patrons hissing threats and vicious remarks at her turned back, well aware that she could hear them as clearly as though they had been spoken to her face. More than anything, she had desired children, a house full of little ones, more than her husband had brothers! But though she took comfort in his return, in the safety of his arms and his overwhelming presence, there would be no children, and the dark whispers would not cease.

"Say it plainly, brother."

_Dark eyes. Judging eyes. They watched with calculation, with ice cold shields distorting the horror deeply hidden beyond. Lying to his face. Pretending to care._

_Were they not supposed to be his parents? Yet, they had not even recognized his face._

_They could not even_ look _at his face._

_And the comments they made. Should settle down. Should have stayed. Should have sired an heir. Should have watched over his siblings. Should have_ this _and should have_ that _and..._

_And every night he regretted ever leaving the apathetic safety of the Halls, because this hell was no longer a sanctuary, no longer the bright light at the end of a road of suffering and honor._

_It was a nightmare._

How anyone could fault he who had ever served others before himself? There was no better man than this one, no spirit that burned so brightly with happiness, so gloriously with compassion, no soul so willing to put himself in danger for the betterment of his people, to uphold his dignity and honor, to save another life, even one he barely knew. And yet the weak fools' eyes could see naught but the twisted maze of scars made home upon a once beautiful face to match the golden treasure hidden underneath.

So blind they were. So provincial and prejudiced. So vindictive and bitter.

"Thou wishest that I speak plainly? Thou wilt not like what I have to say."

Worse still, he could _see_ what lay in wait, crouching like a great cat, stalking its prey through the twilight until the darkness of spirit set in, until all the lights were turned out, until there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide and no way to see from which direction the attack was initiated. Even his own kin did not understand.

They did not _see a husband slipping poison into his wife's wine at their evening meal._

_He just wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to forget._

_He wanted her to move on, to be apart from him, though it would kill him to let her go._

_Because she deserved so much better than a man marked by death and torture and murder._

_She deserved a life without whispers. She deserved a husband who could give her the family she had always dreamed of._

_She deserved to be happy._

_And when her body was cold, he wept both in despair and horrible joy. Because it was finally over, and if he slit his throat on the morn and laid with her one final time in the rising light of Anar, no one would be there to miss him in the afternoon._

Wrong, wrong, wrong... 

And that a thousand voices whispered in his head of desire. Of _"Would that I could end those murderers as they ended my people"_ and _"Look at that face; it should not be allowed to grace public viewing! How disgusting!"_ and _"Pining for a mortal? What an imbecile! What an utter fool!"_ and _"If I just slip a knife into my bodice at the party, I can bury it in_ his _gut just as he did to my older brother"_ and—

"I have always believed in fostering the innocence of our people—the _ignorance_. But it has gone too far. They have tasted vengeance, and though they deal it out not with sword or spear, they wield it to destructive power all the same."

"And what wouldst thou have me do? The exiles have done wrong. Is the reaction of the people—wronged and slaughtered—not justified?"

Námo felt dirty for even considering it, and that his king would think such action _justice_ rankled him fiercely, made his hands twitch with the urge to do harm to his own kith and kin, to shake that regal bearing until it crumbled beneath shattered naivety, until those everlasting blue eyes saw _reason._

No, it seemed none of them could understand the difference, could see that this cycle of hatred and revenge would never end. It would keep going and going until, finally, it crested in a climactic tragedy, a culmination of all the terror and the bitterness of their sundered children tucked snugly under a rug of deceit and placation. Until the emotional ammunition was set alight and exploded, sending scalding flame licking across their faces. Teaching them a lesson that ought already to have been learned.

"There is nothing justified about it. Justice implies correctness, and all I see waiting at the end of our current path is self-destruction."

Because he could _see the mobs, see the images in their mind, the feigned justice, the diaphanous veil disguising wrath and vengeance as something purer and saner._

_No sanity awaited there._

_He could see them turning on their own kin as the Noldor had long ago, in blood and fire and fury._

_He could see the dead lying in the streets with lifeless, glazed eyes._

_He could see the Kinslayers weeping as their victims had once wept. And he could see the madness returning to their star-like glances, leeching away their terror and replacing it with a familiar lust for blood, a lust to reclaim, to retake, to ravage, to avenge._

_He could see history repeating itself. Again and again and again..._

"Trust me," he ordered. "Trust in my Sight. Has it ever been wrong before?"

It never had.

"Justice will prevail, but not here. And not by the hands of the people. They are not impartial. They do not see in terms of equality. They see only what they wish to see."

His king gazed upon him with incisive directness. "This is a foolhardy decision. Art thou certain?"

"I am. Let them find redemption across the sea. Let them be sundered from this land should they choose. Let them break the endless circle of vengeance before it has a chance to sprout and branch and feed its poisonous fruit to our people."

There was a slow, diffident nod, uncharacteristic of their self-assured king. "I will permit this. They will be under _thy_ jurisdiction." He paused, lips pursing tightly, brows furrowing in concern for the Children. "Watch over them, mine brother."

"I shall."

Because in the end, he could _see them._

_Could see redemption lurking for those brave enough to reach for it._

_Could see repentance in the fey eyes and fiery hearts._

_Could see better days watering the seeds of contentment and compassion, birthing light more powerful than any Silmaril could hope to shine._

_There was hope yet in better tomorrows._

Justice and righteousness must prevail. He did not tell his brother that the fate of their greatest passion and creation depended upon it.

Because once spoken, Dooms could not be rescinded.

The future was yet uncertain. They could not afford a second mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru (God)  
> Anar = the sun


	54. Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say that sticks and stones can break your bones but words can never hurt you. It's easier said in theory than confirmed in practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely connected to Justice (Chapter 53) and its reference to uxoricide.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Maitimo  
> Mandos = Námo

In the many centuries since his capture and torture in Angband, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion had amassed a terrifying and impressive reputation as a warrior of renown and skill, but also as a merchant of bloodthirsty murder and a thirst to avenge his fallen brethren.

It was not an altogether false reputation.

Few could match blades with him—one-handed though he might be—and come out unscathed. Fewer still could claim greater ferocity in battle, hotter fire in spirit and blacker hatred in heart than had possessed the redheaded Fëanárion on the battlefield. Enemies fled before his advance with wild eyes and clumsy feet, fled before the fey light in his eyes, knowing that their doom awaited them should they come within the circle of his extended sword.

Many years, he had scrambled and crawled and slaved away, nearly killing himself in his quest to reach that unreachable end, to reclaim all that had been stripped from him during his imprisonment.

But now, across the sea, all of his hard work—all of the sweat and blood and tears spilled over irreversible fate and treacherous, burning agony—they were all useless and impotent. Aman was a land of peace and prosperity, where there were no enemies to be slain, no use for steel sharp enough to carve bone, no need to strike fear into the hearts of those standing across the muddy field of battle, because no such fields existed.

Peace. If this was peace, Maitimo hated it more than he ever had the hardships of Beleriand. More than he had hated the dreaded dungeons and torture chambers of Angband. More than he hated kneeling at the Black Enemy's feet and licking his filthy toes like a sniveling thrall.

For all the lack of wars and violence, he felt no safer. Swords here were not forged of ash and fire and iron. Spears were not carved and polished and balanced of heavy wood and metal. Shields were not studded in mithril and gems until they glistened with heraldry and vast shows strength.

They were forged of words. Words mixed with veiled bellicosity, bitterness and the tang of blood. Words set aflame with searing oil and rubbed over bare, tender skin. Words sharper and bolder than any blade Maitimo had ever seen and more painful and exhausting than any torture inflicted upon his flesh during his exile. Words that could pass unseen through skin and blood and bone yet leave horrific, fatal scars underneath.

They were the weapon of choice, the danger that lurked in every corner and every room.

And he did not know how to combat them. For all his glory in battle and strength in arms, his tongue knew not how to parry a blow aimed straight for the soul, a cold wind sent to snuff out the fire of the spirit.

Were it just at _his_ back that they whispered and snarled, he would not have cared. Maitimo had been named traitorous, murderous scum for many long centuries and his hide had quickly grown thick and callused. _Because were they not true words? Were they not repeated in his own mind in the restless, sleepless hours between twilight and dawn?_

But they talked at his _wife's_ back as well.

She, who was his entire world. His starlight and moonlight. The only reason he had scrounged up the courage to plead his case as Námo's feet, to seek the refuge of Valinor outside the cold, lifeless Halls of the Waiting. Many a long year, he had wanted nothing more than to be in her arms, to have a little candle in the darkness to guide him away from the madness that swallowed up his world and melted it down into something unrecognizable and horrifying.

She, who had remained loyal in her love for him despite the terrible things he had done. She, who had waited for him knowing he might never return. She, who still stood at his side even though he could give her nothing but a traitor's name and an empty, silent house.

_"Look at her, so proud of having that murderer on her arm..."_

_"She is probably after the throne, or the money. It is not as if he can offer much else."_

_"I heard that she is barren, but he stays at her side out of pity."_

_"Maybe they were cursed by the Valar to be childless."_

_"It would serve her right, staying faithful to a monster like that."_

_"How she can live with herself after sharing a bed with him is a mystery to me."_

_"How dare she show her face here? Wife of a Kinslayer."_

She had done nothing to deserve it. Maitimo wanted to scream it at the round faces of those disgustingly ostentatious, egocentric courtiers, to grab those flowery, frilly women by their silken bodices and shake them until the petty little glass ornaments and jewels fell from their powdered hair. How dare _they_ speak of her as such? What did they know of his beautiful Istelindë? How could they ignore her amazing strength and admirable honor, taint it with venomous rumors and lies filled with arsenic?

Though she never told him, Maitimo was not an idiot. Istelindë did not have the smile she once had. She was not the same woman he had left behind on the shores of Valinor all those many years ago. While he was on the battlefield, clawing and gasping and fighting for every last square inch of gore and death and mud between him and his enemy, she had been fighting her own war here, alone without any aid, without any allies, without anyone to even bandage her wounds.

Now, she was every bit as scarred and broken as he was. And it was _his fault._

His fault for leaving her. His fault for coming back. His fault for keeping her tied to his sullied name and marred soul when she deserved so much better than anything he could ever hope to offer.

His fault, because even now he could not protect her. No amount of incisive glares could silence all the insidious voices slipping through cracks and beneath doors. No amount of heated words and threats of physical violence could shield her from intangible jabs and blows.

The surreptitious, cruel warriors of Valinor and their razor-sharp tongues dipped in poison were slowly turning his veins black.

And even as he lay in the darkness of night with Istelindë tucked safe and warm against his side, he knew desperation was bearing down on him with the force of a mountain's crushing weight. He knew that the darkest part of him—the part that would _always_ be driven mad with grief and lust for vengeance—was steadily regaining consciousness, that the fey light was slowly returning to his eyes with each rising of Arien from the East.

With fear, he refused to contemplate what he might do if driven to that diabolical edge of sanity. He refused to contemplate what he might do _to her_ if the war of invisible weapons pushed him too far.

Because he knew she would be better off without him. Would be better off forgetting him.

And it was a dangerous thought that would not secede from the shadows of his most secret, visceral mind. The images of a pinch of white powder dissolved into wine haunted him.

Istelindë would be better off if she never even knew he existed.

And that was not a gift beyond the reach of the blackest part of his tainted soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro


	55. Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm deals with reality by being a psychopath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insanity? Definitely unhealthy mental state. Fantasizing about bloodshed.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo, Turko  
> Maedhros = Nelyo  
> Curufin = Curvo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Overwhelming.

None of them understood.

Not Findaráto, who was constantly trying to _help_ in whatever way he deemed to be useful, who believed too much in the honor of people. The golden elf was good-natured and prone to incessant prattling, and Tyelkormo found himself avoiding the King of Nargothrond, if only to harness in the nearly unbearable urge to smash that pretty, clueless face against a stone wall. 

_Because how dare he dredge up memories of Valinor? Could he not just go away and not leave temptation pounding at Tyelkormo's temples?_

Not Nelyo, who was more of a father than an older brother and worried like he had a right to concern himself with his brother's health. A hypocrite if one there ever was, but with a soft heart and good intentions. _"Are you well, little brother?"_ or _"You look peaky, should you not eat more?"_ or _"Talk to me, Turko. I only want to help.”_ Except the words never soothed, never comforted.

_Because talking didn't help at all._

Talking didn't take away the voices that lurked and crawled and crept along the edges of his mind, the black little conscience that had taken up residence, guarding the door behind which a floodgate of pure and unrestrained emotion pounded and rattled the hinges, seeping through the insubstantial cracks.

He feared that door more than anything.

Curvo did not understand either. Easily angered and full of sorrow and longing hidden away behind caustic remarks and bitter snarls. He only cried in the dark when he thought no one was awake to hear. _"Why must you continue on like this Turko?"_ he would ask. _"Why can you not control yourself?"_

But he _was_ controlling himself, just as Curvo was controlling himself—maintaining the temperamental pride of the House of Fëanáro. He was living and breathing his catharsis. Or perhaps it was not a haven of peace and relaxation at all, but mere escapism. In any case, Tyelkormo could not bring himself to care whether what he did was right or wrong, just that it plugged up those cracks with little white handkerchiefs. He plastered a smile on his face and drifted upon the false euphoria with mastery, purring sultry words and hissing insidious little lies into eager ears.

And when it became too much, when the hidden emotions bottled up to bursting were suddenly bearing down upon him, the fury would rise to counter, to burn away the hopelessness and despair loitering on the dark roads traversing his thoughts.

_Because he missed green fields and golden light and lying on the soft grass without a care in the world._

The resentment was locked away. And the longing. They were not necessary.

_Because he wished he had never spoken those words of hasty, naive loyalty, had never lifted his sword in defense of the father who had never been his father._

The regret was soul-wrenching and dangerous. What good would it do him to feel sorry for what had transpired in the past? History was already written.

_Because when his father's body burned to ashes he felt unbearable relief._

And guilt then rose up over his head, burying him alive, cutting off his oxygen. It wanted to suffocate him, punish him for his ingratitude.

_Because when he saw her light in the darkness, he wanted nothing more than to weep on her shoulder, to tell her everything. To_ know _her, she with whom he belonged as two pieces of one whole. Except she loved another._

Jealousy, others would say. But that jade emotion could be flashed openly amongst his kin without shame. It was the heartbreak dragging its claws across the fragile little bit of _himself_ that he had left which Tyelkormo could not bear to reveal before untrustworthy eyes.

Despair. Sorrow. A wall of indigo and deep blue swirling down into an abyss before him. One step in the wrong direction and he would plummet, would be swallowed alive, would crack and break like a glass ornament dropped on the marble floor. Every bit of Tyelkormo would be lost if that door's hinges gave way, if the boiling pit of hatred and madness and bloodlust on _this_ side stopped pushing and pushing and _pushing back._

Was it any surprise that, instead of weeping in the darkness like Curvo and contemplating falling on his sword, he went out of the civilized halls of his cousin and sought someone _else_ to suffer in his place? Was it any surprise that he thirsted to slay any creature of darkness that might dare encroach upon his territory? And in their abeyance, was it any surprise that the convenient living targets surrounding him suddenly captured and held all his malicious attention, be it soft, sly words or a bladed silver tongue ready to filet open any unwary trespasser?

Was it any surprise that he preferred the capricious tides of madness to wasting away?

No, none of them understood, and they likely never would. They would never listen to him should he choose to speak of his madness as Nelyo wished, but brush away his unconventional logic. They would never comprehend the joy that he felt while slickening his sword with blood and guts, not when they were as noble and righteous as Findaráto. They would never see why all these thoughts and feelings needed to be locked up tight, especially not someone like Curvo, who spent all day and all night wasting away with longing and regret.

But he pushed this out of his thoughts. There was, after all, no use in lingering with his frustration and loneliness, either.

They were useless emotions. Empty. Feeding the oscillating waves of imprisoned sorrow, terrifying joy and fulfilling rage.

And Tyelkormo enjoyed every minute


	56. Accent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rather bizarre story looking into the workings of Words of Power and Songs of Power. I don't even know what else to say about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death scenes. First Kinslaying scenes. Battle through music.
> 
> In which Finrod is pwned but somehow still manages to win in the end.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Findaráto

The shadowed tower of Tol-in-Gaurhoth loomed over their heads as a specter of ill will. Even gazing upon what had once been his very own creation—a symbol of protection—now sent chills down Findaráto's spine. Pungently, the smell of rot and death swept down the side of the isle and over their tiny company.

"Something is not right."

The company halted, and Findaráto gazed upon the terrible sight again, though he longed to look away. And in the corners of his mind, he heard the very thing which he had been dreading. Like slimy fingers running over his bare flesh, tainted power teased and prodded at the gates that enclosed the fortress of his thoughts, seeking the smallest vulnerability to breach.

_"Do not think yourself invincible, trespasser."_

They had been discovered.

The swell of evil melody came down upon them from the tower, slamming into them with the force of a hurricane, and all the malice to be gathered from within those high walls of hopelessness and death, the breeding ground for filth, bit at their heels, threatened to tear them limb from limb. A song of power from the lips of one of the maiar, dark though he might be, was a treacherous weapon.

For the sharpest chords were struck fierce, resonating through Findaráto's mind as twisted images.

Images _of his companions slaughtered, lying at his feet. And whose hand wielded the dreaded blade but his own trembling fist, white-knuckled and strained taut about the hilt of his sword? Terrible glazed eyes watched him from uncovered, frozen faces, their last sight one of betrayal as he tore them asunder._

_"Why have you done this to us?" they asked silently from dull bodies, shells empty of a spirit's fire. "Why have you turned against us when we have sworn loyalty unto only you?"_

_And their blood drenched his body like a hot cloak, soaked through his threadbare travelling garb, covering his golden hair until it ran like silken fire, splattering vibrant patterns across his pale skin. The thick copper taste settled in the back of his throat and bubbled until he_ thirsted _for its tang as a maddened beast._

_Long-fingered hands wrapped around his wrists, drawing him back against a solid body, turning him towards an unseen face. "Is this what you look like, my beloved little trespasser? Look into my eyes."_

To look would mean death. To look was to be uncovered before those eyes forged of the earth's molten core and a potent firestorm of hatred. To look was to be burned to a cinder, all chance of escape lost as his mind fell into the abyss presented before him, surrendered and prostrated.

And his companions needed him. His Oath demanded fulfillment. At his side, Beren shivered and looked lost in the darkness, so full of young life and love, about to be dragged into the pits of hell itself, about to be stripped of all that which Findaráto swore he would do anything to protect. Though he knew not this boy, he knew the child's valiant heart.

And of that he sang.

And of other things, each sweet note singing above the tide of harmony a sharpened spear driving back the oncoming siege _of a white fortress standing strong against the waves of clinging gloom. Of gates swinging shut, locked tight to hold the enemy at bay, and of his companions safely tucked within, sitting by the hearth's dancing fire, warm with health and camaraderie and hope._

_Their lips were sewn shut with invisible threads and their eyes glowed with lively spirit. He was welcomed amongst them, clean and pure of sin, his hands bare and limp at his sides._

_And in the deepest corner of his fortress, of the Minas Tirith that he remembered, he tucked away their names, written with intangible ink and hot blood, so that they would never see the light of fire-eyes, so that only sunlight might breach their treasury and reveal the identities of those within._

_When those eyes finally looked into his, they saw naught but a monstrous, twisted face staring back, fanged teeth bared against the onslaught of hatred and fury swift to follow._

The notes rang bitter. They cut across Findaráto's soul like a Balrog's lash, but he did not dare back down. The air about them was thick, tension building to breaking. Hoarse though his voice might be, Findaráto could do naught but let the clear melody blaze forth in a crescendo of sunlight cutting through gloom, blinding his foe to their passage.

_Because they were fleeing. The ground was uneven, traps laid in waiting, metal jaws itching to sink their razor-sharp teeth into an unwary leg, to drag some poor soul down onto the smoldering earth and leave them whimpering and writhing in agony and fright._

_But their feet were as a bird's, never brushing the forest floor. Ahead of them, there was light. The birds were singing in the trees as their naked, wooden limbs suddenly unfurled into evergreen life, soft melodies filling the air, cloying blossoms sweetening the earth and chasing away the heady odor of rotting flesh and spilled blood._

_The cry of the sea, an old friend whom he trusted, lifted its voice to his cause. The crashing of waves echoed in their ears as golden light fell down upon them. Mist hazed the land as they left the tangle of forest, and salt burned in their noses. Beneath their feet, smooth beaches stretched endlessly, safe havens against any shadow, pearly in the waxing day._

_Home. Alqualondë laid her gentle gaze upon a son of her heart and embraced the companions tight to her white breast._

But the melody floundered, for the gleaming eyes of his enemy canted and that smirk filled with triumph. Findaráto's throat burned.

_Because when he looked down, there was blood in the sand. The iridescent glimmer mixed with rubies, hot to the touch._

_"Foolish, to bring us here, child."_

Accent—striking fear into the centermost point of the elf's body, slipping through corporeal flesh and bone to vulnerability beneath _when he looked upon familiar docks and their familiar white ships, elegant necks curving gracefully into the black sky. Hands left prints of crimson in carefully carved feathers. At his feet, the pearls turned to empty eyes, the rubies to droplets of innocent blood. Carnage beyond imagining, yet all too real. Memories, not nightmares._

_"Look what your kin have wrought."_

Accent—colder than Findaráto had ever imagined in its fey, glittering pitch, the sound of cracking ice beneath tenuous, unsteady feet. _Bitter wind snapped and snarled on his bare flesh, dragged back his silken hair until it was full of knots and struck his neck as the tails of a whip, leaving reddened wheals. But that was not worse than the bone-deep chill. Not worse than the orphans hiding beneath empty cloaks alone in the snow. Not worse than his best friend, his dear cousin, sitting on bended knees before the abyss, staring down at where the world had disappeared into cracks of white, not even a sound to mark its dismantling._

_"Look what they have done to you, through hatred and betrayal and fire."_

Accent—so hot that he thought it would melt his soul and turn his body to ash. _The white ships were burning, and above them the Spirit of Fire was grinning in satisfaction, white teeth bared as an animal's snarl, six sons at his heels with their blazing eyes and haunting visages smirking with glee. His ears rang with screams and howls, rattling his fragile spirit within the cage of its raiment until his knees trembled._

_The earth beneath him shook with the cry of thousands of lost souls, their stark eyes boring into his body and their dirt-encrusted hands dragging at his ankles, pulling him down, down, down..._

Climax. And then silence. His knees crumpled and hit dark marble, hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth floor.

Cold fingers tucked under his chin, lifting until he met the molten eyes and the beautiful face marred with a smile that would send all the armies of Angband fleeing to hide beyond their master's mountainous form. Instinctual fear churned in his belly even at the gentle touch on his cheek, the soft caresses through his hair.

"I have found you, my lovely little trespasser," Sauron spoke. Findaráto was naked beneath that gaze, disguise undone, and his companions beyond were bound in chain and shuddering from cold on the floor.

"Now," he said, with a voice that could seduce the most straight-laced maiden and melt even the coldest of hearts, "Tell me your name, child."

It was the final chord, ever so soft and yet so coercive and incisive in its subtle power, the last jab of the sword in the gut of his surrendered, bloodied body on the muddy battleground. Yet, in his breast, the fire was not yet extinguished. In his mind, his Oath still coiled like a serpent waiting to leap forth and sink poisoned fangs into his honor.

He squared his jaw and stared into those eyes without flinching. "No."

And when they were cast into darkness, he could not help but feel that it was not Sauron who had struck the final, most powerful chord, a last ringing accent to corrode the chains of despair latching their naked bodies to the filthy dungeon walls.

Because his companions remained as silent as that endless darkness and spoke naught unto death. Loyalty was still in their hearts.


	57. Indirect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unrequited love of Daeron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrequited love (obviously). Some mildly creepy behavior.

She charmed him.

It was in her sweet smile, full of brilliant innocence—ignorance of the darker reality of the world, of its insidious, whispering evils encroaching upon their once peaceful land. It was in her huge blue eyes, filled with wonder at every softly plucked note and every hushed breath of a whisper, ebullient in their telling, in their weaving. It was in the exuberance with which she tackled every aspect of her life, never hesitating to reach for the skies, never held back by the constraints of station and propriety that should have governed her body.

It was her beauty in the moonlight when her feet gracefully loped over the dew-laden earth, twining into something otherworldly—phantasmagoria, an ephemeral dream in the haze of shadow—that drew forth his breath from his lungs in song so powerful it left him shaken to the core at its ceasing, his body ringing with the purity of its tone, the trembling of its emotion.

Daeron could not deny it, not to himself, not any longer. He was in love with Lúthien Melianiel, his glorious princess, the woman who gave the spark of molten life unto his ancient, frigid heart without even realizing.

But she did not love him back.

Unrequited love, he had learned, was a torture more painful than any wound of the flesh. Because no matter how he longed to embrace her tightly against his chest, to breathe deeply of her scent—the mysterious tang of rain in the darkness of the forest—to run his fingers through the thick curtain of raven hair that wrapped its silken feathers around her supple body, he knew it was not his place. It was never to be. No amount of longing could change the fact that, in her innocent eyes—lights shining through the gloom of his ever darkening world—he could claim only the title of friend. Never of lover.

And so he loved her in the only way he could. From a distance. 

When she held his hand, he smiled without bitterness and tried to hide the sadness that sparked to life in his glistening eyes, because she was giving him affection and he would take whatever she offered. When she wrapped her slender limbs around him, laughing joyously after running through the forest like a wild creature, winged and untamed, he would pat her on the back and resist the temptation of softly panting lips and rosy cheeks.

It was only indirectly that he could love her. Out of fear. Out of self-preservation.

It was in the songs that he sang to her swaying and twirling. All of the adoration, all of the entrapped longing and desire to please, all of the sultry burn in the back of his throat, flowed into the melodies to which she graced her sole presence and focus, her ghostly dancing form. And guiltily, eagerly, he imagined that, as he spoke aloud of adventurous heroes and love stories with requited endings, in his mind he was really telling her everything, all that was boarded up in the dusty, vacant rooms of his soul.

Sometimes, he imagined she might hear, might understand. But he knew better than to dream. With the traitorous hope in his breast, a kiss upon his flustered cheek rather than his parched lips would surely set fire to his inner sanctuary, would surely destroy the part of him that remained untainted by bitterness and unwilling jealousy.

Instead, he gave her trinkets made from his own hand and delighted in the gentle smiles she would return him, gifts in their own right that left his heart pounding sharply against his ribs. He composed her songs of love which he never presented to her in their true form, but in hidden lyrics, in a veiled message beneath feigned joy. He wrote poetry describing every part of her that he loved so dearly from her trilling voice to her friendly eyes to her smiling lips, and he burned them each night and imagined that their ashes would settle upon her still, sleeping form and her dreams might be haunted with his amorous voice and his beloved gaze.

He told her "You look lovely this eve, riel-nín", and she would giggle and twitter as a young maiden. But her answer would always be "And so, too, do you, mellon-nín".

And it was enough. It was enough to have her undivided attention for an hour each evening. It was enough to be allowed to watch her as she made merry amongst the towering enchanted trees and spirited herself away into a wonderland where no evil could touch the star of her spirit. It was enough that she shared even that small, secret part of herself with him, even if she considered him but a friend, a steadfast companion rather than a lover.

Because he loved her, he would be whatever she wanted. Even if it meant that he could not love her openly as a man loves a woman. Even if it meant hiding in the shadows and wishing and praying and hoping ceaselessly, uselessly, hopelessly. Eternally suffering.

Even if it meant never kissing her fair lips or hearing her voice whisper "meleth-nín" in his ear, it was enough to brush his fingers against her vibrant soul for even a miniscule moment in time.

Because his unrequited love for her was true. And he desired only her happiness.

And that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> riel-nín = my princess  
> mellon-nín = my friend  
> meleth-nín = my love


	58. Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turgon watches his brother die. And the image just won't go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death scene of a major character. PTSD. Somewhat graphic gore/blood. Vaguely connected to Breeze (Chapter 21).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Laurefindil = Glorfindel  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Maeglin = Lómion

There were no words. His mouth was dry, lips parched, tongue swollen.

It was as though he suddenly walked waist-deep in the languid heat of a dream—the atmosphere tangibly thick—his feet caught in invisible snares. The corners of his world burned black with the smoke of charred bodies and the sudden stillness of falling darkness; the figures moving in the dance of life and death around him were blurred beyond vision, the clash of shield and blade and spear naught but a muted echo through the heavy pounding of his heart in his ears.

All his eyes could see was the mire of crimson spreading across deep blue, soaking into the glistening stars and sullying their purity. Marked with the draining lifeblood of his brother's limp body, tangled and fallen, twisted unnaturally.

"Findekáno..."

Dark hair spilled around that beloved face. Empty, dull eyes stared out at the fading light of the sky, the fading hope of their people.

And before he could stop himself, he looked upwards from the slack features, to where the helm was cloven and gore peeked out along with a tide of red. Blood. So much blood. It did not seem to stop, though its owner could not possibly have had more to give. As a small ocean, it spread and mixed with muck and dust, spreading and spreading until Turukáno imagined that it would flood past his boots, rise up to his ankles, hot and fresh and bitter with iron.

Even to save his own life, he could not have moved at that moment, frozen in time. No breath would be sucked through his lips to fill his lungs with the smell of sweat and the putrid odor of eviscerated enemies and friends alike. No thoughts would come upon his mind to steer him away from his horrified fascination with the image branded into his silvery orbs.

A hand on his arm, pulling, but not hard enough to cease his forward momentum, the urgent need to _be at his brother's side. Because Findekáno couldn't be dead!_

"Findekáno!" The name burst forth as a cry, broken and shocked. "Káno!"

"My King, please, listen to me!"

He twisted until his wrist ached, until he was sure the iron grip on his arm would leave behind a marring of purple and black beneath his tunic. But the manacle of fingers would not cease its imprisoning; the voice in his ear would not halt its hissing.

"Stop this! Please, Turukáno, _listen to me!"_

The next image he saw was of blue eyes in a familiar, stern face. Ecthelion, his most steadfastly loyal captain, stood before him, took him by the shoulders and _shook him_ until his bones rattled and ached. "We need to retreat."

No words. He nodded, but could summon no further will to move. The image of blood, the feeling of it sticky against his ankles, sliding thickly between his toes, would not cease.

The red haze had settled on his mind.

\---

Even many days later, he could do naught but sit in shocked silence. The black had retreated from the edges of his vision, and instead his eyes misted with the stained stars, ruined by the stomping of the enemies' heels and the bashing of their heavy maces, by the endless sea of death, blocking out all sound and sight from his frantically racing mind.

Because Findekáno was dead.

_Findekáno was dead._

But that was wrong. His brother _could not_ be _dead_. Yet each stuttered breath only confirmed the nightmare that was his miniscule reality. Every "my King" spoken from unfamiliar lips was as a spear would be to his heart, piercing his brittle shield of ice. Cracking. Shattering.

The days passed without notice. He could not remember what had happened after the battle, only that he was once again in the Hidden City, in his tower, in his hard-earned safe haven protected from the evil sight of Morgoth Bauglir. But even then, all he could do was sit on his balcony and stare, unstirred by the breeze caressing his cheek with soothingly familiar fingertips, unmoved by the heavy rain that battered down upon the earth and soaked him to the bone, leaving chills in its wake and warning in his heart.

All he could see were those eyes losing their light. All he could feel was the overwhelming despair, the crushing defeat of their armies and their strength and their pride. The spirit of their people had been ravaged beyond recovery.

All he could think of was his brother's last smile of greeting, the hand clapping on his shoulder, the joy at reunion after so long apart. That was gone, an ephemeral moment carried on the wind as a dandelion seed, lost in the archives of time as though it had never existed. _Findekáno was dead. Dead. Gone. Defiled and destroyed and desecrated in the copper of his own blood and the mire of his spilled brains and the tangle of his fractured bones._

The image of twisted limbs in golden armor would not depart. The glimpse of vibrant red rent with shards of white and the mess of intestines spilled upon the earth would not leave his dreams.

There was so much blood. So much it would _never go away._

And alone, in his tower, Turukáno sat. The High King of the Noldor.

_Hollow words for a hollow title. For the spirit of their people was fading into oblivion._

_And he could only sit and watch._

\---

Sometimes he wondered if they realized—valiant Ecthelion and loyal Laurefindil and sweet Itarillë and his dark nephew Lómion. He wondered if they noticed how he would stare off into the distance beyond the constraints of this mortal realm whenever duty was not calling him to block all else from his cluttered, broken thoughts.

He wondered if they could see past the feigned smile and the stern voice of their cold-hearted monarch, hiding behind his own spread wings of false glory.

He wondered...

Because at night, he could not close his eyes for the fear of seeing the empty gaze of the lost hope of their cursed people staring accusingly up at him from his brother's slack face.

Because the few hours he allowed himself the catharsis of sleep, it was inevitably blanketed in an ocean of jeering and the screams of the dying, heralding the arrival of that familiar wave of _hot, wet, thick_ liquid swirling around his feet and upwards, until it swallowed him entirely, until he was drowning in spilled loyalty and broken dreams.

Because the words "my King" still made bile rise in the back of his throat. Still made his hands fist, white-knuckled and trembling. Still made him want to scream and rage and weep.

Perhaps it was his personal punishment, his portion of the unnumbered tears, his purgatory.

Because even now, with the Nirnaeth Arnoediad many years behind him, the red veil of his brother's blood never lifted. Arien had never risen on the endless night that had blotted out all of Varda's stars and the vessel of Tilion's might.

A crimson haze shadowed his dreams. It embodied his nightmares. It ruled his world. It was so deeply entrenched into his being that it would never go away.

It would be the harbinger of his people's demise. And his own downfall.

And Turukáno did not even care. He was blinded to all but empty blue eyes, the translucent memories of sunlight on a cloven helm and red stars in a sea of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Nirnaeth Arnoediad = Battle of Unnumbered Tears


	59. Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courting Nerdanel is much more work—and much more trouble—than Fëanor had anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clueless men. Some mild sexual content. Companion to Vital (Chapter 41).
> 
> Just to make it clear, I really know next to nothing about the language of flowers, so don't kill me if I get something wrong. This is, after all, just for fun.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Curufinwë Fëanáro

Never before had Fëanáro encountered a puzzle or a riddle which he could not solve or piece together, which he could not unravel and dismantle and reassemble again forward and backward and with his eyes tightly shut. Not mathematics, nor literature, nor politics, nor the dimwitted societal circles of his father's court could hold his attention for long.

It was one of the reasons he had turned away from the demesne of duty to the art of craftsmanship. The burning _need_ for a new challenge, for new discovery and new creation settled itself in his gut as a ravenous hunger, as a parched thirst that could not be sated by any amount of heady, rich wine or fresh, cold spring water. It consumed his restless spirit, embraced his rabid creativity to its breast and allowed him to be _free._

And then he met _her_. Immediately, she had kindled a lust in his heart (and his loins) which he had never experienced before.

Her and her hair softer than any expensive fabric he had ever run over his fingers, the color of flame snapping through a thick curtain of darkness. Her and her skin so fair, so white, yet dotted with what he could only name abominably precious freckles from cheek to cheek. Oh, how he desired to sit and hold the perfection of her heart-shaped face between his callused palms, feel the softness of red-flushed cheeks on his rough skin. He would draw her close, close enough to count the speckles bridged over her nose—close enough to name every hew of her blazing green eyes.

But there was a problem, one that he had not anticipated.

Nerdanel Mahtaniel _despised_ Curufinwë Fëanáro with all her white-hot, divine spirit.

And for the life of him, he could not understand what he had done to make her so upset with him. He could not division what it was that she wanted from him, what words might mollify her unexpected rage, what it was that he was doing incorrectly in her eyes. Never before had a woman befuddled him so—the ladies at court were all too easy to woo and soothe with hushed words of flattery and gentle kisses to the knuckles.

When he had used _that_ trick on Nerdanel, she had given him a black eye that lasted an entire week.

If only he knew what made her tick, how her gears functioned so that he might predict what would bring her the greatest pleasure, what might make her smile broadly at him, all sweetness and glory and affection. But she was not like a clock, with parts that all fit together in a perfectly logical assimilation. Nor was she like mathematics, where numbers always added or subtracted or somehow interacted to provide a concrete answer. A _right_ and _predictable_ answer.

There was nothing predictable about her. One moment, she would be playing an innocuous young maiden sculpting in the afternoon light of Laurelin, and the next she would be hissing like an angry she-cat, baring her perfectly aligned white teeth in what Fëanáro supposed was meant to be a threatening gesture.

Honestly, he found the display to be rather cute. Telling her that had earned him several broken toes and the insult "sleazy, misbegotten, bull-headed son-of-a-goat-farmer" thrown in his face. Who knew that copperware could be so blasted _heavy?_ Or that being insulted could sound so Valar-be-damned _arousing?_

Similarly, any form of gift-giving had been swiftly rejected— _"What should I even_ do _with a necklace this extravagant? I am the daughter of a craftsman, not a frilly, empty-headed peahen of court!"_ Flowers, too, had been thrown to the wayside; she had not stopped giving him strange looks for several weeks after _that_ incident, and it was not until later that he realized red tulips had a rather _strong_ connotation, and by no means was he prepared to throw himself off a cliff to prove his undying love. Even Fëanáro would admit that he rather deserved being kicked for such a presumptuous gesture, especially to a woman he was not even officially courting. 

The prince had been sure to read up carefully on the delicate language of bouquets, despite the odd looks he had received from some of his father's prestigious librarians, who could not understand for what underhanded purpose a wily creature like Fëanáro could possibly want to know about _the meaning of flowers._

The next time, he sent graceful orchids in a shade of vivid purple which he imagined would complement her hair rather attractively. He did not understand what she found so offensive about being labeled a "rare beauty"—as she certainly was rare and beautiful both at the same time—because, the next day, she had turned redder than a ripe tomato and tried to hit him with the nearest fire poker. The woman should have been flattered!

All in all, Nerdanel did not make a lick of sense to the genius of Fëanáro's mind. It was like trying to predict the shapes of tomorrow's clouds! Why she could not follow the same established laws of nature as every other feminine creature between Tirion and the edge of the world, he did not know. All he knew was that it left him absolutely _frustrated beyond belief._

She was the one puzzle he could not seem to put together in his head, the riddle he could not answer without tangling his tongue and botching his honeyed words. 

It certainly did not help that she was constantly present in and around the forge, her shapely behind framed by the elegant gowns she favored. Did she have _any idea_ what such a sight _did to him?_ The sheer amount of "bathroom breaks" Fëanáro had taken outside in the trees left the prince blushing in mortification even when there was no one around to put two and two together to get four.

Well, two could play at that game.

He deliberately forswore his shirt in the forge, his naked upper body blanketed only with thick leather and the glisten of hot sweat over rippling muscle. With (an embarrassing amount) of forethought, he would every so often lean down and let his trousers pull taut around his perfectly shaped (as many women had whispered just within earshot) buttocks when he caught her head turned in his direction from the corners of his eyes.

And whenever he walked by her, he always smirked and pressed a hand to the wall by her shoulder, leaning closer than propriety would dictate. "Has something attracted your attention, my lady?"

Her answer was always "No".

Teasing her only seemed to make her fiercer, seemed to stir up her irate nature and to stoke her temper until it was almost tangible in the air. But then her face flushed that (delicious) shade of cherry red, spreading across her cheeks and to the tips of her finely shaped ears and down her elegant, swanlike throat. And— _By the Valar!_ —when she huffed up at him and yanked at her braided tresses, he could not help but feel as though his legs melted beneath him.

Eventually, the mystery that was Nerdanel Mahtaniel _consumed his world._

Thoughts of new designs slowed. Inspiration seemed only to come from the thousands of shades he could see in her emerald eyes and the gentle waves of her thick curls and her slender back. He found himself seeing her everywhere, her form ubiquitous, appearing in the essence of graceful movement, the cant of her shapely hips in every angle, the curve of her delightfully round cheekbone in every shadow.

It took a humiliating amount time for the genius to realize that he was _in love with her._

And she _still hated him._

But he only ever teased her, only ever smirked and snarked and purred. Vulnerability never sat well with Fëanáro, and the desperation that was eating away at the cavity of his chest was _most definitely_ vulnerable—the soft underbelly of his unbreakable armor of arrogance and urbanity.

He started taking longer breaks from the forge. Though her mystery continued to vex him, it was painful to stand before her malice, to watch her lips purse in a stern frown whenever he smiled. Her displeasure was unbearable, and her rejection stung fiercely, worse than any concoction his healer had ever rubbed into his scrapes or bruises. And then it _twisted_ and _jerked_ and it took all Fëanáro's tremendous willpower not to _flinch._

Eventually, he decided to altogether forgo her company. It was for the best that he did not continue to tantalize himself by putting himself so near the one thing he so desired but could neither understand nor possess. It was for the best if he drove her visage from his mind and returned his concentration to his art and his passion towards creation.

So for one last time he stood before her, plastering a feigned smirk on his lips, giving a sultry, half-hooded look from beneath his thick, dark eyelashes. "Has something attracted your attention, my lady?" And his hands clenched in the leather of his apron, because he knew what was coming and it was going to feel like a blow to the gut, was going to rend him clean off his feet and steal the breath right out of his lungs.

_How he longed to cover his ears. How he longed to be able to block out the "No" that he could almost taste bitterly on the tip of his—_

"Yes."

_Wait? What did she—?_

He blinked dumbly.

And then she kissed him. Staggered, he breathed in the heady cinnamon burn and the scent of sculpting clay that had molded itself to her being. Tasted her unique sweetness on his tongue, so different from the bitterness of unrequited affection. It was purely _her_ , and it was _marvelous._

And when they parted she looked so very pleased with herself.

Fëanáro could not help but wonder what exactly he had done to deserve this and how exactly he could seek to bring about a repeat performance from this woman of whom he could make neither heads nor tails. She had him bamboozled for life.

In the end, he settled with the knowledge that Nerdanel was a puzzle he would never solve. And he could live with that one simple truth, seasoned with a dash of vexation and a pinch of vulnerability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Mahtaniel = Daughter of Mahtan


	60. Try Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Or, in which Maedhros has more hurdles to overcome than anyone thought. Being broken is easy; recovery is the hard part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to Get Up (Chapter 22). Reference to mutilation and torture. Depression. Sarcasm.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Russandol  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë

If there was one thing that the younger Maitimo had inherited from his sire, it was sheer stubbornness. No son of Fëanáro could bear to back down from a challenge, could stand the _humiliation_ and _shame_ that accompanied failure. It was a trait that had burned hot and fierce in Maitimo's father, and in his own breast, and again in most of his brother's temperamental spirits. It was a trait that had once filled the prince from the top of his head to the tips of his toes like a bubbling, golden wine that went straight to the head—a rush of arrogance, confidence and sheer pigheadedness.

It was a roaring fire that blazed in the night and warmed those at its borders, a fire that had long-fuelled his every endeavor and fulfilled his every wish.

It was nothing more than charred wood blanketed in chilly rain, smoking futilely in the night, when he was taken from the cliffs of Thangorodrim. The fire that Maitimo had inherited from his father had all but burned out, only tiny, bright little embers keeping him from fading completely into oblivion.

Embers like Findekáno and Kanafinwë. They were at his side from his lowest, darkest hours of screaming for death in the throes of fever and infection until the dawn finally broke over the rotting blackness that had consumed his reality.

But even a few white-hot sparks were not enough to relight an inferno.

Helplessly, Maitimo stared down at his own boots and wondered why Findekáno had not just allowed him to die in peace. It would have been more merciful and less obligating.

In his left hand—his _only_ hand, he reminded himself snidely—he awkwardly clutched at the hilt of an unfamiliarly familiar broadsword, heavy and lumbering in the care of his weak arm. Even lifting the damn thing felt as though it would pop his shoulder joint completely free of its socket, and he knew better than anyone how painful _that_ would be. He had only hung from his dislocated right shoulder for two decades or so—the bitter sarcasm of this thought curled upwards in his gut nauseatingly.

Still, he continued, stepping forward and swinging the sword in a long, wide arch despite the trembling ache settling bone-deep into his limbs. The blade screamed through the cold air, flashing blindingly bright in the afternoon sunlight, but it did not even come close to striking the perfectly still target not five feet in front of the prince's face.

What a joke.

He had been at this all day. Practicing. Building up his meager strength. But after months (let alone today's few measly hours), nothing seemed to have changed. The old grace that blossomed with his promising skills as a budding warrior did not return to his ruined and scar-mapped body. His footwork was off-beat and his swings over-extended, dangerously open to counterattack should he actually face an enemy made of flesh and blood eager to rend his meat from his bones, unlike the crudely made straw creatures his brother and cousin had fashioned for him. The painted orc-face—one of Findekáno's masterpieces, if he wasn't mistaken—stared back at him mockingly.

What a joke indeed.

_"Findekáno, this is useless. Look at me._ Look at me!"

_"I_ am _looking at you, Russandol. You're_ alive, _and it is only useless if you make it so."_

Something vicious in his gut, at the very center of his baser instincts, tangled and twisted itself into a ball of resentment. Sneering, he swung the blade around again, pleased to see that its edge—sharp enough to cut flesh as butter as bone as wood—struck true and detached the head of the hideous straw-monster from its malformed lower half.

Carrying through the swing, Maitimo allowed himself to spin with the momentum of his strike, almost feeling the flowing ease that he had once experienced with a blade as an extension of his natural arm.

And then the heel of his right boot landed on the loosened laces of his left, and the redheaded prince found himself short a sword and in new possession of a face-full of gritty dirt and sharp rocks. Panting, he pressed his bleeding cheek down to the earth, and then released a world-weary sigh, feeling all the fight drain right out of his sprawled limbs as humiliation beat his fanatic stubbornness into a swift and futile retreat.

"This is _beyond useless,"_ he muttered, unwilling to summon the energy to even lift his head. "Why do I even bother?"

Because it certainly wasn't for himself. He'd given up living for living's sake a very long time ago, deep in the filthy, depraved pits of torture and unspeakable evil that made up the core of the dread fortress of Angband. The unspeakable things he'd seen—the agonizing torments he had _experienced_ —while under the _gracious hospitality_ of the Black Enemy had drained all will to survive out of the once lively and confident creature he had been as a youth in his grandfather's court, before the Darkening and before the Oath and before the Curse. If Findekáno had not managed to light that tiny, miraculous spark of treacherous hope all those months ago, Maitimo was certain he would still be in that bed in the healing halls, wasting away into a shadow of his former glory.

Even so, that miracle wasn't enough. Day-by-day, the little energy created by the tiny combustion reaction in his heart was sucked up, used to hold back his descent into madness, used to maintain strict control of his tremulous emotions wavering and scratching and clawing just underneath the surface. The dearest, blackest wish of his heart still lingered toxically in the back of his mind, polluting his thoughts. How he longed for this nightmare to _end_ , longed to wake up and find himself _home_ , far away from these accursed shores.

But this was his reality.

And Maitimo felt a failure. Like a broken toy. He could not even tie his own boots or swing his own sword, let alone help his cousins and brothers.

He could not make up for all the hurt his mistakes had caused—not Alqualondë or Losgar or what had come after—and that perhaps wounded him more deeply than any shot of mortification and despair ever could. Not only had he failed them once, but he was going to fail them _again_ , after Findekáno had _saved him_ , after Kanafinwë sat as his bedside and wept and fretted and prayed for his recovery, after his brothers had stuck by his leadership and followed him even now possibly to their gruesome and untimely deaths.

Maitimo was going to fail them all.

Thinking of the disappointment that would darken Findekáno's hearty blue eyes made his heart throb and drop to the pit of his belly. Thinking of Kanafinwë and the stricken look that would overcome his beautiful face was like being stabbed with a jagged, poisoned blade.

He did not want to fail them. He did not want to see the disappointment or helplessness on their beloved faces, not again.

_"So get up off your scarred, prideful, princely arse and_ do something!" Findekáno's voice shouted from somewhere in the shadowy forest of his consciousness, darting between the blockage of tangled, dizzying thoughts and regrets. _"And you say relearning swordplay is useless! At least it is better than sitting in the dirt, waiting to die alone like a homeless brigand."_

How like his dear cousin, his beloved best friend. The sardonic humor and the cackling laughter that followed brought to mind a broadly grinning face and rosy, drunken cheeks. He had never imagined that the voice of his conscience would be composed of his cousin's inebriated rambling.

But still, could he really do this? Did he have even the tiniest hope of succeeding?

_"There is always hope,"_ Findekáno and his wretchedly optimistic personality provided. _"You are just too blind to see it."_

Glimmering silver eyes darted to the sword lying two feet away. His left hand crawled over the grass, fingers trailing just shy of touching the hilt, the burn of ice cold metal corporeal even from a few inches' distance. Yet there was a diffident pause. Could he force himself to take up that sword? Could he really become what Findekáno envisioned, a proud and powerful prince leading his people out of the thunder and downpour that had been his father's charming dictatorship?

He could not even swing a sword straight.

_"And how do you know what you can and cannot do unless you try?"_ He could imagine his cousin with arms crossed, an irate frown on pouting lips as he gave his "Russandol" a castigating look.

Maitimo sighed deeply, fingers clenching into tight fists. His missing hand throbbed, screaming at him to flex his wrist—that wrist which was no longer attached to his body—and spread apart the five graceful digits to ease their tension, never mind that no amount of concentration could bring to life the nerves of his long-gone fingertips.

_I have tried._ Another deep breath. And out. There was stinging behind his eyes. _I have tried so hard and failed at every turn. Failed as a king and as a son and as a brother. Failed as a friend._

_"Then try again until you get it right."_

Get up and try again.

And suddenly that tiny, miraculous flame was not so tiny anymore. It seared white-hot through his bones, flowing through his veins with the flammable brilliance of a wildfire, leaving his body fidgeting and shaking with the sudden need to _move_. His fist unfurled, and his remaining fingertips landed softly on cold metal, inscribed with words of honor and valor and decorated with breathtaking craftsmanship. This sword had been his father's; his own had been long lost in battle.

_"Be a better brother. A better prince. A better friend. You can do this, Russandol."_

Hissing, he heaved his upper body off the ground, grasping at the weapon and dragging it from its resting place, gleaming in the afternoon rays of Arien. He _needed_ to try again, and if not for his own wellbeing than for his Findekáno's happiness and his Kanafinwë's relief and the protection of the younger brothers he had taken under his wing and raised as if they were his own brood of unruly brats. They _needed_ him to try again. And again and again.

As many times as it took to succeed.

He would do that for them. From now until all hope had failed his heart and all love left his brittle world. He _had to_ , or risk losing all that was important to his broken soul.

Stumbling onto his shaking knees like a newborn colt, Maitimo managed to get his feet beneath his body's weight, supporting as his spine uncurled in his attempt to return to his lofty upright position. Elevated and glowing with newfound energy, he took a broad step forward—

And promptly fell on his face a second time. Now he could honestly say he knew intimately the taste of dirt.

It was then that he looked down past his splayed body at his boots and frowned in utter exasperation at the sight of the frayed leather—

And the undone laces.

At least his hope was rekindled and his fire burned anew.

Now, if only he could figure out how one went about tying boot-laces one-handed...


	61. Reap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revenge isn't waiting for Celegorm in Menegroth, but Dior definitely is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major character death. Dior's parentage is messed up. Lame fight scene. Companion piece to Tide (Chapter 55).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo  
> Curufin = Curvo  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Nelyo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro, Curufinwë

The loss of Lúthien's affections to a barely matured whelp of an _atan_ had always been a very sore spot for Tyelkormo. But even so, his family could not understand the true depth of his _hatred_ , because he had never spoken truthfully of her—his One. Not even to Curvo.

His brothers were aware of his jealousy over the woman and of his blistering hatred towards Beren Erchamion; it was not as if the silver-haired prince had tried to hide the bitter, resentful feelings from his own kin. In his darkest hours, he would spit and rave and pace like a caged animal, ranting to Curvo's blank face and empty eyes until he ran out of complaints to petition and words to shout and glasses to smash against the stone walls.

They had thought it obsessive and disturbing, but they knew that Tyelkormo was more than slightly senile, and none of them questioned his behavior. Or perhaps none of them dared. Tyelkormo could not blame them for that, unsure himself whether any defense of Beren within his earshot would have triggered a homicidal reaction.

But it had only gotten worse from there.

When he heard news of the child of Beren and Lúthien, bile made its presence known in the back of his taut throat, the acidic bite slinking upwards and settling on his palate. The sudden and nearly uncontrollable urge to _murder someone_ had nearly brought his fingers around his brother's throat. It had been so temptingly _unprotected_ and _vulnerable_ and _Valar!_ but his heart would not hurt nearly so much if he could just asphyxiate someone with his bare hands—preferably the man who had gone and _mated_ and _procreated_ with the other half of his soul—and maybe that searing-hot agony that was building layer-by-layer in his deepest hidden core would _go away and leave him be._

He had not been prepared for the _betrayal_ he felt. For that was how it felt in the back of his mind, as though she who he _knew_ he was _meant to be with_ had rejected every part of him as unworthy, unsuitable, had thrown his offering— _his offering of everything he was and had been and ever would be forevermore_ —back in his face with a sneer and lain with filth to spite him and his possessiveness.

Because she _knew_. They had only made love once, but she had known, understood why he was driven to the point of madness. And she had abandoned him anyway.

No wound had ever been so painful, not by sword or spear or word. It was not a scar that Tyelkormo had ever recovered from, a metaphorical limp dragging him down ever after, always reminding him that she despised him and left him behind like trash.

Nothing else had ever awoken such a violent urge for revenge in his breast as the knowledge of the existence of Dior Eluchíl, the physical manifestation of the action that had rent and torn down all of the tapestries of hope and love he had left hanging in the cold, empty chambers of his heart. No longer did Lúthien's slight exist only in the shadows creeping through his mind; now it had become corporeal in the form of a child.

The very _thought_ made him shudder in fury of the likes he had never experienced, more acute than any pleasure and more agonizing than any torture, filled to the brim with the overwhelming _need_ to be sated, lest he lose himself completely in its gaping maw, devoured whole, mind and body.

The day that the missive arrived from Nelyo was a day that Tyelkormo would never forget.

For savage joy had flooded his chest when they were ordered to "march upon Menegroth should Dior Aranel refuse their demands", because finally— _finally after so very long_ —he would reap his revenge through terror and blood and death. He would destroy the evidence of Lúthien's betrayal of his love—unrequited and unfulfilled and broken—and maybe then the trembling somewhere in the vicinity of his heart would go away and not make the back of his eyes sting and his temples throb and ache from holding onto the veil his composure by the skin of his teeth.

Maybe the harvesting of crimson tribute and dying screams and _seeing the glazed look in that child's eyes as he lay in a pool of his own lifeblood_ would be enough to sate the monster clawing and snarling in the back of his mind.

For Nelyafinwë, this venture was about reclamation of what was rightfully theirs through birthright and through oath.

For Tyelkormo, the ruin of Doriath and the death of Dior Eluchíl would be salvation.

\---

And then everything had gone terribly wrong.

His first sight of Dior—and Oh! the volcanic tide of hatred bursting to life and forcing tremors through every limb left him breathless with anticipation of the sound of sword slicing through flesh and carving bone—had been of the silver-haired child of the House of Elu Thingol slicing open his brother's throat.

Curvo had fallen, blade clattering lifelessly to the marble floor as dark hair haloed and mixed like ink with steadily flowing rich blood, pouring from the opened jugular. Even the best healer could not have saved his brother from such a wound, for he bled out so quickly that it seemed every ounce he was pumping frantically through the rivers of his veins was emptied in a precious few moments, leaving him pale and cold on the ground.

After that, the copper tang had flooded had mixed with rising acid in Tyelkormo's throat, morphing into a concoction of pure battle-lust. With an enraged scream, he launched himself at the king, wild-eyed with the burning spirit of his sire, fey with hunger for death and the secret terror lodged in his chest like an infection that just _would not go away._

A smile cracked his lips, bared his teeth like an animal preparing to rip into an opponent. Wide eyes—eyes so blue that he could have drowned in them—stared back. The king had _her_ eyes.

Without thought, without even looking further at the child—he did not want to see Beren's face staring back until it was gray with death and cold as ice beneath his vengeful wrath—Tyelkormo leapt into battle, crying out to the hidden sky in wordless ecstasy. His veins pulsed with life, his mind filled only with the next gleam, the next screech of metal against metal, the next burst of sparks stinging the fingers wrapped taut around the hilt of his sword.

His whole world was that next movement. The curve of his enemy's arms and the angle of his sword. The balance of booted feet across from his, leaning ever so slightly to the right, swinging forward and teetering towards falling. The over-wide arch of a blade speeding towards his side, leaving wide open the vast expanse of vulnerable belly and chest.

There was no hesitation.

All the way through, to the hilt, the sharpened edge bit through skin and organs and ripped open the fabric at his enemy's back, gleaming red before Tyelkormo's lusty eyes. Satisfaction.

And then pain. Slicing and twisting pain and the feel of hot stickiness soaking into his clothing. Tyelkormo looked down at the sword lodged through his chest and felt the blood rising as he tried to _breathe_ and rattled sickeningly. A cough, and crimson splattered across the face so near to his, watching him with no small amount of hatred and fear.

Blue eyes. Lúthien's eyes.

But it was not Beren's visage those jewels of the sky were set upon.

Tyelkormo's own sharp jaw-line clenched as the child's teeth grated in agony. Thin, bloodless lips and a long, straight nose. High, aristocratic cheekbones and a cleft chin. Brows that curved downwards into a permanent scowl, all wreathed in silver veins of loose hair.

This was a child of the House of Fëanáro, every line and curve and angle of him. Nerdanel's elegant nose. Fëanáro's terrifying gravitas. Lúthien's pure beauty and sky-blue eyes. Tyelkormo's spitefully curled sneer.

And he could not understand. No thoughts would come as he choked in his own blood and felt the world tilt onto its side, going gray at the edges. Little droplets, like rubies, fell from the king's parted lips, flowing downwards on the pale, flawless skin. Those eyes, shocked and horrified, blinked once up at him, and then the hand holding the sword buried in Tyelkormo's torso fell away, the limp body sliding off the Fëanárion's blade and thudding to the floor. Only it was not the blood of Beren Erchamion which joined and mixed with the blood of Curufinwë Fëanáro slithering over white marble and carved stone.

No power on earth could have kept Tyelkormo's knees from turning to water. He landed on the ground hard and cried out in anguish. When the tears burning behind his tightly shut eyelids surged forth, he did not stop them. The _when?_ and _how?_ and _why did I not know?_ that flitted briefly through his mind were all pushed aside beneath a tidal wave of emotion.

Maybe his House was cursed after all. That was all he could think as he was pulled under by the darkness, barely aware of the screams in the distance or the hot wetness that blanketed his flesh and stained his hands red.

Because he had gained no revenge this day. Or salvation.

Because he remembered the little ones with big terrified eyes and silver hair—by _the Valar, his hair, not Thingol's, but Míriel's legacy_ , his mind cried hysterically—and again Dior's face flashed before his eyes and _how could this possibly be true? Why was Ilúvatar so cruel that he could not even die with the satisfaction of knowing his broken heart had been avenged?_

But as the world around him was slowly swallowed, he thought maybe he _did_ deserve it. For all the dark deeds and sins committed at his hands, freely and willingly with pleasure. _You reap what you sow_ —was that not what his mother had taught him as a child? And as the dam of his tightly chained sorrow and longing and regret and guilt crackled and crumbled and spewed forth, he knew that he believed her words, that he _deserved_ this fate.

_How ironic, that the suffering of others has only compounded upon my own despair..._ A watery laugh brought pangs of agony from his chest. And then sobs, thick and wracking, shook his shoulders.

_She was right_. He had only reaped his own suffering, doubled it thrice over.

And it was this thought that echoed through his mind as reality overlapped with fantasy and diverged from the tangible. He would die here, beside his only child in the depths of his blackest sin, alone with no one to cry to, no one to plead with, no one who understood.

The light wavered and faded as his trembling hand reached for _anyone—anyone who would listen—_

And found only empty air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> atan = man (of the Race of Men)  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro


	62. Settle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amras is finally done running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion to Bewitching and Languid (Chapters 25 and 27) as well as Run (Chapter 17).
> 
> Soul-mates. Allusions to death and murder.
> 
> I subscribe to the AU where Nerdanel gave the twins separate mother-names and Fëanor pretends that she didn't because of the second's implications.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Amras = Umbarto

For so long, the essence of life was the next day, the next moment, the next breath. Time was a figment of the imagination, transient, beyond all comprehension when the next step defined the truth, when no friendly spirits waited in the distance to hear footsteps and receive kisses, when no bed waited with all the soft comforts and warmth of home.

For so _very long_ , that was Umbarto's reality.

Every day was a new adventure, filled to the brim with the wide open sky, the thrill of the chase and the hunt, the satisfaction of surviving the wilderness to another night, and a new bed of dewy grass beneath the dome of the heavens when Arien's rays crept into the shadows of Arda.

His encounters with other sentient beings were few and far between. A brief trip through a village here or there, never staying, never buying, just walking past as a ghost. The occasional glance exchanged with a traveling ranger or elf on the road, but nothing substantial, and never words to contaminate his silent forgetfulness. Umbarto was the ultimate drifter, fleeing civilization, fleeing recognition, fleeing memories—anything that could possibly remind him of what had come before the freedom of throwing away identity and responsibility and all remembrance.

And then there was his dark-haired sinda, sensual and mysterious, his sometimes almost-mate. The afternoons without words to break the comfortable rest, sitting in the shade exchanging caresses and kisses in the lazy heat of summer or huddling together in the shelter of hidden glens in the winter, the white clouds of their breath mingling as their bodies tangled together for warmth, those moments remained as nets to ensnare his attention and hold him captive as one under a spell.

They never spoke. Umbarto relished lying beneath curious fingers, feeling them trace over his scarred cheek and down the straight length of his nose, brushing softly against his chapped lips and teasing the cleft of his chin.

Eventually, he did not wander as far abroad. Always, his thoughts wandered back to the dark-haired beauty living amongst the towering canopies of the trees, giggling from the shadows of their thick arms, black eyes filled with fondness and wonder, a soft voice humming wordless lullabies with the chirping of the birds, tangling with the silver light of the moon and dragging Umbarto down into sleep within the ring of a familiar embrace, the beat of another heart in his ears.

Eventually, he barely dared venture a few leagues. A magnetic pull, more powerful than the raging, foaming waters of the ocean and more consuming than ravenous licks of flame, kept him near, kept him longing, kept him wanting.

He no longer thirsted for freedom, but for something at once more primal and intimate. Stable.

And when a soft voice—a lyrical tenor that danced over his skin with a living touch—whispered "Stay" in his ear, he could not help but obey.

\---

They created their dwelling on the edge of a lake that had never been marked upon any map—far away from any known region—and which had never been touched by the hands of a stranger. Pure waters sparkled transparently, so clean that Umbarto could pick out the drifting of silt on the bed beneath the waves and refracted sunbeams. Quiet and peaceful. Perfect.

But more than that perfection, he loved the company. Loved walking up behind that slender form of his mate and putting his hands on rounded hips, pulling the smaller elf against his chest and nuzzling his lover's pale throat, taking in the unnamable scent that perfumed soft, dark hair. Loved receiving crooned words in return as long, dexterous fingers combing through the wilderness of his fiery mane, untangling leaves and twigs and tracing the sensitive shells of his pointed ears.

Loved waking to dark eyes staring into his own blazing emeralds and soft kisses pressing against his skin like the strokes of a butterfly's wings. Loved the bewitching voice that broke the barriers of his dreams and drove away the nightmares of screams and blood and fire that burned in the night.

There was no more drifting. Umbarto had never realized how _tired_ he was of moving day-by-day, how _lonely_ he felt without a single soul in the world waiting for him to return home each night, or how much he longed to feel _safe_ and not worry and protect and fight and flee without thought.

The gentle touch of musician's hands manipulated him as they would a lyre or fiddle, coaxing free the tension and leaving his spirit singing with bliss. The words on the wind—inaudible and lost before they could pop the delicate bubble of their hidden little world—were a constant murmur in his ears, settling the roiling feelings that threatened to rise up and destroy him.

All that fear of the past and guilt for the death and hatred of fey eyes tied into tangled knots were pulled apart and straightened and tucked away, the volatile strands woven into little braids of acceptance, fit for the light of day.

Until he wasn't afraid to call himself "Umbarto" and remember the fire eating his blackened flesh and the waves sucking away his frantic breaths.

Until he didn't want to curl up and die at the memory of empty eyes from slack, terrified faces and crimson flashes off the sharpened blade of his sword.

Until his vehement, wild spirit—a reflection of all that he despised and resented—was tamed beneath the soft strokes and reassurances of his other half.

Settling his restless soul on that distant shore, with the sand between his toes and his One's melody echoing in his ears, Umbarto finally felt his roots sink into the ground, his home slowly bricking together from his new, tenuous foundation and up into the sky. Here, there were no insidious whispers or searing caresses or screaming matches in the next room, no turning over and reaching for someone no longer at his side or wishing for a kindred spirit to understand and soothe unconditionally.

There was a soft touch at his elbow, and he turned to endless eyes, darker than night's blanket but still glowing like stars reflected off motionless water, on and on forever. "Melethron," he was named, and fingers reached up to stroke down his marred temple and cheek. Wherever they touched, his skin tingled pleasantly.

"Meldanya," he returned huskily, and scarred fingers touched flawless white expanses and softer-than-silk lips.

There would be no more running. He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> sinda = gray-elf  
> meldanya = my beloved (melda + nya)
> 
> Sindarin:  
> melethron = lover (male)


	63. Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-Galad had to come from somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connects the Pretend AU (Chapter 45) with Soulful (Chapter 11) and Alcohol (Chapter 14). OFC as Fingon's wife.
> 
> Sappy and fluffy.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Argon = Arakáno

Being king was synonymous with being busy.

It was something Findekáno had never actually contemplated until he was thrust into the intimidating shoes that didn't quite fit correctly. His "father's" shoes. The shoes of a great and wise king.

Why had _Turukáno_ not been firstborn, he could not help but wonder? His straight-laced, stern younger brother would have locked into the position like a jigsaw piece into its matching partner, latched close with outlines that perfectly filled each unique dip and curve of the job. Findekáno, though...

The day someone called Findekáno the Valiant "wise" was the day Helcaraxë experienced a full afternoon of sunshine and heady summer temperatures. Before his coronation (rushed and downplayed though it was), he had been well-known for his cheery, easy-going demeanor, geniality and his annoying tendency to drink too much wine at parties and flirt with any beautiful women caught within a twenty foot radius. Let it never be said he was born for the demesne of responsibility and gravitas; even thinking about the sheer amount of paperwork and requests and audiences he went through each day made Findekáno want to collapse in a heap of heavy velvets, furs and jewels with utter exhaustion before he even _started._

And thus, he quickly discovered that he did not have time for parties or for excessive drinking. By the Valar, he barely had time to _sleep_ , let alone enjoy himself! _"No, my lord, you mustn't do this or that"_ and _"But my lord, there are still thirty persons awaiting an audience in the main chambers"_ and _"My lord, it simply is not proper for you to walk about without your circlet and your robes"_ every single day, over and over until he wanted to dash his head against a stone wall!

When he met Arakáno in the Halls of the Waiting, he was going to hug his little brother nice and tight and beg forgiveness for shoving his unwitting younger sibling into this dreadfully tight, constrictive slot of "King". No one should have to go through this torture! And to think there were men out there who _desired_ this fate!

Findekáno shuddered at the very idea.

\---

It was very, very early in the morning, and as every other morning, he was staring at the ceiling of his bedchambers. The very first rays of Arien were peeking through the diaphanous curtains, tinting the sky pale red on the horizon and reflecting their crimson shadows above his head; that, of course, meant it was time to rise and scrounge some breakfast from the kitchens. His first audience would start within a half-hour of the rising of the sun.

Pushing back the covers, the king was halfway out of bed before a soft hand caught at his forearm. Turning, he saw his wife's vibrant eyes peeking out from beneath long, pale red lashes. Even half-asleep with her curly hair sticking out in complete disarray, she was the most breathtaking creature he had ever had the humble honor of gazing upon, and charmer that he was, Findekáno could not help but lift her hand from his arm and press a gentle kiss to her knuckles like a gentleman born and bred. "Return to your dreams, hervess-nín. Anor has not even risen from slumber yet."

"Stay here, hervenn-nín," she murmured sleepily, rising in all her naked glory to press a chaste kiss against his lips. Her scent swirled around him, all cloying sweetness and mouthwatering spice hidden underneath, and it left Findekáno momentarily dazed. "Come back to bed."

"I have a meeting in a half-hour that I must—"

She laughed softly, and Findekáno found himself with an armful of luscious, soft curves and a wild red mane of curled silk. "I forced your butler to clear your schedule today, _Aran-nín,"_ she teased in that come-hither voice that never failed to get his blood stirring. "I thought you could use a day of rest with your lovely, lonely wife—no pesky diplomats and sniveling aristocrats to interrupt our privacy. Your wife wants her husband all to herself this day."

"Have I been neglecting you, hervess-nín?" he asked huskily, nuzzling at the top of her head and brushing his lips against her temple. "I had best remedy this situation, hadn't I, my Sáriel?"

"Charmer," she accused as her soft hands found their way onto his shoulders and washed over the hills and valleys of his broad chest and belly, nails gently running over the tender skin until the king broke out in delighted gooseflesh. "You treat me so well, Fingon."

"And here, I thought I was the one being treated," Findekáno teased back even as he fell back to the thick, warm comfort of his occupied bed, the soft, smooth covers of his wife's body and oceans of fiery red hair spilling around them as a curtain to hide away their secret reality from the world. For a long while after that, Findekáno forgot everything but scalding heat and exhaustive, satisfying pleasure found in her arms, forgot all about responsibility and duty and being the bloody High King of the Noldor. And it was lovely.

\---

The whole day was, indeed, wonderful. Late breakfast alone in their private chambers, still abed. Lounging on the balcony dais in the afternoon sunshine, sleeping and cuddling beneath Arien's warm caresses. Making love on almost every available surface without worrying about locked doors and missed meetings. 

By the evening (after a dinner that left him feeling quite full and glowing with gratification), Findekáno was more than pleased to settle himself down on a chair before the fire, his lovely Sáriel perched on his lap, her arms around his neck and her breath washing over his throat. Without thought, his hand rose to caress the graceful curve of her spine, fingers tangling in her long hair, bathing in the sheer brilliance of her presence against and all around his spirit. Kingship-be-damned, he could have sat here forever and never wanted for a thing. No wonder Thingol and Melian had stood still gazing into the other's starlit eyes for so long; he would have wanted this stillness of silent companionship and trust to last for eternity as well.

He felt her nails tracing over the nape of his neck, the ridges of her knuckles rubbing at the edge of his jaw and up his sharp cheekbone. "Have you had a relaxing day, hervenn-nín?"

"Indeed, I have." Findekáno pressed her closer against him, until he could feel every inch of her curvaceous form entwined with his in an intimate embrace. "Your little surprise is quite appreciated, hervess-nín. I do not think I remember the last time I was allowed breakfast abed, never mind had time to nap the day away in my lovely mate's arms."

"Too long," she said, looking up at him, and Findekáno did not have the words to describe how absolutely glorious he found her in the firelight, her cheeks softly flushed and her lips swollen from his eager kisses.

"Much too long," he agreed. "What say you to an early night?" _And, of course, a good many hours of lovemaking before finally falling asleep wrapped around one another?_ But that last part was implied.

Nevertheless, she smiled knowingly, that kittenish little grin that had his heart leaping up in his throat and his loins clenching with desire. "Thou ravenous seducer," she named him, giggling and straddling his hips. It took all his willpower not to groan at the press of soft yet strong inner thighs against his flanks, so familiar and welcoming a cradle. "I have one last surprise to treat you to before that, though, hervenn-nín."

"Is that so?" he asked, curious at the sudden change in her features. The sultry look softened into something that sent little tendrils of warmth spiraling down into his belly, filling him with golden sparks of affection and closeness. "And what is this surprise, hervess-nín?"

"I went to visit the healers yesterday." Confused, Findekáno looked up into her face, wondering what in all of Arda that was supposed to mean. "It was the reason I cleared your schedule, actually."

"Oh?" Let it never be said that Findekáno was the brightest candle in the chandelier.

"Hm, yes..." Sáriel leaned forward as if to share a most important secret, and her lips stroked over the shell of his ear and down, her breath hot and intimate on his bare skin. "We are going to be parents, Fingon, hervenn-nín."

_We are going to... to what?_

It took an embarrassingly long moment for the words to register in his mind, or for him to respond with a suitably coherent answer through the sudden haze of shock that fell down over his rational thoughts. Wide-eyed, he pulled away to look down at his wife's face, his broad hands falling to cup her round hips as he stared into her deep eyes. "We are...? You are...?"

"I am." Her soft hand captured his, laying it spread over her still-flat belly. Somehow, knowing what lay beneath his trembling fingers, this single touch felt more intimate and sacred than any fondle or caress they had shared within the sandwiched privacy of their silken sheets. "Surprise," she whispered.

It was by far the best surprise he had ever been treated to. Breathless and wordless as he was, Findekáno could only stare in star-struck wonder and gape at the news of such a miraculous little gift, bringing a thick, hopeful blanket of light down over his life even in such dark times, even with responsibility for his entire people riding on his shoulders.

Never before had he experienced such pure _happiness._

"A perfect surprise for a perfect day," he finally gasped out, hoarse and biting back the traitorous tears that pooled in the corners of his eyes. The kiss that followed was perhaps more wondrous than any other he had ever experienced. "I am truly blessed, my Sáriel."

Because basking there with his wife and child in his arms—in the warmth and togetherness of being in the embrace of the person closest to his heart and soul—Findekáno felt true bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> hervess-nín = my wife  
> Anor = the sun  
> hervenn-nín = my beloved  
> aran-nín = my king


	64. Notice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Glorfindel met Erestor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Rather cliche I should think. Waxing poetic.
> 
> Something of a prelude to Subtle (Chapter 4).

It was, at first, a movement from the corner of his eyes, so swift and inconspicuous that he almost dismissed it as an illusion in the darkness.

But there, as tangible as stone and fleeting as a breeze, an unfamiliar shadow traversed near to the walls of the city, wandering as if homeless, ceaselessly like a trapped creature searching hopelessly for something unattainable. Yet even so, the fluid strides held his attention in their diffident length and soundless footfalls. From a distance, Glorfindel could not have said whether it was a man or woman he watched, for they were cloaked and hooded, but the body was slender and innately graceful. It was captivating.

Secretly, he watched. Shamelessly, but with no small amount of curiosity, he observed. This was a stranger, but when he had mentioned the foreign presence to his king, Turgon had inclined his regal head and told him that it was naught for him to be losing rest over.

Still, night after night, he watched, through the waning of summer into autumn.

Yearning to understand built inexorably in his chest. Helplessly, he drew closer.

Close enough to notice the narrow hips of a man swaying beneath the darkness of the thick, flowing fabric. Close enough to see long, slender fingers—hands any musician would kill for—and how they curled around the hem of the clothing and tugged nervously.

Close enough to discover the scent of rain clinging to the very air surrounding the mysterious elf, entwining with the natural, unnamable tang of the creature veiled beneath. Just one full breath of that air, perfumed by the stranger's swift, silent passage, was enough to set Glorfindel's head spinning, because he had never smelled anything so intoxicating in all his years in Aman or in Beleriand.

And then, one night, his desire to be _closer still_ overcame him, and he came close enough to catch a glimpse of the face beneath the gloom of that ever-present shroud.

And by the Valar, it took away the very breath feeding oxygen into his muscles, for suddenly he felt weak enough to bow down beneath a gentle wind's caress.

Dark hair, gently rolling over one shoulder, straight and thick and glistening faintly in the moonlight, framed glowing white skin so wonderfully, the rich dichotomy so utterly exotic and ethereal that it was hard to look away. For certainly, such a beautiful face as this—all elegant lines, barely softened edges and slender accents—could only belong to a divine creature, a child of Ilúvatar's thoughts, beyond the realm and limitations of mortal beings.

Glorfindel had never seen the glory of Lúthien, Princess of Doriath, but he had heard others wax poetic over her splendor—the most beautiful woman ever born—and wondered if she could compare to this man. He could not imagine any being to be fairer than this one before him.

And then he glanced into those eyes, and the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower knew that his heart was lost for eternity.

On and on forever, they went, pulling him into their shadows of despair and deep pools of loneliness, reflecting starlight back from the heavens. They were dark as a moonless night, and yet Glorfindel could not remember the Light of the Two Trees being so overwhelmingly brilliant, so enchanting. No fruits of golden honey or blossoms yielding silver dew could compare to the intrinsic _aliveness_ of those orbs in the depths of their turmoil.

And they looked back at him with no small amount of wonder and fear. Their owner, realizing he had been caught in the sights of another, turned to flee.

"Wait!"

Before he thought better of it, Glorfindel gripped the sleeve of a gray tunic in his fingers, staring down at the soft material etched in silver. When he looked back up, the full weight of that gaze crushed down upon him, burying him beneath a mountain of pure feeling, feeling that he could not have explained had he millions of descriptors at the tip of his charmer's tongue.

For a timeless instant, they stood, and then he dared breathe. "Please, I did not mean to startle you, friend," he rasped out. "I just noticed you wandering alone and came to enquire if there was any way I could be of service."

"Lord Glorfindel..." _Aiya, Eru!_ But that voice! It was like something from a long-lost dream! Hearing it speak his name was like being punched in the jaw, but instead of debilitating pain it offered only the heady feel of hot velvet over flesh, a tone so pure and smooth it left him shuddering.

"Please, there is no need for formality between us."

Lips that begged to be kissed pursed softly, their pink flush deepening. "Glorfindel," he began again, the Lord of the Golden Flower felt his knees turn to water beneath him despite the harshness of the tone. "I am not lost. Merely, I find it relaxing to walk at night. It is... difficult to sleep."

There were many reasons for being unable to sleep, and having experienced a fair number of them himself, Glorfindel knew all too well what might be plaguing his companion. Indeed, the sorrow of those eyes spoke more silent words than thousands of runes inked upon parchment could have possibly hoped to explain.

"Then let me keep you company." His grip on the sleeve relaxed, and instead he guided one hand—callused, a warrior's hand with the marks of a harp in the fingertips—to his arm, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. "Perhaps you will find my companionship soothing."

"Perhaps... if you keep silent." Hesitant though those words were, and with an icy bite at the fringe of their perfectly pronounced syllables, Glorfindel could detect a hint of playfulness underneath, as well as a lilt of wistfulness hiding beneath layers of thick-skinned sarcasm. Instead of being offended, he merely smiled brightly and let his feet carry him away, the dark beauty gliding at his side.

"At least tell me your name," he teased.

The lips parted, white teeth briefly peeking from behind the plush flesh. "Erestor," his shadow whispered. "I am called Erestor Ilession."

At such a name, Glorfindel felt a chill in his spine and pangs of sympathy in his heart. No elf was born with such a name, but why someone would discard such a vibrant spirit was beyond his comprehension; Erestor Ilession—if that truly was his name—was more glorious than Varda's stars or Yavanna's Trees, more wonderful than any creation of Manwë or Aulë or Ulmo. Only the hand of Ilúvatar could have created such perfection!

"Well met, Erestor," he replied reverently. "May the stars shine upon our meeting."

It would have taken a very foolish man indeed to fail to notice that perfection. And Glorfindel was no fool; even with just a glancing touch, he could feel it. For all his darkness, Erestor had the Fire Imperishable in his spirit.

And the stars shone upon the pair walking side-by-side in the embrace of shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Aiya: Oh


	65. Least

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure character developement for all the Fëanorions, but mostly for Caranthir. He's so neglected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teenage angst more or less. Also, brother-bonding.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Caranthir = Carnistir, Moryo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Curufin = Curufinwë, Curvo  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Nelyo  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë, Káno  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Turko  
> Amrod = Ambarussa, Pityo  
> Amras = Ambarussa, Telvo

It was hard to be overshadowed.

This was a lesson that Carnistir had learned young and learned hard. With three older brothers and three younger brothers, he was sandwiched in the middle of a huge family of prodigies, his poor status trumped by the attention-hogging youngest children always demanding their mother's comfort and love and the oldest and most prized sons coveted by their father.

Quickly, he discovered that his talent did not lie in the darkness and heat of the forge for which Fëanáro seemed to be born and created. With large, clumsy hands that trembled fitfully, he made a poor craftsman and smith. It was embarrassing to even be seen by his siblings, but when his father watched, Carnistir just wanted to curl up in a tight ball—microscopic and unassuming—and allow the earth to swallow him whole so that none could ever look upon his shame. For those eyes, so bright and full of icy calculation and endless ideas, gained such a disappointed luster with his every failure that the fourth child could not bear it.

Seeing Curufinwë, the fifth son, surpass him without even trying—full of the blood of his namesake through and through—was like having his insides twisted into agonizing knots. With their father's face and form and smile, Curufinwë seemed to fit within a forge like fingers within a glove, with frightening ease and comfort. When he was old enough to escape lessons with his younger brother, Carnistir avoided the forge at all costs and steadfastly closed his ears to any and all comments that left his father's incisive lips in regards to his lack of dexterity in hands and creativity of mind.

Speaking was not Carnistir's area of skill either. He was not like Nelyafinwë, aesthetic to a fault and a charmer to the bone, who—while not the most talented craftsman—could put to shame even the most brilliant of the king's scholars in battles of negotiation, social pleasantries and rhetoric. Words flowed from those lips like honey, sweet and deceiving, and just as easily like molten glass, burning fiercely and wickedly before the opponent even had a chance to retreat and live to fight another day.

Carnistir could barely utter a single sentence without stuttering and flushing dark to match his horrible mother-name.

He did not even _want_ to compare himself to Kanafinwë, who had inherited all their mother's gentle wisdom and hidden temper mixed to perfection with their father's terrifying intellect, rolled up into a beautiful face that had maidens swooning and a glorious voice that would make a vala weep for envy. Carnistir could swear that the second oldest composed breathtaking arias in his sleep and wove intricate tapestries of sound and color without second thought, capturing his audience in a net of pure emotion and wonder, the images captivating before their eyes.

And he was smart. Smart enough to hold banter with Nelyafinwë's silver tongue. Smart enough to play chess with their father and _win_. Smart enough to be the perfect child in every way that mattered, even if his delicate, soft hands were not made to beat upon metal with a hammer or pour molten gold into opulent creations of splendor.

And then there was Turkafinwë. Wild, independent and free of all obligations, even their sire could not hope to tie down the creature beneath the pale exterior. If Kanafinwë had their father's intelligence, Turkafinwë had the fire in his spirit, untamable and unbreakable, unyielding to any reason or will but his own, stubborn to a fault. Once Turkafinwë set his mind to something, he did not cease until it was done, and no one dared get in his way.

There was no work in the forge for the third brother. Always, he was off in the wilderness, hunting or riding, smeared with dirt, clothes worn and torn, silver locks braided back simply without the lavish decoration of a prince. Even when Fëanáro himself ordered Turkafinwë to "Stay", the third eldest would hold his arrogant head high and lock his jaw, smirking back into enraged eyes, and reply "No" without a droplet of hesitation. And under the volcanic pressure of that heart-stopping gaze, the silver-haired prince would not even twitch.

Carnistir could not even look his father in the eyes without wincing. Secretly, he envied the third brother's unshakeable confidence.

Even the Ambarussa, young and troublesome though they were, had a spark that Carnistir _lacked_. They had the natural ingenuity of their sire, and they used it to terrifying effect in their mischief and schemes. Planning and execution were flawlessly carried out, and the middle brother had been on the receiving end of the result often enough to know the devastating consequences of underestimating the redheaded duo.

In every aspect, Carnistir was the one lacking, the child who had none of his father's brilliance, the disappointing son of Fëanáro, not even worth mentioning. Not even worth _noticing._

And they never did. Not a single one of them. Not his father consumed in business of the forge or his mother working in her studio. Not Nelyo, absorbed with political intrigue at court, or Káno, endlessly creating and learning and devouring knowledge, or Turko, who was never even home to see any of them to begin with.

Carnistir could not help but feel that he must be cursed. Because to be the least of seven sons was a shame that ate away at his happiness and spirit and liveliness until he felt like naught but a shadow hiding beneath the great and towering figures of his family. Forgotten somewhere along the way, the wilting plant choked off from the light of the sun by the thick canopies of the trees above.

And no one seemed to care.

\---

"You frown too much, little brother."

It was Nelyo, the smooth voice and breathtaking height. His flame-headed eldest brother moved into his line of vision, dropping to sit with loose elegance on the bench at Carnistir's side, looking every inch the perfect heir and third in line to the throne even with his hair undone and his tunic hanging open in the front like a commoner on the streets.

"Why should one smile when they've naught to smile about?"

He looked up into Nelyo's silver eyes and almost shuddered. That calculation, so like their father's, was lurking just behind a shield of geniality, picking apart Carnistir's exterior and searching for the motives beneath as though he were some enemy on the battlefield of court rather than the simple, broody younger brother.

"Now, why would you say something like that?" Nelyo grinned, and the strange specter beneath his handsome face vanished like the morning mist. "Come now, give us a smile."

Carnistir rolled his eyes and wished that simple sentence didn't send a pang of pure _pain_ roiling through his chest. "Just leave me alone, Nelyo."

An arm looped around his shoulders, and the younger brother had to stifle the urge to shrug it off rudely. Instead, he ground his teeth and stared resolutely ahead as he was pulled into a half-embrace against his brother's side. Nelyo was warm and solid beneath his silken clothing, supportive; what Carnistir wouldn't have given for his father to be this stable, to be a foundation upon which he could lean! But Nelyo was not his father, and Fëanáro was more like a snake awaiting the moment to strike than a warm burrow in which to take sanctuary.

"Tell me what has you so upset, Moryo."

"Just drop it," he snarled, wriggling free of the hold around his neck and rising to his feet. "I do not wish to talk about it."

A hand gripped his wrist, and just like that, the fourth child of Fëanáro snapped, his fist swinging around and aiming straight for those terrifying, threatening silver eyes set in that horridly perfect face. It would have been stained black-and-blue had Nelyo not dodged at the last moment.

"Moryo! What on earth has gotten into you!" He almost sounded scandalized, and Carnistir wondered if it was a facade; he'd seen the twins and Turko do worse.

"Just _leave me alone!"_

"Not until you tell me what is wrong."

Traitorously, tears pricked sharp at the corners of Carnistir's eyes. Oh! how he would love to tell Nelyo everything, to spill out all of the doubts and fears and loathing and seek comfort in the strength of his eldest brother's arms, but fear sat heavy in his belly. Nelyo could lie as easily as he could draw breath, and he could twist words into misshapen, convoluted meanings without even trying. A manipulator. A dangerous keeper of weaknesses and secrets of the soul.

And Carnistir wondered when he had lost his naive faith in the man who had once tucked him in at night in their father's absence. Somewhere along the way, between the end of parental embraces and the cold distance of speech, they had lost something important, the bridge of closeness collapsing in disrepair.

"It's stupid," he muttered before his tongue could curb itself. "Just leave me be. I will figure it out myself, Nelyo. No need to waste your time."

The hand on his wrist would not release, instead pulling him back towards the bench, back towards the threat of discovery and the hopeful light of revelation. "I am not wasting my time, Moryo. Come and sit with me."

_I am not wasting my time_. But he was, was he not?

"But I..."

"Please, Moryo, sit with me." He was pulled down, and the arm draped itself over his shoulder once more, too familiar and too comforting and too stable, too like a cherished memory. "Tell me."

And just like that, everything tumbled out in a cascade of fragile words and tears.

Everything. About not being good enough. About Fëanáro and his disappointed eyes and his cold voice. About how he was _jealous of Turko_ and _intimidated by Káno_ and _overshadowed by Curvo_. About how he couldn't speak without stuttering, couldn't talk to a lady without freezing like an imbecile. About how his hands shook terribly and he couldn't make them stop.

About how it was too much to bear. He just wasn't made perfect. Not like Fëanáro and Nelyo and Káno and Turko and Curvo and the twins. He was just _him_ , Moryo the shadow, useless and lacking in talent. The least of seven. The least of his father.

And that voice crooned in his ear, all soft touches and lullabies in the dark. It should have been degrading, to be soothed like a child, but some secret part of Carnistir knew it was exactly what he wanted, what he _needed_ , and what his father could never give him.

And when all tears were spent and exhaustion had him leaning on a warm shoulder, a steady heartbeat beneath his ear, there was only soft, cool touches combing through his hair and the sound of Nelyo's breathing against his ear. For the longest time, they just sat, and Carnistir felt the fight and the tension draining out of his body, fleeing in the wake of the hole drilled in the self-imposed cage of doubt.

"You should have said something sooner, Moryo, hánya." Large hands moved to cup his face, tilting the reddened visage upwards. What a sight he must have looked, red-rimmed, puffy eyes and glowing, leaking nose revealed to the daylight, but the gravitas of his brother's expression did not waver. "I would not have you think as such."

"But it is true, is it not?" Carnistir said bitterly, clutching his hands tightly, nails biting at his palms. "I could not compare to any one of you. Atar looks and sees nothing but a failure."

"Well, Atar is neither perfect nor infallible," Nelyo replied with a surprisingly dark scowl and hot burst of frustration. "Do not let him convince you otherwise. He is quick to judge and slow to change his mind, unwilling to use his skills of perception to find anything unexpected or undesired beneath the exterior. He sees what he wants to see, and not the reality."

_What is that even supposed to mean_? Carnistir bit his lip and glanced away, unsure how to respond.

Nelyo just sighed. "Listen to me, Moryo. None of us is perfect. Not me, and not Káno or Turko or Curvo or Pityo or Telvo. We all lack something somewhere. We are _all_ the least in something. Try not to think so poorly of yourself. You _will_ find your place in time."

"It sounds so easy when you say it, Nelyo," the fourth brother hiccupped, scrubbing at the salty stains on his cheeks. "Too easy."

"I have faith that you can figure it out." His brother's grin was cheeky. "Believe me when I tell you, Moryo, that you have Atar's vehement passion, and without that—Spirit of Fire or no—he would never have gotten to where he is today. Try to remember that, hánya, the next time he decides to sneer down his nose and make himself into a nuisance."

His fists tightened until his knuckles blanched white and his nails drew faint crescents of blood, but Carnistir nodded still, unsure what to think or what to feel. He was caught somewhere between relief and elation and confusion. "I will try."

"That is all I can ask." Gently, Nelyo kissed his temple and rose from the bench, stroking a long-fingered hand once more through his red-faced brother's dark curtain of hair—their father's proud mane framing their mother's ruddy cheeks. But before he left, the older brother turned the full-force of his charm upon his younger sibling and smiled that crooked, infectious grin. "Now, give us a smile."

And how was Carnistir to resist? Waterworks, freckles and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> hánya = my brother (háno + nya)  
> Atar = Father


	66. Exception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finwë explains how the world is not a perfect place full of rainbows and butterflies and fairness—Valar forbid!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Hints at a threesome.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Curufinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë

Finwë was the exception to the law.

Married twice for love against the edict of the Valar when a soul was only ever supposed to join wholly and completely with _One_. It was the way of the world, the Powers rationalized to the Eldar. Each elf was born for one other and _only_ one other—the other half of their soul, the other piece of their broken, frayed edges that fit perfectly with all their dips and cracks and faults. That was how the song had _intended_ to shape the world before the beginning of time.

But Arda was marred, and none knew that better than Finwë Noldóran.

Who could understand if they had never experienced the situation in which the King had found himself entrapped? Even before the birth of his firstborn, there had been a dark gap, something important and essential missing in the intricate framework of the bridge connecting their souls. Míriel had been his _One_ —they had _felt_ it the very first time they had gazed into the other's starry eyes—but the completeness promised had never followed on the train of their joining. Their pieces did not match as they were supposed to, but left small cracks and flaws behind where they should have melded into one being in mind and soul. They had loved passionately, but unspoken between them there always rested a strange tension, a sense of wrongness, of coldness.

When his beautiful queen had faded, his love had not been enough to anchor her to the world of the living, had not been enough to restore her vibrancy and zeal.

And then he had been alone, with not only that emptiness sitting somewhere in the back of his mind, unfulfilled, but a gaping pit of sorrow and longing where Míriel's fire had once filled his spirit with zest for life and burning love, where her unspoken words had once touched the walls of his mind as gentle fingers stroking across his thoughts.

Finwë had a son, but he had not a soul-mate, had not a wife, had not the large family that had always lingered in his hopes and daydreams. Everything was lacking, somehow _not right_. No amount of adoration from his firstborn could sate the ravenous desire that burst to life in the most secret part of his being, the part of him that resented that his spirit had not been enough to rejuvenate his beloved wife, had not been enough to nurture the brilliant child within her, within the circle of their joining. Part of him resented that she had passed on and left him alone to raise a son without a mother to soothe that wild, restless spirit and croon lullabies into wanting ears.

Part of him resented that Eä was not as it should be. For no matter what the Valar claimed, there was no symmetry to be found here, not in the land or the seas or the skies—or the hearts. He resented their callous dismissal of the very _idea_ that they might be _wrong_. That the world wasn't _fair_ and _equal._

It was many years later, after Curufinwë was grown, that Finwë met Indis of the House of Ingwë.

Immediately, she knew he was _her One._

And that was when everything went terribly wrong.

It was greed and selfishness that led him to go against the edict of the Valar, many said, their voices as bitter and as resentful as the blackest part of the King's heart had always been. He wanted another woman to replace the first, they said, wanted her so that he could have the children he longed for so terribly. Some wondered if he even loved her.

But they did not understand.

They did not understand that when he was with her that empty part of him which had always been bereft and jagged was suddenly filled and soothed and warmed. It was as if all that had once been missing from his existence was packed into the young maiden with her sweet cornflower blue eyes and her endless golden locks and her smile brighter than all the light of the Trees. They _could not understand_ , for Finwë had never heard of another soul born with _two_ mates—three parts that wove and entwined to create something perfect and beautiful that transcended the evil that lay waiting in every heart, preying off pain and suffering.

The emptiness of the loss of Míriel did not dissipate, but was it truly so selfish for Finwë to be drawn to his One and she to him? And how could he _deny her_ , when without him she would live out the rest of her long years alone and childless, always knowing the man she was fated to be with but not able to touch him because of _the Valar's laws?_ No, he could not do that to her, not when he knew what that rejection felt like, how it painfully sliced through all happiness and color in life until everything seemed a shade of gray and sadness. Was it truly, then, selfish of him to fight for their togetherness against the Powers?

Except, they made him _choose._

And how was it justice, that one part of three—incomplete as a pair, a contradiction to the perfection of the false reality of the delusional idealists—was made to choose only _one_ of the two thirds that would complete him in mind and spirit? That he was made to condemn the other to death until he himself passed into the Halls of the Waiting?

That he was made to condemn them to _never be whole._

Choosing the promise of a family and many golden years of children and grandchildren laughing in his halls and sitting on his knees over the woman who had abandoned him to raise his firstborn alone in a cold, dark existence had been both an easy and difficult choice. There would be no going back after all was said and done, but even should he deny Indis her love, Míriel could not come back, could not fill the void she had left in his life, in their _son's_ life.

Was it any wonder, then, that he married his fair, golden vanya? That he chose bliss rather than an eternity of regret and wistful nostalgia to keep him company in silent, lonely halls?

"Selfish", his jealous firstborn called him. "Foolish", some whispered behind his back. Still some others laid upon his shoulders all the woes that had befallen his people, all of his son's unspeakable deeds of evil, and all of the sins of his grandchildren, and all of the horror and destruction that followed in the wake of his death.

Perhaps it had been a heavy price to pay for selfishness, and perhaps it was selfish to place the happiness of his soul-mate over the laws of the Powers. But in the end, could they truly put blame upon his actions? It was not _he_ who had driven a wedge between the House of Curufinwë and the House of Nolofinwë. It was not _he_ who had asked his son to seek revenge for his willing sacrifice. His being excepted of the law of mates may have catalyzed Curufinwë's resentment, but that was all. And for all his supposed selfishness, still he suffered.

He was the exception to the convention, to the rules, but also the exception to the justice. The exception to the harmony in the theme which had woven time into the vision of Eä. Perhaps, one day, the Valar would understand. Perhaps, one day, his _sons_ would understand.

But that day had not yet come, and Finwë carried on with all the scars and chips and flaws lining his soul. There was naught else to be done but wait and pray and hope for better days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eldar = Elves


	67. Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm on the evils of civilization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character study of Celegorm in the days of the Two Trees. Connected to Least (Chapter 65).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo, Turkafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

More than anything. Tyelkormo hated being told what to do and what not to do. He hated being reprimanded for being "unacceptable".

The silver-haired prince could not stand the halls of his father and grandfather, pompously flamboyant and frivolous, filled to the brim with vicious whispers and shadowy rumors and fake men and women with false, mocking smiles. He hated the silent cues that seemed to slip past lips without ever having been spoken, and the eyes waiting for him to trip, to make a mistake, like vultures circling a wounded animal, waiting for it to keel over and die so they could viciously tear into ripe flesh and sate their thirst for blood and meat.

There was nothing in the world of politics, civilization and societal interaction except _rules._ Rules which were made to be obeyed on pain of shattered reputation.

Manners—how to speak and how to walk and how to eat salad and how to flirt and _this_ and _that_. There was an unspoken code of _right_ and _wrong_ , but it was all backwards and upside-down and corrupted. It was not a world that the third son relished.

All of it he found to be pointless and stifling. How anyone could live under such oppression and receive any modicum of satisfaction from their boring little lives—living in fear of self-discovery day-in and day-out for years and years piled into a mountain of denial and prejudice—Tyelkormo just did not understand.

He did not understand what titillated Nelyafinwë about spending hours and hours speaking riddles coated in acid and layered in needles at helpless courtiers, outmaneuvering them in the delicate art of undertones. He did not understand how Kanafinwë could spend all his days cooped up like a pretty little pet, always listening to conceited words without glancing away and following orders without hesitation and behaving precisely as demanded at their father's every arrogant whim. He did not understand why Morifinwë was afraid to speak his mind plainly to their sire's face, why his younger brother seemed to take every harsh word like a stab to the chest rather than a simple castigation, and why he never retaliated against the cruel blows to his pride. And he _most certainly_ did not understand how Curufinwë could spend all morning and all afternoon and all evening locked up with their sire in the forge and not go mad from the sheer amount of _bullying_ for which their father was infamous. _"Do this, Curufinwë"_ and _"Do that Curufinwë"_ and _"Listen to every word I speak as though your life depends on it, Curufinwë",_ as if the man's word were the laws of Eru set in stone and mithril.

Disgusting and pathetic, that was what it was. Masochistic.

It seemed that Tyelkormo was not made to be sociable, not made to fit into the boundaries of "civilized people" as his parents desired. He was not made to obey his father's every wish, but felt the undeniable urge to lift his head and sneer right back as an equal—rude and ungrateful and spiteful—whenever Fëanáro dared to order him to heel. Because _how dare he presume to treat his own child as an ill-mannered dog?_

No, Tyelkormo was not made for rules.

He was a creature of the endless rippling fields of grass and the deep, cool shadows of trees and the thrill of the wind streaking through his hair and the open sky gaping wide open over his head. Roofs felt oppressive and walls were like prisons, a cage created for the sole purpose of crippling his spirit.

The only time the third son of Fëanáro felt at peace with himself was lying beneath the blanket of the stars set in their molds of the heavens. His toes longed to feel the dew-covered blades of grass tickle between their tender joints and his nails ached to be caked and coated in rich earth. It felt like coming home to hold a bow in his hands—the curve of smooth wood and down of fletching fitting into his grip like an extension of his natural limbs—and focus only on his next breath and next movement. To _forget everything_ , including _rules_ and _manners_ and _propriety_ and all those unnecessary complications that did nothing but drive the fire of all freedom and happiness into the ground and smother it under layers of choking dirt until its oxygen ran dry and it sizzled into death-throes.

In his world, there was no need for shoes. There was no need for fancy ornaments of silver and gold and bronze draped around neck and brow. There was no need for extravagant outfits to veil the ugly reality of each flawed spirit. All anyone needed was food and water and the clothes on their backs and dreams filling their heads, un-stifled and un-strangled, free to breathe Manwë's sweet breath and be nurtured in Yavanna's motherly embrace.

That was the code by which the wild-hearted third son shaped his life. There were no edicts about the patched holes in his frayed leggings or the mud-smears on his boots or the twigs tangled in the haphazard braids of his hair.

There was the land and the sky and the only obstacles were the limitations of the body and the perception of the mind. With sheer determination that put his sire to shame, Tyelkormo never let any hindrance stop his forward momentum, never let any boundaries hold him back from achieving whatever he set out to achieve to the fullest potential.

For the third son, there was but one rule. Dream and fulfill and never let anyone stand in your way.

Because life was not worth living under the thumb of adversity and pressure of disapproval. Because joy could not be attained through putting on a prosthetic face and dancing upon puppet-strings to the whims of a master. Because no one could ever be happy being anyone but who they were, and no amount of pretty baubles and empty flattery would ever change that single, simple truth.

And let it never be said that Turkafinwë Tyelkormo did not know the spirit that blazed with divine life beneath his own skin. And no father's heavy words could bend his unshakable will.


	68. Correct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is the perfect prince living in a perfect black and white world, until suddenly everything isn't as black and white as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions murder. Vomiting.
> 
> *quoted directly from "Of the Flight of the Noldor"
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

All his life, Makalaurë had been trained to conform to what was "right".

That meant to respect and obey his father and mother without question as a son was made to. It meant to bend over backwards and morph himself into the perfect genius child of whom his father could covet and be proud. It meant following all of the unspoken social and moral rules and values that lingered like phantoms beneath the outward pleasantry of the deceptively peaceful world of Valinor.

Makalaurë knew the rules. 

Always be impeccably groomed—unwrinkled robes decorated with the appropriate level of finery and jewels, hair braided about an elegant but understated circlet (for the third in line to the throne), dirt and grass left outside and not smeared on the polished floor or staining expensive fabric. It simply would not do to be seen as a messy ruffian with no foundation.

Always be well-behaved—neither shout nor act upon any impulse of passion, never show weakness before the eyes of a stranger, always play the game of complimentary insults hissed beneath flowery praises. Welcome ladies with a kiss on the hand even if their voice grated upon your nerves like steel against stone, sparking deeply hidden revulsion in the back of your throat. Smile and pretend that nothing was wrong.

Always follow the unspoken rules—about whose company he could keep and when, about how he could speak to a scholar and how he could speak to a cousin and how he could speak to a woman, about which fork was _always_ used to eat the first course of a meal and which came last. Never flout tradition before eagerly watching eyes waiting for a chink in the metaphorical royal armor of which to take advantage to wound or poison.

And Makalaurë obeyed these rules to a fault where Nelyafinwë broke their father's trust and Turkafinwë tossed propriety and duty to the wind and Morifinwë fumbled over the simplest dance of social interaction.

He also knew honor. Knew that to give his word was to swear on his life to see it through. He knew duty. Knew that as an heir to the throne he must keep a facade and must present a solid foundation and towering fortress to ward off attack. He knew work. Knew that if he were to ever hold his head up high before his peers and his subjects, he would have to demonstrate his prodigal skills, prove himself beyond doubt or question.

And he knew right from wrong like he knew black from white. Opposites set in stone, easily unfurled and divined by logical reasoning and a closed heart. Follow the laws. Follow his father's rules. Follow his moral code.

Except the world was no longer black and white.

When his father's eyes bored into him with the searing touch of a furnace and the expectation of a prideful gaze upon his perfect child, Makalaurë wanted more than anything to say "no" as Turkafinwë could deny, to rebuke his family for their hasty Oath, for being fools—wanted to back and away and stay behind and hold his wife and sons in his embrace, safe from harm and sundering and the encroaching darkness of the Black Enemy leaking out over the world, leaving it unclean.

But was it not right for a son to follow his father and avenge his grandfather—reclaim what was rightfully theirs to own and to covet? Surely, Fëanáro was correct in his wisdom and knowledge? And how could Makalaurë say no, when it was the _wrong decision?_

And so he had held his sword aloft in the firelight until it shone in the dark like blood, and foreboding had come upon his heart, sickened with anxiety and unrest.

Unrest that came to fulfillment upon the docks of Alqualondë. For it was there that his father had smiled such a vicious, heartless smile that it made Makalaurë shiver to gaze upon it, and he ordered them to take the ships by force "and damn the cowardly sea-elves who would abandon their allies in times of great need". Thus it was that they _stole_ the beautifully made and luxuriously tended boats, the precious work molded of worshipful hands and reverent hearts. And there it was that they shed first blood of those who dared to stand in their way, who dared to throw their lives between the invaders and their home.

Makalaurë did not tell anyone that he had been sick over the side of the peer afterwards. Weaknesses as such were not allowed, especially not with the uncertainty of Arafinwë's hosts like a bitter tang of fear in the nose and the treacherous whispers of Nolofinwë's people a dark shroud reaching out its shadowy fingers to strangle them in the night.

But in his head, already the song of lament had begun, and if he prayed to anyone in his shame, it was to the Lady Nienna for strength and mercy. For certainly, he had done as he was supposed to do, and the tears of regret and the guilt he carried in his heart like slow-acting poison were his punishment, would purify the blackness from his veins and carry him forth in righteousness in this strange world of contradictions and lies and daggers waiting in the dark for a moment of inattention to strike.

No reassurance had ever come.

Suddenly, his reality was full of grays. Suddenly, there was no _correct answer_ , because killing was wrong, but following his Oath and his father's words was right. And when they were ordered to rise in the night and take the ships to the other side of Belegaer, Makalaurë had never suspected that it was treachery they performed without second thought.

He had never expected for Nelyafinwë to ask eagerly "And whom shall the ships bear hither first? Findekáno the valiant?" and for his father to wickedly reply "None and none!"* with cruel laughter in his throat and suffocating words of hatred upon his tongue.

Doubt was stoked his Makalaurë's breast, thick with tension and confusion and fear. To where had the man to whom he had always obeyed loyally and loved faithfully gone? Who was this stranger before him, he who would throw away the lives of _his own people and kindred_ as if they meant nothing more than the spilled blood of the Teleri who reneged their bonds of friendship, who would break all rules of responsibility and righteousness? Was it not Fëanáro's duty to protect those sworn to his service with his life and his sacred blood in return as their king and servant?

As the second son stood on the cliffs overlooking the burning of the ships—the works of the hearts of the people of Alqualondë whose lives had been taken in cold-blooded murder through evil, filthy deeds—Makalaurë felt a chill take up residence in his chest.

Because gazing upon his father's fey, bright eyes and broad, sadistic smile, he knew not anymore what to think or how to act. He knew not what decision was right and which led to folly. He knew not what could be done or said to rectify the horrible betrayal of kin unto kin or how to quell the roiling turmoil that churned vengefully in his belly.

He knew not what path was the correct to follow, and which would lead to wretched sin. All he knew were blood-slickened hands and broken bonds of trust.


	69. Harm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Of the fate of Eluréd and Elurín no tale tells." Quenta Silmarillion: the Ruin of Doriath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allusions to psychological torture. Second Kinslaying stuff.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Lord of Dreams = Irmo (Lórien)  
> Lady of Rest = Estë  
> Lady of Mercy = Nienna

The pair was attempting to hide from him.

And failing. Daeron could sense them from miles away without even trying. At a scant distance of ten yards, they hadn't a hope of remaining undetected by the experienced elf, so loud were their tiny footsteps upon the dry leaves and wet earth, but the musician did not have the heart to confront them and scare them out of their wits. He never even glanced over his shoulder.

Instead, he allowed them to follow him through the forest, pretending at obliviousness as he hunted for his dinner, as Anor began to sink below the horizon and plunge the hostile, merciless world into blackness, as he lit his fire to roast his fat rabbit dinner and warm his chilled hands when the temperatures of the forest plummeted with the loss of golden light. At all times, _they_ were nearby, their huge blue eyes watching him as twinkling stars from the darkness of the world, waiting for him to drop off into the arms of the Lord of Dreams and the Lady of Rest so that the little ones might remain undetected scavengers.

When he bedded down for the night, Daeron did not rest and did not dream, but when two tiny shadows stole into his camp, filching the (purposefully) abandoned remains of his dinner and huddling near the lit fire, he did not rise to speak to them, or even move. Instead, he breathed slowly and deeply as one asleep, silently observing.

Two elflings, alone in the wilderness with naught but tattered remains of tunics and torn leggings, their feet bare and badly in need of washing and tending. Their hair was long and matted and so filthy that Daeron could not pick out its natural color except that it was originally lighter than the muddy brown hue it currently sported. The pair squeezed themselves together, touching constantly, and shared the extra strips of roasted rabbit flank between them, nibbling, their eyes occasionally darting back to the fully-grown elf "sleeping" some distance away.

Other than being skinny, they did not appear to be injured in any way. No infected gashes or wounds, no broken bones or bruises. They were just terrified. So terrified that even a stutter in the measured tempo of Daeron's breathing made them jump and flee back to the safety of the shadows.

That they could not even trust a grown elf— _And what elf would do harm to a young child of their own kin?_ He could not help but wonder in horrified fascination, ill to the depths of his heart—spoke volumes about what had happened to separate them from their parents and leave them homeless wild creatures traversing the forest, hiding before what they perceived as threatening eyes, surviving in the only way such young children knew how without guidance.

Every night, Daeron left out a portion of his meal and thanked the Lady of Mercy that they did not realize they had been caught and he was merely humoring their thievery. Much safer, the little ones were, under Daeron's silent and watchful care than sneaking about trying to take food and warmth from the camps of wandering vagrants and bandits.

When the news came of the destruction of Menegroth by the hands of the Sons of Fëanor, Daeron _knew_ what had happened to the children, and his belly had filled with ice.

Many ways there were to harm that did not involve fists or blades. Well he could imagine an elven lord from across the sea towering over the unprotected little ones, snarling curses in their young ears, threatening to have them ripped apart or tortured or _worse_ , riling them into such a state of fear that they lost all sense of safety and memories of caring hands and soothing voices and adults who sang them to sleep in the night and did not yell or drag or hiss insidiously in the dark—until they no longer remembered adults who were not monsters. And any elf who could heartlessly slaughter innocent men and women simply because their king refused to sully his pride by forfeiting a ridiculous glowing rock was a worthy of the title "monster".

The children were afraid of monsters. And to them, all adults were monsters. The only people they could rely on in the world were each the other, and no one else.

It was heartbreaking, Daeron found himself thinking as he again watched them and wished with all his spirit that he could wrap them in his arms and keep them safe, that he could clean their smudged little faces and wipe away their tears and somehow mend the cracks and lacerations littering their minds and souls.

Harm had been done to them indeed, but it was not the kind so easily fixed with a gentle kiss and crooned reassurances. These wounds went deeper than any other, unhealed by time and medicine, left to fester and drag the unsuspecting, naive spirits down with their weight of fear and broken trust.

And when the little ones finally stopped coming in the night, Daeron wept and wondered if there was anything more he could have done to help them or heal them. He wondered if any words would ever be as a balm upon their fractured young souls, if they would ever fully leave the shadows of the past and rejoin their kin.

Or, perhaps, they would spend eternity alone in their togetherness, lost in the black cloud of sin descended upon the world. Perhaps there were no words which could heal the harm that had been grievously inflicted.

And that was perhaps the saddest thought of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Anor = the sun


	70. Strive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character study of young Maedhros. Because being Fëanáro's oldest son could not have been easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dysfunctional family. Character analysis. Connected to Least, Correct, Rule and Temperamental, the other characterization chapters.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë

Being the oldest—the heir not only to a family but also to a kingdom—was far from easy. It was a coveted position for which was yearned by younger siblings with a thirst that could not be quenched.

Maitimo would have traded it to them without a second thought.

Second in line to the throne be damned. His father's precious, most valued son—Maitimo laughed at the thought and threw it to the wind to be lost. He didn't need either of those things, those empty titles full of empty promises.

All those words meant was work. Back-breaking, insanity-inducing _work_ that was never finished and never ceased, sharp eyes watching the back of his neck day-in and day-out waiting patiently for one little crack to slip through with acidic words that burned his heart, one little weakness to exploit in the name of hardening his fortitude, strengthening his body and sharpening his mind as one beat and shaped and remade a blade through flame and hammer in the dark forge until it gleamed like Telperion, until its edge and angle were deadly.

It meant pushing himself to the brink and beyond. It meant sleepless nights of studying and reading and gathering every scrap of useful knowledge available as ammunition against the rising tide of contention waiting at the breakfast table the next morning.

He put in every ounce of effort that could be spared, and Maitimo was the top of his class at the academy, crushing his classmates beneath the weight of his intelligence. In many cases, he outwitted his teachers and peers alike, battled with spears of knowledge and proverbs against his grandfather's most brilliant scholars and philosophers and defeated them all. A genius, they claimed, just like his father. Bright beyond his few years, an endless well stretching on into empty darkness, thirsting for more knowledge and teachings to fill it until it reached the golden light of Laurelin, insatiable and without rest.

Yet whenever tongues wagged of his prowess, Fëanáro's lips would merely purse tightly, eyes narrowing, and he would say nothing. No praise. No compliment. His eyes would rest upon his son, blank of all thought and emotion, and then he would turn away as if those impressive attributes meant _nothing_ , not even worth acknowledging. It was castigation more potent than any yelled insults or hissed threats could ever hope to match.

No amount of hours spent slaving in the forge could produce a creation of glory that would please his father's eye. No amount of pouring over tomes and memorizing texts would impress his sire's racing mind. No amount of political weight or social reputation gathered through Maitimo's accomplishments or endeavors, his own clawing and snarking and mingling, could satisfy Fëanáro's impossible expectations for his oldest son and heir, the representative of the Crown Prince's legacy, the royal flesh and blood and bone to the core of his being.

No amount of striving would ever make Maitimo good enough or strong enough or smart enough or inventive enough to fill his role as his father's shadow.

He was not Fëanáro's copy. And he never would be.

He was Nerdanel's thoughtful wisdom and her gentle features and her smooth tongue and her soothing voice and her endless patience. He was not his father's untouchable, insatiable fire or his naturally curious mind or his born-and-bred talent in leathers before a roaring forge fire with molten metal shaped at his every whim and pleasure.

If he was not his father, there was no amount of accomplishments that could pile up to eclipse the mountain of Fëanáro's pride and arrogance looming overhead. 

And if Maitimo was bitter, who could possibly blame him? Why could Kanafinwë not have been firstborn, the son who took to all challenges like a fish took to water, never needing to stay up into the early hours of the morning to absorb all the teachings he could get his fingers upon, never needing to practice long and hard for hours and hours stacked upon each other to reach unattainable perfection?

Maitimo would have thrown it all away to be last. Sometimes, as he lay sleepless in his bed, staring at the ceiling, he would wish to wake up in the morning as the second-born, and with those thoughts he would fall asleep dreaming of his father's gaze resting incisively on _someone else_ and his father's voice chastising _someone else_ and his father's impossible expectations crushing _someone else's_ spirit beneath their terrifying weight. For just an hour—just a moment—he longed to have the freedom his siblings wished to cast aside as worthless trash, for he knew its priceless treasure.

But in the morning, he was always the firstborn. And always, he would close his eyes and take a deep breath and push himself up out of bed, knowing what awaited him at the bottom of the stairs. It was selfish to wish his role upon one of his ignorant, blessed younger brothers.

Fate had given him this cursed hand, and _by the Valar_ he was going to make the best of it! He would continue to sweat through long hours in the forge, continue to study himself into the ground to learn more, continue to stand as a shield between the disappointing reality and his younger siblings who looked to him as an example. Maitimo would not yield to his father's mocking stare and sneering smirk. One day, he would prove himself to be worthy of his place at his father's shoulder, of his duty as second in line to the throne, and no one was going to stop him.

Not even his father.

For all Maitimo's imagined faults, even Fëanáro could not deny his eldest son's sheer determination to succeed, to strive towards that perfection, tantalizingly dangled just beyond his fingertips. He was helpless to stop himself, to give up, to surrender. It was not in the first son's nature to allow himself the luxury of laying down arms and taking up the white flag.

And that was perhaps the greatest curse of sharing Fëanáro's hot blood. Never give up. Never give in. Never stop reaching. Not even if it killed you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurelin and Telperion are the Two Trees.


	71. Temperamental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindalórë on the hereditary temper issues of her husband's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lindalórë is my OFC created to be Curufin's canonical spouse. Teldanno is the OMC spontaneous child Curufin never knew he had until it (literally) hit him in the face.
> 
> Connected to Locked and Punch (Chapters 35 and 36) as well as the other characterization chapters.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Atarinkë, Curufinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

One minute, Atarinkë could be a mild-mannered charmer with a smile that could swoon a maiden from across the room, and the next he could be a raging thunderstorm of fury and flying, stone fists.

It was, most rightfully assumed, the result of his parentage.

The Crown Prince had never been considered particularly docile—most would have considered Fëanáro the exact opposite: frightfully impulsive, a bundle of dangerous curiosity and insatiable wonder and white-hot fury all tangled up like an unrolled ball of yarn strewn at random about the floor and combed back together haphazardly. Similar to his renowned progeny, one moment he could be delivering a sultry grin unto his wife's darkening eyes, and the next he could be yelling and cussing up a storm at something as simple as a splinter or broken glass or a stubbed toe.

And it was not as if Nerdanel the Wise was any less at fault for the wild, sour flavor hidden in the sweet nectar of the fruit of their sacred union. Kind-hearted and patient though she might be, every woman had a line that could not be crossed, and the unfortunate reality of having a man as recklessly passionate as Fëanáro for a husband was plainly that boundaries were crossed without thought to the consequences.

Anyone who knew the woman well knew that she could be more terrifying than her husband when angered or scorned—when pushed past that invisible line of the tolerance of masculine stupidity—with a voice that shook the Pelóri to their foundations and had Fëanáro frantically scrambling for forgiveness, lest he spend several hours beneath the heavy, bloodthirsty lash of her barbed tongue (and several nights locked out of their shared bedchambers to huddle by the warmth of the fire in the sitting room like a pet). It seemed that Nerdanel's hair—the wreaths of fiery curls that Fëanáro found so delightfully entrancing—really _did_ symbolize her inner wildcat.

The result:

Curufinwë Atarinkë. From the top of his head to the tip of his toes to his narrowed eyes to his seductive voice to his gorgeous face—and his crazy emoting, impossible to forecast, a flashes of lightening from blue, clear skies. Even his name played upon the reflective pattern plain for anyone with two eyes and a brain to see.

All the father's talent in the forge, the hot fury coupled along with thousands of hours pounding a hammer to metal in the depths of the dark and fire, was refracted unto the son. The ability to concentrate until the world was drowned out completely. The natural elegance of the tongue notable in any prince. The instinctive charmer hidden underneath distinctively sharp, powerful features.

It only took one experience with his unpredictable blood to understand.

And Lindalórë could well remember.

It was all because some ridiculous courtier across the room had insulted the Crown Prince and his wife in the presence of his fifth son. In retrospect, it was foolish to believe that there would be no retaliation—physical or otherwise—when the older brothers were as accomplished politicians as the younger brother was a craftsman. She didn't suppose the man had expected the garnered result of his loose tongue.

Like a gentleman, Atarinkë had his arm entwined with hers, a glass of wine offered at her flushed lips as she giggled in embarrassment at the delightfully forward gesture. Even now, she could picture his charming grin, stretched wide over straight, white teeth as he stared down at her with undisguised fondness. And then a voice across the room—and why the words she could recall, but did not even want to repeat in her mind! Suffice to say, it had been reprehensible!

The grin froze and morphed before her very eyes, lip curling upwards until those straight white teeth were no longer bared in a wide smile, but rather a deadly snarl.

And Atarinkë had _exploded._

She could not even remember seeing him cross the room. Suddenly he was there, his hand knocking the wine from his adversary's smarting fingers, the tinkling of glass following as the delicate crystalline glassware shattered on hardwood floors. There was a shout and the sound of a fist against flesh and bone—a dull thud beneath the smack of skin on skin—and the fool who had opened his mouth so unwisely was suddenly on the floor, nose leaking thin trails of red between his clutching hands and his pathetic groans.

Though she would later claim that it was horrible behavior—what kind of wife would _encourage_ such impulsive violence?—standing red-faced and panting over the downed courtier, Atarinkë had looked like an ainu in the flesh, glowing with his fury, absolutely beautiful beyond worldly description.

And then, as though nothing had happened, the light drained from his body and he stepped over the sod rolling on the floor in agony as if the imbecile had not even been present. Slightly bruised knuckles picked up his wife's hand, and his lips brushed in a butterfly kiss over her skin. "Forgive the interruption, my lady. Where were we?" His bangs and fallen over his eyes, ruffled, and she couldn't help but recall how wonderfully bright and fey those orbs were.

Even now, it still made her heart flutter like an untried maiden.

And in her son, she could see so much of the father and grandfather and grandmother. In those eyes and that face—unforgettable, strong gravitas—she could see Fëanáro staring out at her, his vehemence writhing just beneath the surface, waiting for the wrong words, the wrong action, waiting to burst forth in a towering spire of ash and vicious, toxic words. In the smile, she could see Atarinkë, could see the impulsiveness in its transition from a silvered moon-crescent of affection to a biting frown of revulsion and disgust with only a whispered word or an unwise movement. In the static quiet, she could sense Nerdanel's hidden temper lurking in the shadows, veiled with layer upon layer of patience, but every once in a while a strong breeze would blow back the diaphanous sheets of fabric to reveal the monster growling underneath.

And, as clear as daylight, she saw it when Atarinkë and Telperinquar appeared on their doorstep without a word in advance after walking out on their family—on her and her unborn, unknown son. The shouting had drawn her from her solitary knitting endeavor, and her first sight of her wayward husband after almost six thousand years was with a purpling bruise blooming upon his jaw, spreading into an eye-socket until it was ringed in black, and streams of crimson escaping from beneath the hand plastered over a slightly crooked nose.

And Teldanno with bruised knuckles, chest heaving in fury as he blocked the doorway, was staring down his sire as though Atarinkë were the Black Enemy himself. Looking _exactly like his father in a snit with exactly his grandfather's wild expression and exactly his grandmother's wicked tongue slithering from between his vicious lips in black clouds of deadly rhetoric._

It was—dare she even think it—endearing. It was just so utterly _Fëanorean._

With a sigh, she had invited her husband and elder son back inside their abode and wondered how many more broken noses, bruised cheeks and deafening swearing matches would fill her once quiet household as a result of that temperamental streak a hundred leagues wide. 

Yet, she knew there was naught to be done about it now. Lindalórë had married into a line of flash-flooding torrential downpours and sudden freak thunderstorms breaking out over the calm plains. And she did not think she could have loved her family more for it. They were her boys. Even their ridiculous tempers shadowed under deceptive, crooked grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pelóri are the mountains encircling Valinor.
> 
> Quenya:  
> ainu = one of the Holy Ones (ainur)  
> Fëanorean = Of the House of Fëanor


	72. Divided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underneath that blank facade, thought happens and fear happens and doubt happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, of course, the "Noldorin exiles return to Middle-earth" AU.
> 
> Soul-mates. Serious relationship problems. Past non-consensual sex. 
> 
> Connected with Cheat (Chapter 5).

On the outside, Thranduil was always composed. Never a rebellious hair out of place, never a wrinkle in his impeccable robes. And always, he knew where he was going, moved through time with direction born of brutal experience, with a future in his mind's eye and the interests of his people in his heart. On the outside, he was the perfect monarch, a united front of steel, forbidding and glorious, learned in the art of being something untouchable, unquestionable.

It was a deception, nothing more and nothing less.

For who but Ilúvatar Almighty had never questioned his or her own motivations, had never second-guessed their own decisions? Who—of all the Children of Eru—had never doubted their flimsy courage, had never faltered in their confidence, had never loathed some deep, dark secret part of themselves that was both innate and at the same time foreign?

Being king did not make Thranduil an exception to this rule. That fact did not quell the hesitation and shame and fear that burned with acidic sharpness in his breast. It did not quiet his mind or give him assurance, and no matter how calm and collected his surface might appear, it was naught but a layer of ice—thin and delicate—frosted across the roiling turmoil of a river beneath, surging wildly, ever-changing and uncontrollable, the dichotomy of inner mind and outer body.

Because Thranduil, a young king with a grieving people, did not know what to do.

Newly-returned from war with a scant third of his original forces—and sans his father, the king—Thranduil had struggled up the impossibly high mountain of responsibility, learning all too quickly that every corner turned led to more slithering voices wanting to use his favor for personal gain, led to more whispered rumors and sharp glances questioning his authority, led to more plots slinking in and out of the shadows, waiting until his back was turned to strike. In the first year alone there had been three assassination attempts by political dissidents revolting against their king's Sindarin blood. And he could not blame them for resentment of his bloodline; his father had led many of their people to horrible, pointless death over useless pride.

He learned to be nonchalant, unmovable, unyielding—a powerful king presiding over his people, not be questioned or crossed. And he learned quickly.

Yet never had Thranduil felt more alone, more withdrawn, more terrified and confused and worried and _longing miserably for something he could never have but wanted vehemently._ To just have a place where he could be something other than the son of the king whose foolishness had ravaged their people, to have a nook in which he could hide from the world, safe and warm, wrapped up in strong arms, hidden away from all of this disappointing disillusionment, and to not have to pretend, not be forced to present himself as an unbreakable wall of royalty and certainty.

And then _he_ had appeared upon Thranduil's balcony in the night.

Like a demonic phantom from beyond the veil of memories and nightmares, tall and predatory with glistening emeralds for eyes and writhing flames for hair and a face that would strike Morgoth himself into silence with a sharp glance. No matter how many times Thranduil had attempted to forget, the essence of that visage had never left him alone, burned as it was on the back of his eyelids in the silence of night, waiting for him to fall through Lórien's embrace into a dark web of terrors long past.

For who could ever forget their One?

Certainly not Thranduil, who wanted to spit filthy curses at the man's heels, wanted to tie him to a stake and _burn him_ and make him _suffer as he had made the young, frightened boy in Menegroth suffer_. Overpowering hatred and fury of the likes the elf had never felt—not even for the treacherous dwarrows—consumed the king's spirit.

He wanted Amrod Fëanorion _dead at his feet_. Never mind that the kinslayer was long perished. Or so he had believed.

Yet, inexplicably, Thranduil was torn in two. Because this man was his One. No matter their terrible, bloody past. No matter the cruelties that the madness of the House of Fëanor had inflicted upon the naive child that had once been Thranduil of Doriath, ignorant of the harshness of the world but no longer. No matter that even after all these long years the terror and shame of the day of shattered innocence still whipped over his soul like barbed lashes of rusted steel.

Part of him would always desire this creature. Desire his beautiful body and his blazing-hot spirit and the strength of his arms and the lust in his eyes and the softness of his russet curls. Oh! the tantalizing image of throwing all thought to the wind, of forgetting everything past and tumbling into the offered embrace and hiding away in a small, surreal bubble of ecstasy where nothing in the world was tragic or marred or darkened with sin. But that was all just a dream, ephemeral and visceral, but not tangible—not _possible._

"How are you here?" Thranduil first asked in shock and no small amount of fear.

"Does it matter?" the Son of Fëanor replied, lips quirking, eyes narrowing—corporeal, touchable flesh and bone coiled into an inviting form. It was like being near to a calculating hunter circling his helpless prey, and Thranduil knew who played the hawk and who played the bunny in this charade. "Where else would I go?"

Though he might have looked unruffled on the outside, Thranduil was nothing short of panicked on the inside, pulled roughly between screaming for his guards and leaping towards the trespasser with his sword drawn to gut the murderer right then and alternately throwing himself around that strong body and begging to be carried away into the dark. The ultimate temptation was before him, and yet he could not banish the remnants of pain that stirred in the back of his mind, of being held fast and ravished and left to die. This creature masquerading as a civilized being could not be trusted, no matter how much Thranduil's body and spirit screamed for unity and joining and protection just beyond reach.

As much as he longed—lusted, imagined, pined—after this man, the hatred still rose to the fore of his mind, like a molten wave of unforgiving silver forming the gate behind which the tide of his shameful wants was locked and chained.

"Get out," he hissed between his teeth, hands curled taut at his sides. "Get out!"

"But you do not want me gone," Amrod purred knowingly, undaunted at the anger as one was undaunted by a snarling kitten. "Admit it aloud. You hardly wish for me to leave you here. Alone."

The tear in his psyche stretched and twisted, but Thranduil would not falter in adversity. "Leave, or I will call my guard, and the world will be short one more cold-blooded kinslayer—and better off for the loss!"

But Amrod did not retreat. Indeed, he stalked forward, the invading army nudging and prodding at the defenses of the fortress, beginning to lay siege to its towering walls and barricaded gates. Thranduil should have screamed, should have bolted from the room, should have done _something but stand still and silent_ —yet he only stepped back from the advance, and did not raise the alarm, for his vocal chords were frozen.

His mind was divided, and the war inside his head was raging as fiercely as the one beyond the layers of the icy nonchalance of a tested ruler.

He wanted Amrod Fëanorion dead, wanted that (hideously attractive) visage on display on a silver platter sans a body, green eyes replaced with emeralds, mayhap mounted on a wall for all to see. For _him_ to see and know that that demon in his dreams was vanquished.

Yet an intrinsic, insistent part of him wanted Amrod Fëanorion _alive_ , wanted the hot breath on his cheeks and neck and bare flesh, wanted hands to touch him and drive away all fear and hopelessness and political intrigue, wanted _forgetfulness._

And once a decision was made, there would be no going back.

In the purest form of seduction, his One leaned towards him, mouth brushing his cheek, breath washing over the tender shell of his ear, eyes so close that the king could have named every vibrant hue of vivid green in their depths. "Tell me you wish for me to leave, and I will go." A hand rested upon his hip, slid down over his natural curve, teased at a faintly trembling thigh. "Tell me truthfully that you do not desire me, and I shall never approach you again, my sinda."

In the end, there was no victory or defeat, only a resigned sort of surrender on both sides, a desperate ploy to win the outer battle. "Please," he whispered, "Please leave me alone..."

Because he could not bear to kill this fiery spirit. Nor could he live with himself if he gave in to his blackest desires and forgave and forgot. If his revenge was satisfied, his fury would die as well and drag him into gray limbo, but if his needs were quenched, he would be ashamed to hold his head high before his people, the willing lover of the man who had destroyed his innocence and his homeland, a traitor to his very heritage and soul.

"Leave..."

The heat withdrew, and Thranduil could breathe deeply again without being filled with the scent of blood, coating the back of his throat in a thick layer nauseating copper taint. No longer was he touched. No longer was he on the brink, but three cautious steps back, merely peering over the edge uncertainly.

Immediately, he missed the closeness. The rightness. The Oneness. And the loathing scraped his insides like knives.

"Very well..." Amrod bowed, curtains of hair streaked in gold and amber falling over his shoulders. "I will leave you to your cold life and empty bed, _your majesty_. Should you ever have need of my company, you know which direction to seek. One as tainted as I cannot live outside the shadows."

And he was gone in the night.

Leaving behind only chaos. The inner conflict had not been decided.

Thranduil still felt rage churning in his gut, mixing with scorned pride and faded terror. But on the opposite side of the coin, he still burned with lust, still looked at the spot where Amrod had stood and fantasized about white bliss evaporating away all problems, creating a safe-haven of tingling, golden warmth to cocoon him from the miserable truth.

A battle was won, but the inner war still raged.

And he could not honestly say which side of his spirit would be victorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lórien's embrace is just a reference to dreaming.
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor


	73. Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil makes a decision, and it happens to be a relatively important one for the future of Middle-earth in this AU. If you don't get it, don't worry, it'll come eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Past non-con. Implied past mpreg. Relationship issues. Continuation of Divided (Chapter 72).
> 
> Valthoron is an OMC and the spontaneous lovechild of this pairing.

"You have distracted as of late, adar."

Of course, who would _not_ be, with a battle of two powerful emotions dancing furiously through their mind, twisting and twining and shedding blood on both sides? Was it, then, any wonder that Thranduil could not focus on the incessant ramblings of his advisors as they squabbled over the prestige of his favor?

And all the while he could feel those eyes on the back of his neck, searing an invisible brand into his soul, waiting patiently for his inner thunder-battle of hatred and longing to break and calm into decisiveness. His One knew him all too well, knew that his plea of that night two weeks ago was nothing but a flimsy front constructed to repel unexpected attack, but under concentrated force it would buckle and topple, leaving him undefended.

His One knew that Thranduil had committed to no rejection.

Absently, he nodded to his child and tried not to catch the gleam of familiar russet hair from the corner of his eyes, so frightening like to _his_. "Forgive me, ion-nín. As of late, there has been much to contemplate."

"Is there something troubling you?"

If only the child knew!

If only he could understand the swirling, raging sea of molten despair and wistfulness held at bay with a trembling gate of hatred and terror. The lust for revenge was not only heavy in the veins of the Golodhrim; Thranduil was no more immune to its ravages than those who had once torn down his world and splattered it with the spilled blood and rent dreams of his kin. So badly, he wanted to make that man _pay for what he had done!_ It was like a disease, burning through his veins in toxic black and sickly green, spreading out from his tainted core.

And at the same, there was the deep-seated longing.

"It is not something I would burden your mind with," Thranduil whispered.

He would not wish to speak of the kinslayer—his One, to whom he felt a pull so powerful he staggered beneath its force. It was the purest form of temptation, a test sent from the heavens to break down even the most steadfast, determined of spirits. To go away, to leave all of this behind, to forget everything and have the safety of his One's embrace hidden away in some dappled clearing, the only two souls in the world, so closely entwined as to be less two separate parts and more one harmonious whole.

When it came time, Thranduil wondered whether he could fight this ultimate temptation, could resist, could condemn himself to being _half_ for as long as he lived. As much as the image of the Son of Fëanor dismantled and desecrated before his feet was satisfying, part of him went cold at the vision, weeping silently in the corner of lost hopes and wishes.

Could he kill Amrod? Doubt pulsed at his center.

"I want to help," Valthoron replied, his fingers twining with his father's and squeezing.

_But there is nothing you can do to save me from this decision, the choosing of fate. Some wars must be fought and decided alone._

And this was one such war.

"I appreciate your concern, ion-nín, but there is nothing to be done." Thranduil pulled away from any comfort he might be offered, and instead made to leave, to be alone in the dreadful silence of his chambers, knowing that eyes were peering in through the diaphanous shield of balcony curtains, patiently awaiting... "Tell Galion that I am not to be disturbed. If someone should need something, they may speak to _you."_

"Me? But..."

"Consider it practice." _Reassurance, his guilty conscience corrected_. "I will see you in the morn."

He pressed a kiss to his son's forehead, avoided touching the silken curls of that vibrant fire and gold, and fled as quickly as his formal robes would allow. No more questioning, not when he was ready to burst open and scream in frustration, to weep at the skies and ask _why, why was this happening to him? What had he ever done to deserve this destiny?_

Behind him, he locked the door to his bedchambers and blew out the candles. Darkness fell over him, and the only sound he heard was the wind rustling the wings of trees just beyond the balcony.

And then the shaking started, convulsing outwards until his knees gave and Thranduil sat on the floor in an undignified heap of silk and bone, the veil of deception masking his true visage crushed with no eyes to keep its foundations firm.

_Could I kill him? Could I order his death?_ Over and over, he asked, and each time his answer was weaker, all resolution diminished. _Could I truly do it, knowing that he would be gone forever, that all hope would be lost...?_

What it really came down to—in the end—was the value of empty revenge and broken love and sweet, unwanted lust. The balance was tipping before his very eyes, the arguments once again dashing each other violently against the rocks of logic in his brain.

In the end, was the bleak, momentary satisfaction of vengeance and the destruction of the _source_ of terror and shattered innocence of ages past worth losing the only promise of a future, worth knowingly walking into the unknown of forever alone with no choice to turn back time, no chance to undo past decisions, no hope of the catharsis that dangled at his very fingertips at this very _moment?_

It was there before him, the temptation of the silence of the mind, of not being Thranduil Oropherion, King of Great Greenwood, but a nameless, faceless other half of another nameless, faceless soul with whom he was perfectly matched. It was overwhelming. Intoxicating.

Even if it was the wrong choice, the alternative was unbearable.

And it was then that Thranduil felt his throat close, holding back a sob through sheer force of will. If he were to answer truthfully, he knew he could not kill Amrod Fëanorion any more than he could change the weather's rapid, chaotic movements across the surface of Arda, nor could he turn a blind eye and pretend nothing had changed, that his world still revolved on the same axis as it had just days before. He could not deny that his One was _part of him_ , no matter how much he despised that heartless, immoral, depraved piece that still somehow laced together with his offered half so perfectly.

It was that thought which trampled the outer defenses of his rational, ice-cold, detached logic, the part of him that rejected emotional interference as a burden to be ignored and shoved aside. It was that thought which brought down the golden sheen of glory upon the heart's deepest hidden desires, breaking through the gate of hatred, throwing its heavy doors to the side to release the flood.

It was that thought which had him leaping from his balcony into the trees with no word to anyone of where he was going or why, no thought of consequences. Impulsive heat raged through his veins at the sudden need to _see his One._ To _touch him_ and make certain he was _real._

And to accept the escape he offered. To _use_ him, out of shattered love and bleak hope and utter madness derived from hours upon hours of denying the essence of his deepest being.

To forget their past and their pain and their names and their blood.

When he came unto the clearing, he knew that Amrod was waiting for him, could feel the presence within the darkness radiating heat like a furnace from the sheer intensity of the legacy of that spirit. Dappled silver was cast down over his head, and it was the small droplets of Ithil breaking through the canopies above which gave him a soft glimpse of the tall silhouette that put both fear and desire rushing through his veins.

"Your decision is made, then?"

Suddenly, his mouth felt so dry, so parched and locked closed, his lips sewn shut. Thranduil could only manage a nod.

Green eyes narrowed down at him, waiting, watching... "Tell me."

Barely daring to breathe, the king reached up to the crown of crimson flowers atop his pale mane, grasping the beautiful object honed and perfected by hundreds of hours of skilled craftsmanship and hundreds of years of responsibility and hidden connotations of politics and schemes of dissidents, and he threw it all down into the grass, as shed blood against the gentle, waving blades.

And Amrod knew. A smirk that rent Thranduil with shudders of anticipation curled the corners of thin lips, morphed that unforgettable face into something hungry and entrancing. "Come with me." A hand was offered into the empty air between them.

All he could do was stare for long moments, frozen with the last remembrance of pain. Unconsciously, his breath held fast, and inside his mind the _need_ screamed and jeered and urged him to destroy the last vestiges of doubt lingering in the lowest safe-havens of the fortress of hatred and pride and fear.

One step forward, one doubt vanquished. The grass was tender on the soles of his feet, cool with dew, tickling gently.

Another, bringing him close enough to reach out and touch. The hot scent burst over him, of death and yet something inexplicably alive. He could hear Amrod breathing. He could feel the heat of flesh beneath the tips of his trembling fingers as his hand raised to fall into the inviting cusp of that scarred, callused palm.

Contact. Inside, the part of him that still hoped and dreamed rejoiced in victory.

A kiss to his knuckles, and then his wrist, and then his cheeks. He could count the shades of those eyes again, and see every emotion swirling freely in their depths, uncovered, vulnerable.

They shared breath between them.

And Thranduil forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wings of trees is an obscure reference to Namarië.
> 
> Sindarin:  
> adar = father  
> ion-nín = my son  
> Golodhrim = Noldor  
> Ithil = the moon


	74. Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reason why Thranduil's decision was important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Blatantly implied mpreg. Past non-con. Past consensual relationship as well.
> 
> Connected with Divided and Victory (Chapters 72 and 73).

The Greenleaf was positively angelic, a blessing unto the people of Great Greenwood, and a blessing unto Thranduil's unraveling existence, a true child of Ilúvatar's grace.

For every time he looked into those green eyes—heartbreaking and filled with the essence of _life_ —it stole away all the breath in his lungs, caressed all riotous thoughts into soothing silence. They were the sire's eyes, yet from his beloved child's face they did not send pangs of agony through his chest, did not make him wince and look away from fear. Did not make him recall his last moments in the dappled clearing of the forest before turning his back on his heart. No, malice could not breed in the air around the child, could not taint the heart in his presence.

Thranduil was enchanted. All he wanted to do whenever he could spare a moment was to sit and to watch his infant son coo adorably and sleep peacefully and giggle with thoughtless wonder, to stroke his fingers over cheeks that would put all silks to shame at their softness, to run his fingers through the downy strands of pale hair just to feel how _real_ the tiny miracle in his arms truly was, how tangible and undeniable.

It was glorious. If Valthoron had been born into Thranduil's darkest days of uncertainty and destruction of youth, Legolas had been delivered into the brightest days of rebuilding and recovery.

Or perhaps it was not that he was born _into_ that brilliance, so much as that he had brought it with him _into this world_ with those shining eyes and that breathtaking innocence. A package of rebirth and hopes and dreams that had once been thrown to the wayside, crushed under a wicked tale of war and death and tragedy, picked up and suddenly dropped into the arms of the failing young king scrambling to pull together his shattered people.

The colors had come back to the world. The piercing hatred had dulled to a low simmer. The horrible longing that had both driven him into familiar arms and scared him away now relaxed, the stretching tension pulling him constantly towards the source of all fear and all relief now drifting away on a gentle breeze.

That such beauty could be created of a union of suffering and catharsis was reassuring. That color could burst forth from a world of gray left him clawing for new hope. That a leaf of the purest green could unfurl in this hostile environment was truly a gift.

And it was not only the king to which this child gave new life, but the whole of their people. The first child born after the return of the scant forces from Mordor, beaten and broken with an inexperienced leader at their head and the weight of failure upon their shoulders. So many friends had been lost, so many husbands and brothers and sons perished, their bodies lying unclaimed in the vast plains to rot under blazing sun with the filth of orcs, black and red blood mingling into barren earth.

To see such life flourishing in their care after their world had been ravaged and torn apart before their eyes—it was like seeing the first flower blooming gloriously in adversity after a bitter, frigid winter abused all soft petals into back husks. The Greenleaf was a more precious delivery—for his family and for his subjects—than any amount of wealth or power Thranduil could possibly have wished for, a vibrant child born of healing and accepted fears and that tiny catalyst of hope for better days peeking over the horizon in the wake of retreating shadows. He seemed to fill every minute with wonder that had long since faded away in the wake of disillusionment and despair.

Yet even as Thranduil looked down upon the child, he felt some part of his most hidden soul ache for the little one. 

New life was springing forth, rebounding after a time of great sorrow, and yet he sensed the veil of foreshadowing lingering over all of their heads. It was, perhaps, the primal intuition which allowed Golodhrim women to give their offspring such prophetic names. Though Thranduil could put no right name to it, that touch of something surreal and beyond the cliffs of the world was present, writhing under his skin and filling the air—he could _feel it._

Could feel that it was not only rebirth which had brought this tiny package of joy into a world suffering from lack. This was a container of fate, written like an epic tale in the tears of the stars and the singing of the seas and the asymmetry of the earth. The fabric of the future was being woven by the current moment, and this child was to play an instrumental role. Thranduil's very soul strained with the underlying truth—the truth which broke his heart into frantic racing and left him frantically stroking every inch of tender, rosy flesh and soft locks he could reach.

In his mind's eye, he could almost _see_ it, a young elf dressed all in green, a great warrior at home only with a bow in his hands and the wind carrying him forth as one of restless spirit. He could hear the sound of the ocean resonating like a death march and armies screaming for blood with the fires of the earth's wounds spilling behind them, soot and ash and flaming rock blackening the sky.

The foreboding chilled him to the bone.

Perhaps, he thought, it had all been planned from the very birth of the universe long before Thranduil had taken his first shaky steps across cool grass of Doriath or Amrod had been created as the blessed sixth child of his royal house to complement the cursed seventh. Perhaps it had been Eru's voice which whispered away all the king's doubts and fears, allowed him blissful forgetfulness in familiar arms to create this puzzle piece before him. Perhaps it had always been part of the great music sung from the lips of the Ainur long before corporeality existed, and it was this life before Thranduil's ecstatic gaze that spurred Him into binding the king together with the temperamental blood of the House of Fëanor—with all its stubborn determination and burning passion.

Perhaps it was meant to be.

And, perhaps, the Greenleaf was not only the delivery of hope, but of destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Golodhrim = Noldor
> 
> Quenya:  
> Ainur = Holy Ones


	75. Ballad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Caranthir isn't quite destined to be alone forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a modern AU connected with all the soul-mate AU stuff. Basically, this idea came from a story that I've started writing currently titled "DSW Romance". It will soon become obvious why.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Mandos = Námo  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Father = reference to Eru because I'm too lazy to screw with Valarin

When he first spotted her spirit, glowing brilliantly as a diamond amongst black coal, Námo did a very understandable double-take and wondered if he was imagining things after so many years of weaving in and out of past, present and future. Perhaps he was going a bit senile?

Yet, in all his countless millennia, he never forgot a soul. And this was undeniably _her:_

A young woman studying obsessively to become an officer of the law, an honorable job for a character of stalwart and unquestionable loyalty and sense of duty. Not to mention an unquenchable thirst for adventure and undeniably overzealous stubbornness. This woman was not a lady to listen to the prejudiced ranting of a male-dominated society about _her place in the world and the weakness of the female psyche_ , but rather stepped forth and defied all of them with her strength of character and sheer determination, as assured and exemplary as any man. Námo did not doubt that she could become anything she wished if her heart was set upon her goal, and that convinced him more than anything.

Without a doubt, it was her—it was Haleth of the Haladin. Her theme. Her music. Her role in the Ainulindalë, it seemed, was far from complete. He could _hear her_ in his vast expanses of memories, one little trill in the grand scheme of all things, but an important detail that rung out over the trumpeting thunder of Melkor's ruckus.

But there was that slight problem—that it _couldn't_ have been Haleth, who had died in the First Age a very, _very_ long time ago. Not unless there was a greater force at work behind his back to bring all the cacophony into a final harmonious chord...

The Doomsman rolled his eyes and wondered if any of his brothers and sisters realized that their Father was a complete romantic sop. As if the Beren and Lúthien stunt hadn't been proof enough (they all insisted it was Námo's dominion over the dead that brought the mortal back unto the corporeal plane of Eä, conveniently forgetting that his demesne overshadowed dead _elves_ , not _men_ ), now there appeared a mortal woman's soul reborn into a new mortal body, conveniently positioned on a crash-course with the life of her soul-mate, a very, _very_ old elf languishing his time away being a cranky old recluse locked up in a dingy little apartment.

He could see many ways in which this situation could unfurl, a veritable swarm of threads splitting and intertwining and zigzagging off into the distance, each its own variation on a theme, telling its own little rhyming tale of comedy or tragedy. Slowly, cautiously, he picked his way through the channels of time, watching Lady Haleth—now Haley MacDonald—graduating from her university, watching her work her first assignment on the job, watching her become the woman he always knew she was, be it thousands of years in the past or a handful of blinks in the future.

And he watched her life intersect with _his_ over and over.

And _oh! was that not interesting?_ The vala felt an amused smile slinking over his face, brightening his typically dour demeanor. _What a future!_

"What doth have thee so pleased, husband mine?"

Ah, Vairë. As usual, she could read his nearly stoic facial features as though he had written down his every emotion upon parchment for her perusal, so in tune they were after so many years as spouses. Fondly, he inclined his head and let the smirk upon his lips _be_ ; there was no reason to hide good tidings.

"I am merely sharing a private joke with our Father. He has an interesting sense of humor."

She gave him a nonplussed look, but didn't question him further, very used to the odd moments of amusement that sometimes trailed after a particularly deep glance into the blossoming reality. "For whom am I going to be weaving my next creation?" Oh yes, she knew him well.

"Caranthir Fëanorion," he replied smoothly.

This was going to be interesting indeed. Their Father had something incredibly complex planned out in his great epic theme, and Námo wondered how the lyrics would write themselves in the end. Truly, he was looking forward to the completion of this stanza of their cosmic ballad.

But first, he had some errands to run. Someone as stubborn and sensitive as the ancient Fëanorion would needs some prodding in the correct direction, or he might land sharp at his cue.

\---

"I do not need a job."

They were in a cozy little café, and Námo could not deny that he was enjoying himself immensely, perhaps a touch sadistically. Caranthir was every bit as snarly and snappy as he recalled from the days of rebirth. Just like a crotchety old man, he was set in his ways, and he did _not_ appreciate being _ordered_ to change his reclusive tendencies into a more social pattern.

"As amusing as it is to observe your reputation as an enigmatic hermit, I do believe it would be beneficial for you to expand your horizons. Meet new people."

Caranthir was not buying his not-so-subtle manipulation. Indeed, the elf seemed less convinced by the moment. One did not live over the span of more than seven ages of the world without learning to recognize when they were being used and baited. Never mind that it was ultimately for the elf's benefit that Námo was poking his head into business that was not strictly _supposed to be_ his.

"I have never needed to 'meet new people' before. I have lived a quite satisfactory existence without the nuisance of mortals flitting in and out of my thoughts like fleeting rain-showers. In fact, it seems to me that such interaction would be more detrimental than beneficial."

It was experience talking. One need only know that his mortal lover had lived only a scant handful of years after their meeting and parting to realize that Caranthir was avoiding the pain of permanent attachment and inevitable separation. Who, after all, would wish for a repeat of such a traumatic experience?

Yet the music dictated otherwise. And, secretly, Námo had to admit to being just as much a sentimental old fool as their Father. He _wanted_ a happy ending, or at the very least a bittersweet parting.

And the possibilities...

But those could wait for further analysis. The first task was to intersect two lives properly. And Caranthir was proving to be a resilient creature of bad habit.

"It will be worth your while," the vala finally argued. "I can say no more than that without venturing into dangerous territory, not to mention upsetting my rather uptight siblings. Besides, it would not be an adventure if I just _told you_ what would happen. Can you not trust me when I tell you that you will not regret this decision?"

After all, Námo was never wrong. Once spoken from his lips, it was the law of the world. It was _written_.

That square jaw tightened, teeth grinding softly, but Caranthir did nothing more than sip his lukewarm tea and sigh in defeat. "Fine, I will go along with your _ridiculous scheme_. Damn you!"

Námo grinned in victory. And he couldn't help but wonder if everything was following script, played out like an opera for their Father beyond the edges of the world, that never-ending ballad that somehow always managed to twist and mold their little mishaps and tragedies into something sweet and beautiful at the end.

"Here is the place of employment I had in mind..." The vala shoved the paper across the table into reluctant hands.

Caranthir took one look and threw it down as if burned his fingers. "This is..."

And the vala was gone, a mirage in the late afternoon sun, leaving the elf with his cold tea and crinkled newspaper. Caranthir sighed a second time in the purest frustration, once again looking (with noticeable disgust) down at the circled icon—DSW. A store that sold designer shoes and handbags. It almost brought bile up the back of his throat.

"Not funny..." the elf finished.

And Námo, watching silently from above, just laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainulindalë = Music of the Holy Ones
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor


	76. All I Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And you thought that all Lúthien had to do was sing and Mandos wept buckets of tears and gave her whatever she wanted just like everyone else in her life. Think again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed canon. Lúthien never becomes mortal. Whoops! ~~Not.~~
> 
> This is just a different take on the tale of Beren and Lúthien. It bugs me that their happiness comes at the price of many other lives and hearts. As nice as all their lovey-dovey mushiness is, lots of others suffered to get them to where they ended up. How come Lúthien never thinks about anyone but Beren?
> 
> Of Names:  
> Mandos = Námo

Before him she knelt, and Námo stared down at her teary eyes with a firm frown marring his lips, pulling them into harsh lines. Never before had Lúthien felt so utterly _desperate and vulnerable_ , her heart pounding sharply in the back of her throat. Even standing before the throne of Morgoth himself had not been so terrifying, because her beloved Beren had been at her back, ready to leap in and protect her at the cost of his life.

Here, she was alone. She was alone and being _judged_. In his eyes, she could see warring thoughts, swirling like deep burgundy with black. No softness stared back at her, not a hint of sympathy glistening in those dark depths, not even after singing her heart and soul out at his feet. All of her feelings, laid bare to his speculative, calculating mind. Her unbearably sweet love and passion for the human who had captured her in his net of unique charm, with his scruffy whiskers and his boyish grin and his laughing eyes... Oh, but she would die for him again and again were it enough to bring him back and give him the fate they deserved, together eternally at one another's side...

"Please," she gasped, nearly throwing herself down upon the floor. "Please, all I ask is to stay by his side until the life leaves his eyes, until he is old and gray and has lived a fulfilling existence... Please, I promised... I _love him..."_

"But that is _not_ all you ask, is it, Lady Lúthien, Daughter of Melian, servant of Estë." That voice, deep enough that it resonated through her very bones as though they had been struck, was neither angry nor mocking, merely stating fact. "Nothing there is in your heart that you can hide from me, child."

Then, certainly, he must _see_ and _understand_ that she _needed_ Beren at her side...?

"You cannot hide your love for this mortal man to whom you are barely acquainted," the vala told her. "I do not doubt the depth of your feelings, but your righteousness and naivety, your strangely puerile cruelty, you cannot hide those black little secrets from me in the corners of your mind, blocked even from your sight..."

She started, thinking she may have misheard. Cruelty? But she had only ever done what needed to be done so that she could be by the side of the man she loved! Was that not righteous and admirable to sacrifice so much, to be so brave, for the sake of her undying feelings?

"You can lie to yourself all you wish, but I see all that you have done in your life. I see also that your world is narrow, provincial. What does not please your eye, you have chosen not to see. What does not soothe your mind, you have chosen to forget. What does not fit the fabricated truth in your heart, you have chosen to ignore."

Those eyes were watching her, gauging her reaction, observing her quick, hiccupping breaths and shaking hands. And she knew that they could see straight through her. All the beauty in the world could not faze this creature.

"I love him, and I would do anything so that we might be together," she whispered. "Is that so terribly wrong, my lord?"

His lips pursed. "Wrong? No, perhaps not. Not in the essence of the ideal."

"Then why... why are you scolding me? What have I done?" She gulped, and wished that the tears leaking from her eyes would quit coming, would stop making her voice so rough and broken, would stop making her face blotchy and red. "After everything I have sung unto your spirit, do you still doubt my love, think me a liar?"

"No, I do not." The Doomsman shook his head and turned away. 

For the longest moment, Lúthien felt her breath hitch in her chest, a band of metal pressing down upon her ribs so that her lungs could not take in air to feed her body's hunger. Helpless, powerless, she sat at the feel of her judge and jury, quivering and weeping, a princess brought low. This was not her father—not the king who would do anything to make his princess happy—and not her friends—the servants who loved their darling Tinúviel and would do anything to make her smile in their direction for even a moment. This was not Beren, who could not deny her anything in the world if she batted her eyelashes and offered him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

Finally, after what felt an eternity, his body moved once more, black velvet robes ruffling over the floor, the only sound to mark his presence as a corporeal being. "Very well, I shall give you what you ask, with the Father's blessing. Beren Erchamion shall once again walk the earth, and you shall walk by his side, Princess of Doriath..."

And her heart soared...

"All _I_ ask in return for this boon is for you, Melianiel, to think of all those who have given their lives and happiness so that you might have it in their stead."

_What?_

She looked up at him again, and in his eyes she saw, and it rent her heart with a chilled blade, jagged from neglect and wear. In his eyes she beheld the truth that always she had blocked from her heart, even when it was right before her gaze, the unsettling and frightening and heartbreaking reality that tarnished her innocence, that dulled the brilliance of her assured future at the side of her beloved Beren.

For she could see them again in her mind's eye.

_The golden king limp and lifeless upon the earth, his blood soaking into the filthy ground. His mouth and nails were splattered with crimson stains, and his side was ripped asunder, entrails oozing forth. And yet his last smile was for the terrified boy trembling in the darkness..._

_The silver healer sitting upon his bed, head cradled in his trembling hands. There were tidings of his fallen kin, and on his bedside table lay the circlet that belonged only on his brother's head. The responsibility lay heavy on his shoulders, and the loss of his great joy heavy upon his heart..._

_The wild-eyed hunter who had taken her to his fire and warmed her hands in his rough palms, who had comforted her when she believed her beloved dead. Who had surged over her prone body but still littered her with kisses and sweet words of devotion, so gentle with his glass treasure..._

_The hot-tempered brother who laid his burning forehead against the rough stone of the wall and tried to quell his shaking and ignore the throbbing of his cheek where knuckles had bruised to the bone. Tried to ignore the swell of despair because his only son had cursed his name..._

_The worried father upon his throne, staring off into the distance, because his daughter was never coming home and his wife could hardly bear to look into his face. He had only been trying to keep her safe from the terrors and evil of the world, only wished to bar her from harsh reality..._

_And the heartbroken friend packing his bags and hitching them over his shoulder, looking out to the mountains hazed in blue. She hated him, but in the end, though he was jealous, he loved her with all his soul. All he wanted was to make sure that no harm befell her, and he had completed his mission._

_And the world revolved on..._

Lúthien blinked her eyes open and felt her spirit screaming in denial. Because she _hadn't meant for these things to happen! All she wanted was to be with her love! It wasn't her fault!_

But was it not?

"These souls there are, and many more still, who have lost what you treasure most because of your unthinking actions," Námo told her. "Reflect and repent. Spend every day honoring their sacrifices. And when the time comes for Beren Erchamion to return to the arms of the Father, fade away and deliver yourself unto my halls. By then, I pray some compassion and selflessness may have entered your heart."

He began to move away, and the young maiden, remembering herself, could do naught but rise shakily to her feet and follow after him as a puppy, one last question upon her lips. "But to be by his side for all eternity I would need to be made mortal..."

Námo paused, and her blood froze in her veins, so frightening his visage was when he once again beheld her. As a dark mountain, he towered over her, his shadow stretching on for miles and engulfing her into a frigid embrace. For all her mind screamed to flee, she could no more lift her feet to take flight than she could command Varda's stars to shift their patterns or Laurelin's fruit to deviate from its trajectory across the sky.

"You will remain amongst the Firstborn. The gift of the Followers is not mine to give." The shadows retreated, and Lúthien's trembling legs turned to water beneath her quivering form. Still, he stood over her, as a statue in the twilight, unforgiving and un-accusing, but all the same measuring her worthiness. "Even had I the power to give a gift so precious unto your soul, I would not. Such treasures are meant for the stalwart and faithful, the implacable of valor and honor. You are not one such being."

And that, perhaps, was a worse chastisement than any before had been. When he turned away, Lúthien did not argue, and in her mind's eye she thought of _them_ where she had never thought before of any but herself and her lover.

And she was ashamed.

Even for the boon she had been given, her heart wept. She did not deserve such a fate, such a brilliant future of love and devotion to one man who was blind to all her faults, who would cherish her above all else to the end of his days.

When the grayness embraced her, she did not fight. And when she opened her eyes, it was to the green, vibrant glory of a hidden paradise, and to the exclamations of her lover as he rose from the dead at her side, eyes wide with childish wonder, beholding her  
with fascination and utter adoration. They kissed deeply, and he hugged her close as if she were the most precious thing in the universe.

But deep in her mind she thought of them. And when she returned that embrace, it was with twice the strength she once would have mustered, and twice the emotion bubbling in her throat she once would have touched.

She would not waste or sully this gift with ingratitude or frivolousness. Every day and night she would treasure. And in the end, she prayed they could forgive her heartlessness.


	77. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is not only Thranduil's son. He has some of the other side of the family tree in there, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Cheat, Divided and Victory, but most closely connected with Delivery (Chapter 74).
> 
> Just Glorfindel making observations. And Erestor's parentage (in my head-canon) is revealed rather openly.
> 
> It's been a _very_ long time since I read the Fellowship of the Ring, so this Council of Elrond is based off movie-verse ( ~~because I'm lazy like that~~ ).

The first time Glorfindel of Imladris laid eyes on the Prince of Mirkwood, he thought he was having delusions—perhaps he had had a draught to many of rich Dorwinion last evening? Because he _had_ to be imagining things! It was simply not possible! Were it not for the pale blond hair and the short stature and the face staring back at him with the Elvenking's lovely features, he could have _sworn_ that it was actually Maedhros Fëanorion before him, jaw set and body ramrod straight with blazing heat in his eyes, readying himself to take on all the armies of Morgoth singlehandedly.

Except that was ridiculous. This young elf—hardly more than a child, really—was _nothing like_ the great and feared warrior prince of the First Age. He was skinny and waif-like and short and used a _bow_ for Eru's sake!

No, at first Glorfindel dismissed such thoughts. They were positively absurd. Following this assessment, he went down to the kitchens to track down a herbal cure for hangovers and wondered if perhaps he should just go back abed until noon, no matter that his lover would chide him for it later and demand an explanation for his odd behavior.

He quickly discovered that it was not a fluke. His instincts _screamed_.

When next he saw the child, again, the same feeling buzzed in the back of his mind, an annoying little insect that would just _not go away_. Glorfindel stood and observed carefully from the corner of his eye as the young prince walked past him down the hallway, eyes never shifting from their straightforward position, itching to reach his destination, body moving with swift, predatory grace and not a lick of awkward hesitation. Like a hunter with a set mind and a heart of stubborn determination.

And it suddenly reminded him of Celegorm Fëanorion on the prowl.

That was when he _knew_ something strange was afoot. No gangly young Sindarin prince should remind him of the legendary, bloodthirsty warriors of old, not at a mere glance.

But the more he watched, the more confusing and astounding he found the prince.

It was in the way he walked, in the measured movements of his arms, in the set of his sharp jaw and the angle of his cheekbones. It was in the searing glow of mossy green eyes. Legolas would turn to address someone beside him with a certain tilt of his head and a certain pursing of his lips and suddenly recalled to mind an image of Maglor Fëanorion delicately acknowledging a dignitary to his right with exactly that same silly inclination of the head, teetering on the edge between respect and insult. With amusement, Glorfindel noted the natural angle of Legolas' head was further towards "insult" whenever the addressee happened to be a rude dwarf or uncouth human.

More striking, still, was when the prince smiled, how his dark brows would furrow ever so slightly, how his lips would curl up just extactly crooked, ever so slightly sardonic. And then he would laugh smoothly, low in the back of his throat, almost purring. It reminded him of _Erestor_ , and Glorfindel felt as though he had been banged over the head with a hammer by Aulë's immeasurable strength. It reminded him of _Erestor Maglorion._

Never did he personally speak to the sinda, but kept his distance during the days leading up to the Council. It was not until the Council itself that he finally saw it, the undeniable proof that this child could not possibly be the mere son of _Thranduil of Doriath_ , a stubborn but cold-hearted creature who had none of the intrinsic, unmistakable passion that marked, like a blazing torch in the blackness of the moonless night, the presence of temperamental blood and vehement spirit.

Legolas had the _fire_. During the Council, he leapt to his feet as though struck by a whip, beautiful face marred by an all-too-familiar scowl, and Glorfindel's mind whispered of Caranthir Fëanorion traitorously. "This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You _owe him your allegiance,"_ Legolas growled, wild eyes burning at the sting of insult towards a man he considered to be a worthy friend and companion. Such an expression sent shudders running from the base of Glorfindel's spine, up his back and down again, icy understanding settling in the bottom of his stomach and radiating sharply outwards through his knotted innards.

Thranduil was keeping a secret.

And when Legolas leapt forth and threw himself into the heart of the quest—"You have my bow!"—Glorfindel's throat tightened, bewildered at the dread tugging at his heartstrings. It was an oath, an oath to give away his young life to the Ringbearer to use as the naive little hobbit saw fit. And those eyes were brighter than stars in the day's twilight, that lithe body near _humming_ in anticipation and power.

The Spirit of Fire was molded into this young soul as surely as it was entwined with all the descendants of that cursed House.

And all things started well by the Dispossessed were doomed to end in failure.

Glorfindel could not strike the memory of heat radiating outwards from the young soul, even long after the Fellowship of the Ring had departed. He could not help but wonder... and suspect...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor  
> Maglorion = Son of Maglor


	78. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their relationship was a mountain of lies. Or was it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torture. Psychological torture especially, but not a lot of graphic physical torture (that's implied). Mutilation.
> 
> Companion piece to Disaster (Chapter 47).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Sauron = Annatar

Pain like he had never experienced before now surged venomously through Celebrimbor's body, seemingly consuming him from the inside out, little poisonous fangs biting through his flesh and organs, chewing through them until they were dust and ash between blood and bones. If one had asked, he would not have been able to say how long he had hung here from his chains, only that his wrists were bleeding down his taut arms, streams of crimson decorated his wrenched shoulder and mingling with the blood smeared over his back and chest.

He saved his strength for other things. These meager torturers, these amateurs, they could not hope to draw so much as a scream from his tongue, and Celebrimbor did naught but grind his teeth and think about something— _anything_ —but the pain. _Anything..._

_Pain, pain, pain..._

_Like the green fields of Beleriand before..._

_And the golden lands of his home where his mother waited..._

_And the comforting embrace of thick arms about—_

_No, best not to go there._

"I see you have made no progress with our prisoner. Get out of my sight."

_He_ was back.

From head-to-toe, Celebrimbor shuddered in revulsion, his skin crawling, feeling tainted at even the _memory_ of touch. He knew that voice better than he knew his own, and it struck bells of fury and terror in his head until all sound seemed drowned by the furious raging of his blood. This traitorous _liar_ would hear neither plea nor truth from his lips, not in a hundred millennia!

"My, my, do you not look beautiful, my sweet love..."

"Do not... Do not _call me that!"_ At least his voice still held some bite, never mind that it was a touch hoarse from bearing down on shrieks of agony. "You've no right!"

"No right?" The voice was against his ear, slithering over his skin as a cold caress. Claws delicately traced the skin of his back, scraping painfully over rising, open welts seeping blood. "Were we not lovers, Telperinquar?"

_Were they lovers?_

Celebrimbor could remember many a night in Annatar's bed, huddled close with contentment. He could remember many nights when he would sit up and spend hours combing his fingers through the waves of golden hair, entranced, sometimes daring to trance a gentle finger down one perfectly sculpted cheek in awe. Sometimes, he even dared to whisper the forbidden words softly into the darkness, thinking that his lover was asleep, because Annatar would never say them back...

_I cannot love this monster! This is not the man that I..._

"We are n-not," he snarled, hating that his voice wavered even in the slightest on the last damning word. "I never loved you. Not as Annatar, and not now!"

"Now who is the liar, my sweet love?"

_Do not call me that!_ Hearing the name once whispered in intimate comfort and affection spoken in that voice whipped across his skin harder than any barbed, braided leather, leaving deeper welts on his soul than his flesh could ever experience. It hurt _so much..._

"I do not lie," he hissed, and there was a traitorous sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. "You are _nothing_ to me but a means to an end! You offered me what I wanted and I took it, just as you did to me! I used you, and you used me in return. Do not be a fool, claiming that lust and love are the same. Surely such a creature as the Morgoth's Lieutenant would be aware of the difference."

Claws dug into his hips, and the touch struck electrical terror up his spine, every tiny hair at his nape standing up in alarm. "You can speak as many lies as you wish, but I will always know the truth, my sweet love, who loves me in return, even _now..."_

_I cannot love this monster. I cannot!_

"It was never about the rings. That was just an extra benefit, one of which you took advantage, is that not so? Nevertheless..."

_It had to be about the rings, not him... Never him..._

"You love me."

"No!" Celebrimbor yanked at the chains binding his arms, ignoring the pangs of agony screaming from his wrists and shoulder. "I could never love you. And in the end, I hope you get _everything you deserve_ for your evil deeds! I hope Eru himself strikes you _low_ , makes you _suffer!"_

Lips touched his nape, and Celebrimbor withheld a sob, because only _his Annatar_ touched him so. He could not allow the deception to overcome his determination. Just a little while longer, resisting, lying, and then Mandos would call for his weary soul...

"Is that what you hope for?" Sauron laughed at the vision of mercy, hot and deep breath against his skin. "Do not lie."

"I do not lie." Panting, he wretched his head forward. "I do not lie. You will hear nothing more from my lips, traitor. Murderous _filth. I hate you!"_

Sauron only laughed a second time, and Celebrimbor felt the fingernails dig into his flesh, felt them carving open the meat of his muscle down to the bone, the movements somehow graceful. He could well picture in his head the image of those marks in red ink across pale flesh, the curving lines of Annatar's true name forever branded into his body as the imprint of ash and fire was branded upon his soul.

"You can lie aloud and lie to yourself. But you cannot lie to me."

_Sauron._

"You are mine, forever. _Mine."_

_And it hurt so much because... No, he could not even think it... "I hate you..."_

And he did not speak again. For all the pain and humiliation that followed, only his screams replied to the tormentor's brusque questioning and merciless actions. Celebrimbor felt tears overflow in mourning, but covered them in all the hate he could muster. And deep down, he lied to himself, because if he dared speak the truth, even in those dark depths of his mind, Annatar would hear...

And Annatar would not hear the painful truth from his words. Not now. Not ever.


	79. Stormy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of Gil-Galad. And more Avarin strangeness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sáriel is my Avarin OFC who married Fingon. Thus, this piece is closely tied in with Soulful (Chapter 11), Alcohol (Chapter 14) and especially with Treat (Chapter 63).
> 
> Superstition. Avarin culture. No graphic birth scene.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Gil-Galad = Ereinion

Perhaps it was superstitious to listen to old sayings and tales passed through generations. They were nothing more than chronicles of a people forever overshadowed by the darkness of the North, a people hardened and sharpened as steel by the misfortunes of the world—hardly the truth.

But Sáriel felt unsettled nevertheless.

Outside, the rain pounded against the glass of the windows, miniscule fists banging, grasping the panes and shaking, rattling them until it seemed they might crack under the pressure. The wind bore down upon the land, snagging and tearing at the trees until they bent and bowed beneath the greater force, surrendering to nature's adamantine strength. Even though it was midday, the outside was dark with the thick, swirling soup of clouds overhead, decorated only with the vivid flashes of the heaven's fire streaking in white and violet downwards.

And thunder shook the earth. It shook her certainty.

It was just a stupid old saying, that children born unto a stormy night would lead a stormy life full of turmoil and conflict. She had never seen proof in the flesh, and no one had ever told tales of its prowess. Yet somewhere in her chest, a feeling was growing greater and greater by the hour as her body prepared to bring her child into the unrest of the war-torn outside world. That feeling settled itself down, dug its burrow into the hillside of her heart and refused to be moved from its cozy nest of riotous emotion and worry.

Perhaps she was being ridiculous about the entire thing. It was just the hormones and the anxiety of being so close to the birth. That was it. _That had to be it_. There was nothing at all to be worried about except the wellbeing of herself and the baby.

Besides, the rain would pass before it was time.

Sáriel settled in and waited.

\---

The rain did not abate, nor did the thunder. Rather, it seemed intent upon tearing open the earth's fabric and cracking the foundations of the mountains and seas. As the afternoon spent itself into evening, the storm only seemed to gain momentum, the winds becoming stronger until the windows creaked in warning and the whistling grew shrill and loud.

Fingon returned from his duties looking tired and just as out-of-sorts as Sáriel had been feeling since arising from bed that morning. But he still had a fond smile for the sight of his wife and unborn child, still had his arms spread wide in an invitation that Sáriel eagerly accepted, slipping herself into the safety of the circle of his warm embrace.

"Good evening, hervess-nín," he murmured into her hair as his arms pulled her taut to the broad expanse of his chest. Beneath her ear, his drumbeat of his heart was echoing strong and steady. "Are you feeling well? Is there anything I can get you? Something to eat?"

"No, nothing..." She settled against his comforting warmth and sighed. "I feel strange."

His grip tightened ever so slightly. "Strange?" There was a lilt of concern in his normally vibrant voice.

"Yes. There is a _foreboding_ feeling in the air today. It has been tugging at the back of my mind for attention all afternoon." _Why would it not leave her be?_ "Your heir will be born before sunrise."

"What a day to be born," he replied, laughing shallowly, but with genuine delight. "The storm has not shown any signs of letting up. It might very well continue on into the morning."

_That is what I was afraid of._

"Let us hope for a few rays of Ithil to grace the child's birth." She pulled away and kissed Fingon's cheek softly. "Best that you fetch the healers to our chambers, hervenn-nín. It will not be long now, I suspect."

\---

When Ereinion Son of Fingon came squalling into the world, it was a world of the tumultuous roaring of the storm overhead and the screams of a million rain droplets on thick glass and stone which he first beheld. It was almost hard to hear the child's loud cries over the noise, but they were there, and Sáriel's heart was in her throat, because that was _her son_ she could hear. He was _real_ and he was _well. Thank Eru!_

It was Fingon who brought the child to her waiting, empty arms, his face split wide with a grin that was both tired but at the same time radiant as the stars. What a proud father her silly husband was!

"Our son," he introduced as he sat himself beside her upon the bed, his voice barely audible. The bundle of white cloth was passed along, soft whines rising from within the thick, squirming cocoon.

The first sight of her child's face was white on shadow—lightning flashed sharply from beyond the thin curtains and momentarily blinded her with its brightness. The thunder followed afterwards, deep rumbling, announcing to the entirety of the world the new presence of this child of noble and wild blood. Her son.

And the feeling was overwhelming. Ridiculous or not, it sat heavy in her breast as she looked down into the milky blue eyes of the babe. They would probably fade to gray quickly. Gray to match the color of the heavens above, dark and deep, not the pale, bleached silver of the stars. She could well imagine him in her mind's eye.

Her fingertips traced over a cheek and were grasped by a chubby little fist, brought to a toothless mouth, and Sáriel nearly wept—for joy or sorrow she could not tell.

"Hello, Ereinion," she whispered, leaning down to kiss the child's brow. "Welcome."

_Welcome to a world of beauty and discord, my storm-child. A world of battles laying siege to the vast plains and towering mountains and free, fiery people as this storm lays siege to our fortress in the finite dark of night. This is your home._

And some part of her knew that this child would never see true peace, that he would grow up in the midst of war and take his father's place as a prideful king, ready and willing to lead his people into victorious battle with all the passionate fire of his untamed ancestors. It was not the life she would have chosen for her son, but no one could fight destiny as it was written by Eru Almighty. The music would carry her son on his chosen path to his final destination as was woven in the timeless, resonating chords of forever beyond the edge of all things.

Perhaps it was superstitious, but Sáriel believed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> hervess-nín = my wife  
> hervenn-nín = my husband


	80. Terrible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon never prepared to take the throne. He never wanted to be king. Who could blame the guy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ties in vaguely with Pretend (Chapter 45) if you pay attention.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Orodreth = Artaresto

It was the morning of his coronation, and Findekáno was plotting an escape of legendary proportions. Surely this travesty could not be allowed to take place! He would rather have eaten rotten orc-flesh than dress in these overly heavy, jewel-encrusted, dusty old robes and be set to melt upon the throne like a candle left too close to the fireplace.

If he were honest, Findekáno was simply _not ready_. He would _never_ be ready, not to become king, not to sit on that throne and throw away his wildness and brilliant spirit on the altar of duty. The young prince could not fathom how fate had allowed this event to come to pass when already he had escaped its poisonous claws once and spared his people the ravages of his clumsy reign.

It was a simple fact: no one in their right mind would put Findekáno Nolofinwion on the throne.

There were many qualities about the eldest child of Nolofinwë which could be defined as "admirable", of course. He was well-respected and well-liked amongst even the most cautious and thorny of elves and men for a reason.

First and foremost, he was known for his loyalty and daring. Findekáno the Valiant, who never went back on a promise once it left his lips, who would never turn his back on a friend no matter the strength of their betrayal or severity of their broken bonds. Any vow spoken by the prince was a vow held unto death's door or fulfillment.

Was it not he, the eldest son, who had traversed the wild, unknown lands of Beleriand, who had approached the Thangorodrim and sung proudly of his ancient home in defiance beneath those dark shadows? Was it not he who had risked capture and death (or worse) to bring his best friend, his dearest cousin, away from dreadful suffering, to mend their families' broken alliance and the shattered friendships left in the dust of Fëanáro's madness? No man or elf could deny his courage, tested and steeled in adversity.

And he would do it again. He would have given his life for any of his family, even those who would leave him to die in the dark and cold.

His bright disposition, too, could not be faulted. Ever since he had been young, had grown free of the gangly awkwardness of youth, Findekáno had blossomed into a man of steadfast enthusiasm and a willing heart full to the brim with adventure. Rare was the moment in which the prince was not broadly smiling and cheerfully talking. Rarer still was the moment that he faltered in hesitation or discouragement, for his spirit could not bear such negativity, could not thrive under such weight.

And all of that was leaving out mention of the fondness for alcohol—

No one wanted to say aloud that their beloved prince was, on more than one occasion, a complete lush. One could hardly fault a man for enjoying a heady wine after a long day practicing in the hot sun (or the company of many lovely women with whom he could flirt and coax into removing their icy masks of propriety under the influence of his innate charm and a few glasses of spiked eggnog). The prince had never hidden his earthly desire for good food, good wine and good (feminine) company. And no matter how much he drank or how much he flirted, somehow the young prince still managed to flawlessly navigate the treacherous world of a royal socialite.

Friendly, honorable, handsome and a charmer—but still, Findekáno lacked one intrinsically necessary quality in any ruler.

He was not responsible.

Odd, one would think, considering his many other qualities (if he did say so himself), but quickly his friends and family learned that Findekáno could not be trusted with any sort of schedule or plan. He could not keep his desk organized or his wardrobe free of dirty undergarments. He could not even plan a simple gathering for afternoon tea, let alone run an entire _nation_ of war-torn, weary people looking up _at their king_ for guidance and example.

It was not a position he had ever prepared for or even contemplated, in all honesty. Of course, he had been trained as a young prince should, learning all the proper criteria to mold himself into the perfect heir, but he simply was not suited for a life behind a desk with men and women bowing and scraping for even a second of his scattered attention. Paperwork, meetings, councils and sessions of court for endless hours from the moment Arien rose from slumber until the moment she slipped beneath the covers of the Door of Night—it sounded like a form of monotonous, bone-wearying torture meant to wear down his wild, untamed young spirit into a dull, boring, heartless wretch of a creature.

If one had asked the man himself, he would have told them that he would make a _horrible_ king.

And the last thing his people needed right now was a confused, disorganized greenhorn on the throne. As if the war looming dark on the horizon were not enough, adding an inexperienced and unprepared king into the mixture could spell utter disaster. It was a risk his people could not afford.

But it was a risk they had to take.

As awful as that truth was, Findekáno knew no other would step into his "father's" shoes and take his place as High King of the Noldor. He could not ask such a thing of Turukáno, who had his own safe-haven—his own people—depending on his pillar of strength for balance and foundation, for protection. Nor could he give it unto Artaresto's gentle heart; the healer who ruled Nargothrond was already grief-stricken at the recent demise of all of his brothers and dragged down into despair by the responsibilities of his older brother's vacant crown.

Things were as they were meant to be. Findekáno set aside his wild plots for escape (most involving daring leaps from the balcony upon velvet rope in which he would bravely latch and scale the side of his own fortress to escape his accursed fate) and reluctantly accepted his role. Suddenly, he felt all too tired, all too stretched. 

There was a faint scratch, and the door slid open. "Are you prepared, my king?"

The title rested over him as a shroud, blocking off his lifeline of sunlight and stifling the golden bubbles of warmth that usually permeated his soul. Findekáno felt cold and heavy as he stood, his formal clothing rustling around him as an ocean, pulling down his shoulders and dragging back against his movements as if they personified the weight he would carry until the End of Days, or until he fell in battle. The weight of a king's responsibility in the hands of an unfit prince.

"As ready as I shall ever be." And if his smile was wane and pale, it was left to silence. His butler bowed and held the door open for his passage.

Findekáno crossed over the threshold and into the realm of kingship.

And a terrible curse it was. Of that, he had no doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Nolofinwion = Son of Nolofinwë


	81. Decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ponderings of an elf on the passage of time in the realm of mortals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Immortals being immortal. Baker's daughter running a bakery/cafe. The prince is just helping out.
> 
> Vardamírë is the OFC I created to serve as Maglor's canonical spouse.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë

Time brings all things to an end.

It was a strange concept for any elf born of the golden shores across the Great Sea. Under the grace of the Valar, sweet Valinor never declined, her golden fields never frosting and blackening in death, her flowers eternally blooming as watercolors dotted across a painting of green, captured forever in perfect stillness and harmony within a gilded frame. And, as the land never changed, the people never changed. They never aged and never died, never grew beyond what they were in their prime and never changed their ways, so set in tradition were they after thousands of years of routine.

This was not so across the Great Sea.

At his lofty age, Makalaurë had never been more aware of the reality of his world, the creation marred in the Song yet so perfectly harmonized in dissonance—his world, the cycle of decay.

It was a world where the people did not remain golden, frozen in time like watery after-images burned into the eyes. Their skin grew weak and wrinkled, their hands veined and knobby, their hair wispy and white, and then their bodies fell into disrepair, slowly breaking down until they could carry on their catalyzing and functioning no longer—a broken-down machine rusty from misuse—and the Gift of Ilúvatar was upon them at last.

They reflected the world they lived upon. So fleeting this bizarre place. Mountains once tall were brought low, carved and rent by the forces of nature beyond the description of awed tongues. Rivers were turned, their paths that had run straight and true for a thousand years suddenly shifted and diminished inch by inch by inch. Empires, once strong, fell into despair and ruin, their society unraveling at the seams until finally its frayed edges and rotting stitching could no longer hold inside the turmoil and discord bubbling beneath.

Everything would fall apart. As the flowers wilted into dust, so too did the gemstones of human history. Their golden age past, they withered in the hot sun under the heavy hand of long, unforgiving years until they were naught more than the whisper of a thought from whence they had been birthed. All that was left to mark their passing were relics of a bygone age, meaningless gestures that fascinated the modern man, but mysteries of fleeting interest once their secrets had been unveiled. One day, these vast empires of a mere millennia or two past would be little more than legend, would be lost in the vaults of time—as the great kingdoms of elven brethren and the vast empires of the southern men, as the lonely island of Númenor beyond the waves and the great dwarven strongholds hidden beneath invisible gates of stone.

Now, so many years after he had first touched the ever-changing shores—Makalaurë had lost his count somewhere in the Dark Ages—the world was reaching its pinnacle and again preparing for its descent. All around him, every day, millions of people swarmed as drones over the surface of their vulnerable, naked earth. Magic was all but forgotten and skepticism reigned supreme over the sheep of the newest generation of mankind, greater and more terrible than the last.

Already, he could see their unraveling, could smell the rot rising from within, the sickness eating away at the innards of the monstrous creature called modern civilization. The infighting and conflicts, the blatant murder and surreptitious scheming, it surrounded and engulfed the once-prince of a long-past land of nobility, honor and fading chivalry. He was a warrior—a murderer and a traitor and a sinner—but even he could not fathom what awaited just around the corner of the future...

"What has you so far away, laurenya?"

Vardamírë was behind him, and on her hip balanced a tray of pastries giving off the most delicious odor, wafting under his nose in a sultry dance, beckoning almost as seductively as his wife's hips. The moving world came back, and once more Makalaurë could feel its revolutions about the sun, could feel the movement of time flowing around his form, ghosting by as a cold wind that did not dare touch his blazing soul.

"Time," he replied, and looked down to his hands where they had paused in their working of bread. The flour spread up to his sleeves and the soft, cool dough oozed between his fingers. Once upon a time, he would have been horrified at the mess, but found it now very soothing and calming. "How long, do you suppose, the next generation will remember the ones who came before them?"

An odd question to an outsider, but his wife understood. She set her tray down and began to slip the pastries under the display window to tempt unwary customers into buying more than their stomachs could handle. "Perhaps a millennium or two. They will leave behind quite the scars, this youngest generation."

That they would.

Well he could picture the bare steel skeletons of past great cities rising into a hazy skyline of soot. Well he could imagine the desolate wasteland left behind as their lovely earth, the living sculptures of their Lady Yavanna and the treasures of Lord Aulë's deep caverns and the clean, fresh winds of Lord Manwë's wide open skies were stripped bare, taken and taken and taken and burned away into ashes until there was nothing left. Until there was no path left but decomposition into utter ruin.

Well he could imagine walking that earth and hearing long distant whispers of men who could flatten cities with a single blow, of monsters who could haunt a man's footsteps across the world, who could tail him into his very dreams.

But they would be only whispers, already mere rumors crumbling into tales told to frighten children into good behavior and early bedtimes.

And when all was said and done, he and his wife and his sons would be there, probably still baking pastries in some quaint little hand-built cabin hidden away from the world, watching as even the wake of destruction was scraped from the face of Arda, until even pollution and sickness and iron and steel melted back to the minute particles from whence they had been birthed, just as many an empire before them had done.

"The scars will heal," he said as he worked the dough between ancient, scarred warrior's hands, content and patient. "They always do. It was in the Song."

For time brought all things to an end, good or bad. And the cycle of decay, Makalaurë decided, had its own strange sort of charm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> laurenya = my golden (one) (play off Maglor's name)


	82. Dramatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros returns after rebirth, and he is not as his wife remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Mentions war and torture. Sort of fits into the same general time slot as Weapon (Chapter 54), but not directly connected.
> 
> Istelindë is my OFC who serves as my head-canon Maedhros' wife.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

At first, she barely recognized him.

He was still taller than any man she had ever met, back erect and head held high with pride, towering over the crowds even as they parted about him, as though some evil stench or disfiguring disease physically riddled his form and was likely to infect anyone he brushed. He was still crowned in luxurious russet locks, long and curling in thick, silken waves around broad shoulders and over the rippling muscles of his bared arms. To her he came upon the street in a blue tunic, unadorned as a common merchant with nothing to his name but the clothes upon his back and the boots upon his feet.

Still, he was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eye upon.

But he was at the same time all too different.

She first noticed it when he reached her side and knelt in the middle of the street with his head bowed, first noticed when his hand rose to grasp hers, only the left, bare of the wedding band that had once adorned his fourth finger. His lips brushed her knuckles in the gesture of a dashing prince, but she could see that he was weeping openly, narrow cheekbones glistening in the fading evening daylight as he laid his forehead to her cool skin.

"My sweet Istelindë," he rasped, and his voice was low and unfamiliar, gravelly where it had once been dark chocolate and velvet. It was now strained, heavy with an unnamed weight.

His right arm rose, and she nearly recoiled at the disturbingly handless stump revealed to her gaze, the knob of his wrist jutting awkwardly from scarred, twisted flesh, permanently aching pink with raised marks and painted with blanched, jagged edges writhing over fair skin.

But the physical mutilation was nothing in comparison to her first true glimpse of his face, her first true glimpse of the dramatic change wrought through misadventure and suffering.

For that face that had so long had haunted her dreams and waking hours was nearly unrecognizable. Once, she had known it as she knew the back of her own hands, every curve and dip and angle of his regal cheekbones and straight nose and cleft chin burned into her mind as a vivid, eternal image. In their younger years beneath the golden and silver lights, he had been the most handsome and glorious of men—Maitimo, his mother named him, and he was perfect in handsome features and graceful form. His face had been narrow, but full with healthy flushed skin and dimples at the corners of his grinning lips.

He was not smiling now. Instead of dimples, there were deep lines etched into skin once smooth and flawless, circling the corners of the downturned bow of mouth and digging deep trenches beneath his steel-gray eyes. Between slender brows, a deep furrow reflected countless years of anger and an equal burden of sorrow.

Once brilliant eyes were faded and dark like ash, the silver stars she had once been so fond of gazing upon now shielded with a fog of destruction, smoke rising from the corpse of the man she had once loved so dearly, charred and melted away beneath the vicious heat of sin and betrayal. That man had been ravaged by unspoken horrors which she for all her worldliness could not even begin to imagine or understand. Hollow and filled with ghosts, those darkened orbs were ringed in bruised circles from nights filled to the brim with guilty thoughts and echoing screams.

But even so, a small flicker of the fire she so loved remained, licking at the back walls of grief like a glimpse of redemption. Somehow, the spirit beneath the battlefield of scars still smoldered, fighting against the treacherous downpour to awaken, to burst back into life.

"My handsome Maitimo," she responded softly, her voice low, her hand rising from his grasp to cup a gaunt cheek and stroke over sickly gray flesh. "I missed you so, my husband."

At her gently spoken words, helplessly, his lips twitched into a crooked grin, a pale shadow of the roguish expression that had first seduced her in the blissful years of maidenhood and naivety. But for all the washed-out glory, his sight still caught her breath in her throat, still stirred her heart into a beating frenzy, still left her breathless at the sight of the wonder in his eyes, the _familiar_ hiding beneath this war-torn stranger with her husband's height and red curls.

For all the dramatic change, he was still her Maitimo, her mate. Her One. And no amount of sorrow could destroy the soft fire seared down to his core. No amount of suffering could unmake the other half of her soul or rend their bond apart at the seams. Each tenuous thread held strong and true. Though she could see the doubt in those eyes—the fear in that heart—it was unfounded.

She welcomed him into her embrace and laid his head upon her breast. And she forgave.


	83. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros has a heart, even if no one but Maglor remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connects up with Repeat (Chapter 8), Broken (Chapter 12) and Reap (Chapter 61).
> 
> Death of children. Nightmares. Panic attacks.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Nelyo, Maitimo  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Maglor = Laurë (shortened Makalaurë)  
> Gil-Galad = Ereinion

_"Please... please protect them, Nelyo..."_

_The voice was almost too soft to hear, and then the ringing in his ears overshadowed even the screams of the dying and the fleeing. The grayness encroaching upon the corners of his vision dulled the image of fading eyes and a slack face from view. The hand upon his arm fell, and it did not move again._

_He needed to get out._

_"Nelyafinwë, what is going o—?"_

_"My Lord, we were following ord—"_

_"Where are they?"_

_"The forest. But my Lord, Turkafinwë—"_

_Fire licking at the sky, and its heat scorched Maitimo's flesh, slinking over his armor and skin in glowing wisps, tugging at the ends of his hair, mocking in the darkness. All he could see was the flame and the smoke drawing a thick curtain over his vision, the roaring of this uncontrollable beast consuming the twisted branches in every direction covering his cries._

_But not the screams._

_Loud and long and full of agony, screams that brought to mind a blurry image of red and gold across writhing water and the dancing figure cloaked in russet and living fire falling, falling, falling and screaming, screaming, screaming and..._

_And helplessly, he could do naught but stumble forward until his toes hit something hard upon the ground, spilling him forward. Both hands flew upwards to brace his body for the blow, but the right turned to smoke at the brush of the earth, and Maitimo toppled into decayed leaves and dirt, the taste filling his mouth as his face was crushed beneath his momentum._

_Still, around him there was nothing but enclosing darkness. His hand reached forward and touched charred bone, a leg, moved upwards to crisply blackened meat, to a body small enough to be a ch—_

_Empty eyes and faces filled with terror and pain. But the hair haloing their young, burned faces was not silver as the Man of the Stars, Thingol. It was dark as night, dark as the sire of their royal bloodline, spilled over the ground like blood._

_"Oh Valar... Oh Valar forgive me..." His stomach revolted sharply, retching naught but bile forth, the burn lingering, caught in the back of his throat as his heart beat and beat and beat its way out of his chest, something terrifying rising and rising and rising until he could not hold it inside his earthly body any longer, could not halt the horrified cry._

_"Elros—_

"Elrond!" He shot upwards from bed, and nothing greeted him but the empty darkness. Before he thought, before he realized this was _awake_ and not _dreams_ , his feet were upon the cold, hardwood floors and pounding almost as fast and as loud as his heart twisting and banging upon the bars of his ribs to escape.

He needed to see them. He needed to see them alive. He needed to see them _breathing._

_Because Valar, what if it wasn't a dream?_

_What if they weren't safe?_

_What if they were dea—?_

His hand wrenched open the door at the end of the hall, nearly taking it off its hinges, and the heavy wood slammed to stone with a loud crack that could have woken the dead from their sleep. At first, his elven eyes beheld nothing, and then focused sharply upon made beds with white, crisp sheets, cold from disuse, perfectly creased and devoid of any sign of life.

Empty.

Empty, empty, empty— _Where are they? Where did they go?_

The next door was opened, and the next and the next and the next.

_Empty, empty, empty—_

"Nelyafinwë, what in the name of Arda are you doing?"

"Where are they?" His fingers grasped a thin wrist, squeezed until the palm opened wide to the sky, fingers shaking from the strain of his grip. _"Where are they?"_

"They aren't here! Nelyafinwë, do you not remember?" The body he dragged beside him struggled, another hand catching at his arm and clawing desperately. "Nelyafinwë— Maitimo, please, calm down! Remember yourself!"

_"Where are they?"_

And he shook the soul he gripped. Were it not for the hand that tangled in his hair, that slammed his temple against stone and held, he feared he might have ripped the limb clean off. As it was, his dizzy vision could see it hanging limp, the shoulder at a strangely depressed angle. But he couldn't remember why it was important. _They_ were important, and they _weren't here_ and he _couldn't breathe_ and—

"Calm down..." They were on the hard ground, and his face was scratched up by rough stone, but it cleared away some of the haze. "It will be okay, Maitimo. Just calm down. Breathe for me. Nice and slow—breathe for me, brother."

One breath. And then another and another. His heart still throbbed at the back of his throat as though it might jump out if his lips dared part, but his entire body felt suddenly weak—watery and jittery, trembling on the edge of falling apart completely. The fingers of his left hand, honed by centuries of hard work and endless hours of training, released their iron grip from about the victim, and he could see that dark bruises were blooming already around the angular bulge of a slightly misshapen wrist, swelling and limp from abuse.

"Laurë?"

"That's right..." The hand was in his hair, stroking. "No need to panic... everything is all right... I promise, everything is all right, Maitimo..."

_Panic? But he was only... He was only..._

"Where...? Where are...?"

"At the Isle of Balar with their cousin Ereinion, remember? We sent them away to stay safe. Far away from here, away from this war, remember, brother?" The voice was low, melodic, sweet, soothing, melting around him into a warm blanket thicker than wool and softer than silk. "They are well and safe. _Safe_ and _alive."_

It came back slowly, the memory of parting with them, of kissing their foreheads and pretending that he was not weeping when they disappeared from sight, because he was Maedhros Fëanorion and he was not supposed to be able to shed tears.

What a bucket of horse shit. Even now, he was sobbing in thick, hiccupping waves as he pressed his forehead to his brother's shoulder, nuzzling into the safety of that pale throat like a child cuddling up to his mother after a night terror. The scent of newly fallen rain and roses wafted about him, and it was a welcome perfume, speaking of his brother's gentle nature and disposition, of the musician and artist hiding beneath a feigned mask of politician, prince and warrior.

And that gentle spirit was still stroking him, fingers gliding through his knotted mane and down his shaking back, tracing the bumps of his spine where they hunched outwards. "It will be all right..."

But it wouldn't. Even as he closed his eyes and rested fully upon his younger sibling, Maitimo knew nothing would ever be okay. He wasn't supposed to be attached. He wasn't supposed to feed the fuel of hope to dreams left in shambles. He wasn't supposed to _care_ or feel _guilty_ or _long_ or _worry._

Heartless, pitiless, murderous kinslayer that he was, he was not supposed to possess a heart. He was not supposed to fear for the lives of his victims.

But he did. And their empty beds filled him with hopelessness.

They were never his children to begin with. Yet the thought of them dying hundreds of leagues away beneath the cruel sword of his enemy left him cold and shivering in horror, his heart still racing with the aftershocks of nightmares and sharp, acidic anxiety.

They were his. _His._

And they were gone.


	84. With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter from beyond the edge of the world unto the living left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Cliche warning. Seriously. Response to Write (Chapter 10). Epistolary form.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Saelind = Andreth  
> Elbereth = Varda

_To my beloved Aegnor,_

_I wish you would not have mourned so desperately._

_For lost ill-gotten love. For lost vague hopes and unrealistic dreams. We always knew how our collision was going to end—how the sparks would burst into the sky and light a fleeting flame of passion before plummeting back to the dark earth as a dying puff of smoke. We always knew that fate had not been kind to us._

_We always knew it was going to end. In all truth, it had never begun at all._

_I was mortal and you were elven-kin. We were at war, hardly the time to marry and host a family, to create life in the midst of the dangerous threat looming intently upon the horizon. It was not meant to be, our love. It was then, my darling, that you should have forgotten all about me, about my dark hair glistening in the silvered moonlight, about my fair face reflected upon crystalline water, about my name whispered upon sweet lips, and about the touch of our hands against one another in the silence of solitary togetherness._

_You should have forgotten about the mortal woman and moved on with your immortal life._

_But you never did, is that not so?_

_How would I know, you ask, dead as I have been for so very, very long? Maybe I am not as dead as you think I am. After all, how much do you understand of the world, of the reality beyond the edges of tangible and corporeal, about the inner workings of Eru Ilúvatar, our Almighty Father? Even the Valar know not what waits in His final plan, nor do they know what is possible and what is not for the hands that created the universe. Even the Valar know not the fate of Men once they leave the circle of Eä._

_How do I know? I know because I have been watching. I never left, you must realize._

_If you had moved on, if you had married some lovely, lively, beautiful elven maiden upon the golden shores of Aman and doled out a litter of elflings bigger than that of Fëanor himself, I would not have cared, would not have let bitterness taint the joy in my soul. I would have been happy—grateful that you were granted the chance at happiness I myself was denied. I would not have begrudged you delight of holding your firstborn or the warm comforts of a family at your hearth. But even as I think this now, I understand why you never did marry a simple, elegant elven wife and grow a broad family tree from your seed._

_For the same reason, I imagine, that I never married a mortal man, that I threw away my youth and my beauty and my potential for motherhood. I wanted no other but you._

_And you wanted no other but me._

_In the Halls of the Waiting, you languished in a state of emptiness, sundered from all but your dark thoughts of what could have been and never would be, and the images of my face, fleeting and aging through the years until I was wrinkled and hunched and white-haired—an old woman long past her prime. You longed and wished and prayed and denied and screamed and begged to die a mortal death so that you might be at my side and not go on living forever to the End of Days alone._

_But you do not understand. I never left. Not even for a moment._

_Eventually you left the Halls. Eventually you left Valinor altogether, left behind the dark looks and the changeless glory because you could not bear to think of something eternal, of perfection without your One. I know you better than you think, my darling. I read your letters. I watched you wake to nightmares. And oh! but I wish I could have stroked your golden hair and told you that it's all right, my darling because I'm here and you are not alone. How I longed to give you the comfort you so desperately needed and denied yourself out of needless guilt and remorse. How I wished I could show you that all was well, that I could reveal myself to your gaze and see the despair turn to bliss._

_Even now, upon the distant shores of Middle-earth, the vast green plains dotted with villages of men, all knowledge of elves nearly lost as your people flee to the West, you wait for something, for a sign, for some redemption or rejection. You wander and search tirelessly. At every lake beneath Elbereth's dome studded in adamant, you stood still and gazed into the endless depths of clear water and wondered if you would see my youthful visage staring back, or perhaps even my faded form of old age with only the same eyes as unchanged as my spirit._

_Be patient, my Aegnor. I was born to balance that restless fire within you, so breathe my name and hold still for but a moment. Be patient and watch the mist reflected off the water in which you so desperately search, swirling up into the net of the stars. Watch intently and do not dare blink or look away for even a second. And maybe..._

_Maybe you will see. Maybe the eyes that haunt your dreams will peer back and the hands that run phantom caresses over your cheeks will reach forth once more to embrace you tightly._

_Because I am here. Forever and always, I will stay by your side, with you until the world unravels and the stars crumble to dust and all that is real is dissolved into darkness, until the Firstborn join us in the Timeless Halls beyond the edge of Eä._

_Perhaps, someday, we may yet be reunited. The mysteries of Eru Almighty are many, and His mercy is immeasurable. We may yet see one another again before the shattering of the Door of the Night and the destruction of Anar and Ithil in our vast skies. We are, after all, one spirit and one soul. One being. Fated._

_And I am always with you._

_Forever may you have my undying devotion,  
Your Saelind_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Ithil = the moon  
> Anar = the sun


	85. Killing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've always thought Orodreth was a little bit lame, following all of Túrin's stupid suggestions and getting everyone killed. Here's the start of a theoretical explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to Health (Chapter 39) and also completely experimental. Really, I have no idea where I'm going with this characterization, but I _do_ know that I may just be tempted to stick Orodreth into another slash pairing. But that's neither here nor there.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë

Never would Artaresto forget his first sight of violent, cold-blooded murder.

People died from accidents. Occasionally a craftsman would severely burn himself or cut off a body part and bleed out. Every now and again a building would catch alight and leave someone charred to death or suffocated from the smoke. Accidents happened, even in the golden realm of Valinor.

But this was no accident.

The sightless eyes gazing up at the sky void of the merciful stars, the bodies strewn about like discarded children's dolls, their limbs cut from the strings of the puppet-master in their vacant minds. They were just shells, shells dipped in crimson with their entrails squeezed out onto the cobblestone and their brains leaking out from between white shards of skull, with gaping wounds bisecting them from throat to groin or spearing them straight through from back to front.

He was sick—violently, horribly sick, purging his trembling body of any food that it might dare to still be digesting until only slimy yellow bile came up to splatter into the water below. For the longest time, he did not dare move for fear of fainting dead away. His head spun and spun and spun in the dark.

Artaresto was a peaceful creature. Perhaps he could be nonchalant, even cold at times, but not detached from the world in truth. He was not heartless, and so many innocent lives lost, the terror and agony they must have experienced as they died from their vicious wounds, helplessly bleeding out over their homeland in a vain attempt to protect their homes and families, missing limbs or with organs spilling between their slick fingers... He could not even imagine... could not comprehend...

It was then that Artaresto knew that he hated the act of killing, and he despised those who would spill blood rather than seek peace through negotiation. For these lives had been wasted. And no one could ever make right the sins that had been doled out in the blackest nights of Valinor.

\---

He was given a sword the very next day.

The young prince hardly dared touch the instrument of death, though his older brother was insistent. _"For protection,"_ Findaráto had assured him. _"I would never ask you to harm anyone."_

But could such a weapon be used for any other purpose but harming another life? Artaresto reached to his hip and touched the hilt, smoothing his fingers over cold metal shaped and designed to fit easily into the palm for easy, quick access. The chill traveled up his arm and down his spine in a bone-deep shudder, and he pulled his fingers away as if burned.

"Something bothers you, cousin."

It was Arakáno, the youngest of his uncle's children—a wild-spirited boy if he'd ever met one, perhaps more so even than Aikanáro, who was named for his inner wildfire. Silver eyes blazed with shocking _excitement_ and _anticipation_ , as though they were setting out on some fairytale adventure rather than into exile for the foreseeable future. "I see not how it is any concern of yours," Artaresto replied acidly, suddenly annoyed.

"I meant no offense," Arakáno was quick to reassure him. "I only wanted to help. It never does well to let such depressing fancies fester and set in for a long draught of rain."

Odd. Artaresto wondered if his upset was truly that transparent. "I am not comfortable with a blade," he admitted softly, not wishing to attract too much attention with such an admission, especially considering the general blood-crazed consensus of Fëanáro's people where they lingered at the edges of Nolofinwë's loyal company, licking their chops as if waiting for the next taste of spilled blood to pour down their throats in the sacrilegious succor of burning thirst.

"Not comfortable?" The very idea seemed alien to the younger elf. "Do you not want to become a warrior, crush the Black Enemy and take revenge for our grandfather, cousin?" As if there was no question, no other possible path or option.

_No, I do not. He is dead; he does not desire revenge. Were he_ alive, _he would not desire revenge._ But he did not dare say such things aloud, not with Prince Fëanáro as he was, half-mad from grief, fey beyond comparison. Even looking into his half-uncle's eyes would surely bring Artaresto into a nauseating swoon, for the power in their depths would crush his mild, cool spirit all too easily and unintentionally—or with all the intent and the calculated trajectory of an invisible blade.

"I want to be a healer," he whispered instead. "I want to save lives, not destroy them."

"A healer...?" Arakáno looked as though such a profession had never occurred to him. "Is that not woman's work, tending to gardens of herbs and wrapping the wounds of their battle-torn spouses? People will think you odd."

The words struck some primal, boiling part of Artaresto that rarely surfaced, the red-hot rage that heated only under the pressure of great friction and conflict, becoming a brand to the flesh of the soul. How such ignorance and disregard for the lives of others infuriated and disgusted him to the core! "If killing is the only profession suitable to a man," Artaresto hissed, "I would prefer to be labeled a woman. At least then I could respect _myself."_

He stomped off into the dark to be alone and wished he could rip the sword from his hip and toss it into the writhing ocean waves, watch it glitter in the lamplight until the blade disappeared altogether, lost for all of time, rending him unarmed and untainted. But Findaráto's voice echoed in his head again, full of certainty and at the same time reluctance. _"For protection."_

The cold hand gripping the hilt pulled away. Artaresto left the blade at his hip and did not look at it again. Instead, he pretended it was not there, and eventually he forgot.

\---

One did not live in Beleriand without being blooded.

In fact, Artaresto did not even enter the lands south of Angband without being blooded. Their feet had barely touched stone rather than ice and snow before the enemy was upon them. Never had Artaresto seen anything quite so monstrous as the servants of Morgoth with their blackened skin and their hunched, emaciated bodies and their twisted, misshapen faces.

The monsters did not hesitate to tear flesh from bone. They would do it with their bare, rotting teeth if they were disarmed.

And Artaresto had had no choice but to kill or die. It was he and his brothers of flesh and spirit that stood between children and these merciless, soulless creatures, and if he had to make the choice to fight or surrender a second time, he would do the same over and over and over again.

But the stench of intestines spilling out of a slit belly and all over his boots still made him retch. Stubbornly, Artaresto swallowed whatever came up and tried not to think about it. There would be time to be ill later, when lives were not at stake. Now his blade—blackened with first blood—slashed and parried and slashed some more, controlled only by adrenaline-flushed instinct as it detached heads from shoulders and slit open torsos and rent bone and muscle from any limb that got in its path.

In the end, the flow had slowed and stopped, no more enemies coming forth from the shadows, and Artaresto had trembled so violently his sword slipped from his grasp and clattered against the stone beneath his boots. No longer would his legs hold him upright, for they had disintegrated and bubbled into streams of water dissolving his flesh and bone. And if he sat in blood and who knew what other putrid substance, Artaresto could not be bothered to distinguish it from the flow of stomach acid and meager rations that came vehemently upwards and out of his mouth in throbbing, painful waves.

For how long he sat still afterwards, Artaresto could not say. All he could remember was the horror. He had taken a life—monsters though those slain might be—and they were _dead._ He had _killed_. His hands were soaked in _blood._

"Nephew?" A hand rested upon his shoulder. "Artaresto, look at me."

Nolofinwë, looking exhausted and grieved and war-torn. He was smeared with blood, some of his clothes hanging at odd angles where they had been slit to reveal the mail beneath. The older elf knelt before him, grasping his hands tightly and halting their visible shaking, rubbing them between rough palms until they were warmed enough to thaw and tingle beneath the dirt-encrusted nails.

"You did well," the other elf reassured him, perhaps thinking it might soothe the broken soul fluttering like tattered butterfly wings in his chest. Only it was not a reassurance, but a curse instead.

Who wanted to be accomplished at killing?

"Thank you," he whispered. And he did not mean it. Tears pricked at his eyes.

Nolofinwë pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead and embraced him into strong arms. Artaresto, exhausted and helpless to the comfort, bedded down in the offered chest and wept. Perhaps it had not been a reassurance after all, because his uncle held him tight well into the darkening of the first long, hellish night.

\---

Many centuries later, it came to pass that Artaresto was given the crown of his brother's kingdom.

He had become a healer in the early years of the days of unrest spent mingling amongst the war-ravaged Sindar and Nandor. They called him a gentle creature of the gardens (a woman some whispered contemptuously, but Artaresto would only secretly smile at the words), and he spent his days in the healing houses devoted to stitching back together lacerated and bruised bodies, to mending up the wounds of hopeless cases and putting back the jagged shards of shattered lives as best he could manage with the glue of affection, comfort and the best care he could offer. And the healer loved what he did, loved the role he played in the Song.

Until the day he had to trade it for the cursed position of King, the day his beloved older brother failed to return from the blinding darkness of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Had Turkafinwë not been so utterly mad with jealousy and wickedness, Artaresto might have thrown the circlet of his stately position bodily at his cousin's thick head and told him to keep the damn thing or else bash it to slivers upon the rocks of the great caves carved by its true bearer.

They were at war, and he was no fool. He knew what kings did. They organized armies and kept their city running smoothly, and they protected their people by any means necessary. By killing their enemies.

By _killing._

As a king, he was expected to hold war councils, to discuss the best way to trap and viciously filet hundreds upon hundreds upon _thousands_ of the enemy soldiers, to discuss the best way in which to dispose of their rank, filthy bodies, to discuss the best course of action pertaining to the future problems and allies or opponents rising on the political scene—in some cases to order assassination in the subterfuge of moonless nights. 

Artaresto was not built for such terrible forethought, was not a strategist or a general or a commander. He was not made for killing.

Now it was not just killing for battle, for momentary protection. Now it was planned killing, each movement marked out on a map like a bizarre game of ruthless chess. But the pieces were men and orcs, and any decision made from his lips could send anyone—under his command or his enemy's—to their untimely deaths whilst he sat safe in his halls upon his gaudy throne sipping from warm, thick wine and listening to his councilors and advisors whine and bicker and whisper in his ears with those oily, self-serving voices, and one hot-blooded soul crying for open war.

But he would still not touch the sword that swung at his hip, demanded through ancient ceremony. It had lain in his palm only once, and he vowed it would see blood only in exceptional circumstances. For he despised the act of killing more bitterly now than ever before.

\---

They called him a lame warrior, whispered that it was no ailment of the body that hindered him from practice, that kept him from striking back in an attack and shielding himself from any glancing blow. Artaresto knew that many of his warriors thought lowly of him, thought he was weak and helpless, that there was something mad growing in his mind, the result of too many toxic herbs and hours in white-washed rooms.

They did not understand that his strength was the ability to resist, to hold back the visceral urge that screamed to rend and tear and destroy, the primal fear that rattled the cage in the back of his mind demanding that he _fight back_. Those men whose lives were devoted to the art of killing did not understand that no healer would willingly act violently upon another living creature without paramount reason, not even ones as evil as Morgoth's servants. Blood was blood and violence was violence. Artaresto avoided physically slaying at all costs, for the sight of spilled guts and the smell of rotting flesh and iron blood on the battlefield (on his hands and his clothes and his sword) still made him ill for days after each skirmish.

When the time finally came and their game had reached its end, when they were beyond hope as their enemy closed in around them, Artaresto closed his eyes and prayed that Finduilas would be safe, that his people would flee his city while the last of their soldiers held the overwhelming tide of ravenous, repulsive servants of the Darkness at bay. He prayed and held perfectly still, allowing his guard to leap before him to defend him from certain death at the cost of their own lives.

And when the guards fell, he raised his blade and fought. He fought until his body could fight no more, until he was blooded for his final time, alone and cornered, wounded and disarmed. And then he closed his eyes and did not raise his hands in defense. He did not peek through his thick, pale eyelashes to see the rusted sword swinging towards his throat. Barely did he feel the pain as the sensation of his body disappeared and there were only thoughts free of earthly chains.

Relief slammed down as a curtain shrouding the blindness of pain. For there would be no more killing, no more red and black painting his hands made for the sole purpose of healing and saving.

He would rather be known as a cowardly puppet king than as a cold-blooded murderer


	86. Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It ends as it began, so says Maedhros of the House of Fëanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murder. Kinslaying. Suicide.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

All things that ended started somewhere, somehow.

\---

It started with a jump into the fire.

Though, in retrospect, Maitimo would hardly name it a "jump". More of a startled hop, in all truth, it was that brought him to his full height at his father's right shoulder, jitters of nervous anticipation running up and down his spine, butterflies beating their wings across his insides. "Who would join me in avenging their king?" his father had asked, and who was Maitimo to say "no"?

Physically, he had hardly moved, but the redheaded prince knew with great certainty that this was a pivotal point in his existence, the moment when everything began to go terribly wrong, when reality and right and wrong and sin and holiness were all mixed together like the ingredients of a primordial confusion until they were indistinguishable sludge, dissolved and reacted and conjugated into the unrecognizable.

That day, he had looked into his father's eyes and seen a chasm of fire, the edge crumbling beneath his feet.

It had swallowed him, stretching on for miles and miles into the depths of starlit eyes, waiting and watching and gaping hungrily for his untried, untainted soul.

Then, he had not understood what it was that stared back at him from his sire's eyes, branding him with their lust for revenge, with their insatiable need to _reclaim_ and _destroy_. He had not seen the madness and unnamable grief for what it truly was then, nor had he realized to what end he pledged his immortal being when he spoke the word "yes" and held his sword aloft as a torch, glowing in the overwhelming darkness of the unlit world, the herald of sin.

When he leapt, he leapt to his death. Of this, Maitimo was certain. For that young, impressionable man he had once been—intrigued by politics, silver-tongued, but in many ways still very naive and foolish—that man was gone. He was charred and blackened, his bones crushed to dust and scattered upon a foul wind into the pits of filth in the deepest corners of Angband. The same fire that seared his father's soul now scorched away anything that remained of the person he had once been, and a new creature was born in the place of the old, the roots of insanity already threaded into his foundations, seeping in at the unplugged corners of his mind.

When he had been faced with the order to kill, Maitimo had not hesitated. Indeed, that new, strange part of his self—that _justified_ part that languished in the thought of _righteousness_ —had taken _pleasure_ in spilling the blood of those who _dared_ keep the Darkness from punishment at the hands of those so terribly wronged.

It had been blood spilled in the name of their king, Finwë, fallen upon the steps of his son's home. It had been blood spilled in the name of taking back what had been stolen from their father's keep. It had been blood spilled in the name of destroying the Black Enemy, whom the Valar had failed to control and failed to redeem.

He pushed all thought of guilt from his head—a foolish notion that had no place in his visceral world. Even then, he had been naive, had bricked away any conscience that might have writhed its way to the surface of his thoughts when his newborn darkness had needed it most.

Reborn and blooded, he departed the golden shores of Valinor to face his horrific fate. He had not realized that he had jumped to metaphorical destruction. He had not realized what was sacrificed until it was far, far too late to turn back. For the walls were too high and too sheer, slimy and blackened with soot, burning to the touch, and he could not climb them. He could not escape; only could he fall deeper and deeper until he reached the bottom.

\---

As it began, it ended with a jump into the fire.

But this was a true leap.

And this time the chasm of fire was glaring back at him, an infected wound in the rocky muscle of the world, bellowing scorched air into his face, licking at the toes of his boots eagerly, as if it were a sentient beast desiring to taste his roasted flesh, to devour him whole in all his entirety. And who was Maedhros to deny it its dinner?

Perhaps it was the madness, growing and growing and growing like a poisonous tree with wilted, rotting leaves branching out through his consciousness. But the failure to carry out his oath, the rejection, it perhaps was the final ingredient, the toxic remedy that was now putting this vile thing in his mind into death throes.

All he knew was the searing facets imprinted forever into his fleshy palm and the _pain, pain, pain_ worse than any torture Morgoth had inflicted upon his earthly body. All he could remember was the gaping maw and his all-encompassing desire to escape, to scramble and crawl and claw his way out until his nails were torn and blackened and his hand riddled with dirt-encrusted lacerations. He would do anything—anything to make it end, this plummet.

If his innocence and purity could be charred to ash, then so too could the corrupt, bloodthirsty monster that had taken his place.

It was the end, the bottom, and Maedhros did not hesitate to step over _this_ edge. The agony was beyond imagining, but he reveled in every second, screaming and weeping in bliss, because if Eru had any mercy in His heart for the lost and forsaken souls, He would melt away the memories and the torments and the insanity. Maedhros would hit the bottom of the abyss, and he would shatter into a thousand pieces and be lost forever.

If his first jump had been a death of the soul, perhaps jump would be a new birth.

It should have horrified him to see the flesh and bone of his hand simply scald away at the touch of molten rock, to see the Silmaril glow like a fallen star and then disappear into the bosom of the world, perhaps never to be seen or held by mortal hands again.

But it brought relief and comfort. His hair turned to flames and his vision turned to black and everything was burned away by the fire. Perhaps even the inky grime of his spirit would be taken away and turned to ash.

And when the last droplets of consciousness fell away, he prayed only never to wake again.

But the prayers of kinslayers are so seldom answered.


	87. Waste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only Fingolfin did not stand in his way, Fëanor might not have had to take such drastic action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General madness. Abandonment of family.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë

The insidious whispers were running rampant. Fëanáro would have to have been a stupid, thick-headed imbecile not to notice.

And if there was anything Fëanáro was not, it was stupid.

The eyes followed his form, little twinkling stars in the darkness beyond the mountains and bordered by the sea, left barren with the loss of the golden and silver lights of the Two Trees. Fear reflected back at him, fear of what lay out there in the wondrous unknown, a world that none of these Valinor-born creatures of peace and prosperity cold possibly grasp with their feeble minds. All around him, the scent of uncertainty buzzed with a sharp tang through the tense air.

But the unknown was not the only thing they feared. He knew with the certainty of all his knowledge and creativity and ingenuity that they feared _him._ Feared his anger and passion. And they _should._

Part of him both reveled and resented that fear, the fear that could only lead down a darker path and kindle anger and hatred in unwary hearts. Oh, he had seen it before again and again, for men hated most what they found terrifying and glorious, wanted to destroy anything that might threaten their pitiful existence. But it put a rigid and unpleasant obstacle in his path, one that Fëanáro would have preferred to avoid.

These people—the people of his brother who followed on the reluctant train of a vow spoken in haste and unthinking passion—they feared that of which he was capable and willing to do to win this dangerous game. They, who had come upon his followers ruthlessly pillaging Alqualondë for daring to stand between the prince and his ultimate goal, knew that he would not hesitate should they put themselves between him and his goal as had their Telerin predecessors, that they too might join the already-weighty list of sacrifices made in the name of avenging their dead king and his firstborn son's honor. 

Well he remembered the look upon his half-brother's face as he beheld Fëanáro at the docks, streaked in blood with a newly christened sword in his palm and eyes all aflame with the glory and battle-lust heavy in his breast. Nolofinwë, too, felt his certainty wavering at the sight of carnage and destruction in the name of justice—it had been as a sour odor upon the air.

Fool that he was—fools that they all were—they did not realize that already they maneuvered themselves into the position of the sacrificial lamb on the chessboard of fate.

It was a shame, a true waste, that his half-brother had not even a sliver of the righteous fury that consumed Fëanáro just _thinking_ of what the Black Enemy had done to their family, to their ruler, to their _people_. It sizzled and writhed in the back of his throat like a scream waiting to break free in the heat of battle, to ring out over the fortress of the enemy and let them _hear the resonating tones of his cruel wrath_ and let them _tremble knowing he approached to tear them asunder!_

How he thirsted for blood!

But Nolofinwë was not the same. Even now, as Fëanáro approached his brother's erect form, the younger elf seemed to shrink away from him like a child waiting to be struck, eyes narrowing as though the light of the eldest son's eyes were too bright to gaze upon with mere mortal vision.

"We will continue up the coast. The breadth of the ocean will thin the farther north we travel," Fëanáro informed the silent, stony-faced younger prince in his mellifluous, velvet voice of persuasion. "It is then that we shall cross bearing as many as can be carried, and then return for those left behind. But for now, let us take rest. Your company grows weary, brother."

"You are right," Nolofinwë murmured, eyes downcast and mouth set in a thin line. Displeasure was all too evident in the crease of his brow and the clench of his jaw. "At the wax— On the morn we shall continue to travel north. May you be blessed with a good rest, brother." And he dared to grasp Fëanáro's forearm and squeeze in feigned affection, a stilted and wooden gesture with the stiffness of taut muscles behind its force.

_Fear, fear, fear, boiling over into resentment..._

But Fëanáro did not overly concern himself with the false oath of his half-brother, nor with the shadowed gazes that followed his retreating form as he sidled through the heart of his brother's camp as though he owned its loyalty unquestionably. Murmurs were inaudible to his ears, though his name was hissed as a demon's in the night behind slender hands.

The twinkling stars watched his back as he returned to the darkness of his own resting camp.

For he had said to his people and his sons, "Sleep early and sleep well, for in the early hours we wake and make for the opposite shore. I will inform my half-brother and his company."

He did not tell them that he was _not_ informing his half-brother _of the plan_ , only initiating the sequence that would lead to their perfectly executed escape in the embrace of the newly created blackness of the world. And Fëanáro smiled to himself, warm contentment bubbling in his belly now after accomplishing one more great step forward. This would be the last he saw of his faltering kinsman and those useless, cowardly souls following behind as mindless sheep.

Sacrifices needed to be made. And nothing—not even kinship through blood and mourning—would spare those who would hinder his path towards resolution and satisfaction of the horrible churning pain that lurched through his spirit, screaming for the soothing feel of hot blood over flesh and the fading light of fallen enemies' empty eyes. He would _rend them apart!_

It was shame, a true waste, that Nolofinwë stood in his way.

For his brother would wake to betrayal, and Fëanáro knew that by leaving behind these treacherous, fearful souls on this far shore, unable to travel forward into the icy wasteland and unable to go back to the safety of golden sands, he was sentencing them to death. Or worse.

And Fëanáro did not feel guilty, for they had brought upon their selves this sad fate.


	88. Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The passion of Maeglin will be his downfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torture. Mostly psychological but some physical. Non-con (not explicit).

Whenever he had the coherency to think, Maeglin wondered if his uncle realized that he had been taken from the edges of their encircling mountains, that he was a prisoner of their greatest foe. He thought of distant silver eyes staring out of an empty, stern face and wondered if his kinsman even cared what had befallen him, or if perhaps Turgon was relieved that the face and form of his sister's murderer had mysteriously vanished in the darkness, lost forevermore.

But that was only when he had a train of thought to wonder.

Mostly there was just pain and terror stretching on and on, or some mixture of the two churning together until he was lightheaded and quivering in thoughtless limbo, waiting for the next wave of agony to overtake his mortal body and send his mind into a paroxysm of despair.

And there was the sinful voice, creeping over the edges of his mind and sinking deep to stir at his consciousness and pull him up through the heavy ocean of insanity.

_"Tell me, where lies the first gate to the Hidden City. Tell me, and I shall release thee..."_

Sometimes he understood. Sometimes he knew that what he was being asked was dangerous and secret, that to speak with an honest answer upon his tongue was to be named a traitor to his blood and kin. He knew it was wrong and only screamed and wept, but dared not speak a single word for the temptation hovering just out of reach.

_"I know what thou dost most desire in the world, the golden hair and gentle smile that never belonged to thee, but that thou dost covet..."_

Ah, but one would have to be a blind fool not to see, he thought. It was the sweet kindness and the gentle touches upon his shoulders, comforting in his time of darkest thought and greatest need, that had drawn him magnetically towards her, hopelessly and helplessly attracted to purity of body and spirit. Everything about her made him sigh in ardent affection, lovesick beyond reason, beyond logic, beyond the laws of his high-elven kin. Her skin so smooth and hair so brilliant in the fading rays of Arien, her large eyes framed in long lashes, filled with compassion and bright hope... She was everything he was not, and everything he wished to capture in the palm of his hand and hold for eternity in the cage of his fingers.

But she was not for him. Jealousy curdled in his stomach, revolting sharply with the pain and the blood expelled from inner bruising. Those words were true, for he desired Idril more than any earthly trinket or passing pleasure. He wanted her to be by his side always, so that he never be alone and always be bathed in her glorious light, her unending love. Yet she loved another...

And oh! how he _despised Tuor the Blessed, son of Huor_ , how he _longed to spill that mortal's blood_ for daring to touch his cousin, his _love!_

No right did he have to be so possessive, but still he longed and lusted...

_"I can give thee anything thou dost wish. I can give thee thy uncle's kingdom. I can give thee thy enemy's wife. I can give thee thy cousin and make her forget about the mortal man..."_

The image sprang forth like a blooming flower in the dusk, vibrant against the gloom of a rotting world rendered barren from death and horror and betrayal—an image of his head crowned in garnets and his form robed in white with the slender, golden-haired woman haunting his dreams at his side, smiling tenderly as she dipped her hand into the crook of his arm. From around them emerged the smoky figures, children with the almond eyes of Maeglin and the golden mane of Idril...

He would be king with his queen at his side, and Idril would love him back. All he wanted was for her to love him back...

_"Tell me. Tell and I shall give what thou desirest most..."_

Thick and sweet like honey, the voice dripped over his skin in a warm blanket against pain and against fear. All he needed to do was tell, give away the location of the first gate, admit that there was no other way out of the city, and that vision could become _reality._

But he thought again of his uncle, of that unwavering face and unyielding heart like stone. To speak was to become a traitor. To speak was to cast his honor down unto the rocks as had his father's body been cast from the walls of the city. To speak was to lose everything he had gained since escaping the wretched existence in Nan Elmoth, locked away alone in the dark...

The burning hurt was now fading, lessening with each passing moment. His tormentor had ceased with devices of pain, of stretching tendons to snapping and bending bones to breaking. Maeglin hung limp and recognized only the damp scent of deep earth and rock, the smell of being away from fresh air and open sky.

He dared not open his eyes.

Fingers stroked over his aching jaw—broken and swelling badly. But the touch was soft, almost intimate as a lover's caress, not painful but a mockery of comfort. _"Tell me what I wish to know, dear child of mine, and I will make them love thee as thou hast always prayed..."_

Eru give him strength...

Digits tangled in his hair, matted with filth and blood, pulling until his chin bent helplessly upwards. Maeglin's lashes fluttered, and between the veils of thick blackness he saw burning twin fires.

_"Look at me... Tell me, and that life is thine..."_

So passionately he desired it, with a longing so deep that his soul ached for it, and yet some part of him still resisted, still screamed that this was wrong and he needed to keep his silence, that he could not betray his people as they had been betrayed so oft already by those who should have been allies at their backs.

"Please," he rasped, "Please cease..."

The stroking stilled, fingers frozen where they were buried deep in his mane. Nails scraped over his scalp as slowly the hand clenched into a fist, knotted at the roots, threatening, looming...

"Cease," he continued. "For you shall receive no information from these lips, wretch! Return to lick the sullied feet of your thrice-cursed master, slave!" Finally, he looked, and beheld a face of breathtaking beauty contorted into tangles of fury, and he spat at those eyes filled with ash and flame. The satisfaction of seeing disgust and revulsion on his enemy's face was worth losing the handful of hair that was viciously ripped from his skull and the nauseating shot of pain vibrating through his face when a clawed hand raked over his visage, breaking his nose and tearing flesh asunder.

_"Fool,"_ the voice snarled in his ear. _"Before the end, thou shalt regret that thou didst throw away my offer so frivolously!"_

The hands moved, sliced open flesh to the bone, bruised deep into muscle, but Maeglin did not tell, did not speak. All the passion in the world—be it his undying devotion to a woman who would never return his love or the soul-deep suffering wracking his young, untried body—could not make him tell as long as he still had faith.

Eru give him strength... Maeglin prayed for a quick death as his body was ravaged again, his mind blanketed with nothing but agony and shattered shards of molten glass. He prayed and waited...

And waited...

And waited for mercy that would never come.

And doubted...


	89. Flying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the naming traditions of the House of Fëanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dysfunctional family stuff. More characterization to go with the other brothers. Perhaps a touch sappy.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë, Atarinkë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

With joy, Curufinwë lifted his young son into his arms and spun the child until sweet bells of laughter rang through the clearing, mixing with soft golden light and gentle warmth. Tiny arms gripped tightly around his neck, and little one squealed at the playful twirling and dipping, feet not even touching the ground. The fifth son of Fëanáro did not think he had ever felt more content than when he hefted the child upwards to press a sloppy kiss to one chubby, grinning cheek, and when he felt an equally messy kiss on his cheekbone in return.

Then his son called him atto and asked to play. And Curufinwë obliged. He would have it no other way, in truth.

Most might find the urge to spend an afternoon so frivolously rather surprising, considering who his sire was and how his sire had raised his hefty brood of seven. Bitterly, he thought of the estate far removed from Tirion, the place of his father's exile and the place he had spent most of his young life hating.

Formenos was little more than a prison cell.

Curufinwë did not think his brothers could understand this analogy from his supposedly blessed lips, and he had never attempted to explain to any one of them, for he did not think they would listen.

Far be he from an idiot. He knew that Morifinwë was jealous of usurped attention and fatherly pride. He knew that Turkafinwë resented what he perceived as weak-willed acquiescence. He knew that Nelyafinwë would have given almost anything to have his intrinsic skill with the forge and the fire. But none of them, not a one, knew what it truly was that they coveted in their younger brother.

They did not hear the words. 

_"Curufinwë, just exactly as his father, with the same temperament and the same skill, the same mind and body, a son to be proud of..."_

_"Atarinkë you shall be called, my son, for I perceive your sire in your spirit..."_

It was a curse. Nothing more and nothing less. The curse of clipped wings and stifled individuality. What his brothers had, their innate uniqueness, their personal visage and their subtle fingerprints of talent and interests, those were what _Curufinwë_ desired _most._

It was half the reason he almost never came home, half the reason he built with his own two hands a house for he and his beloved to reside within as they started their new family, far away from the place of his father's exile, far away from any forge billowing smoke and any eager, prideful star-eyes in the darkness. In the open air, with none but his wife and child at his side, with no princely duties or heavy expectations, he was not the second coming of Fëanáro, some washed-out doppelganger of an impossibly distant peak of power and skill.

Away from his father's heavy gaze, Curufinwë could pretend that he did not possess a name at all, could be called only husband and father while flying on the intoxicating heights of freedom, of being himself and no one else besides.

The other reason he never went "home" was, of course, his son, and the fear of what awaited any heir of Fëanáro's perfect child in the complex social and political atmosphere that surrounded the Crown Prince wherever he went, even into the distant countryside. The last thing that Curufinwë desired was to see his son taken away day after day into the stifling hot darkness of the forge to be taught the skill of metallurgy and craftsmanship by the master of masters amongst the Eruhíni, to be shaped and wrought as skillfully and wickedly as any dagger or sword into yet another perfect but somehow incomplete, lacking copy of the original.

And it was this reason he gave no father-name to his son, whose mother provided him with a mother-name prophetic enough to make Curufinwë wince. It was not, he admitted, quite as terrible as being named "Little Father", but alluded to the skills of the House of Fëanáro nonetheless. Telperinquar.

That was enough of a name for the boy, who already received compliments that teetered dangerously on the edge of being insults in the mind of the father.

_"He is glorious. Were it not for the eyes, I would say he looks just like you—just like his father and just like his grandfather. What a visage he will have!"_

_"Tell me, then, cousin, what have you named your son? Curufinwë? Surely it would be a good omen, the passing of talent from father to son."_

_"I suppose he will be a master of the forge. One would expect nothing else!"_

He wanted to strangle them all. For it was exactly these sorts of assumptions, these conceited, thoughtless comments, that had stolen away any identity Curufinwë may ever have possessed in his own right, left him with nothing but his father's overwhelming, suffocating shadow.

And when he set his son down in the grass and tickled the boy until there were squeals of joy and they rolled through weeds like rambunctious puppies until they were both covered in green stains and smeared with dirt, he did not perceive even a droplet of his fey and terrible sire in the child. He perceived only something individual and unique, something that could not be copied and that should not be changed or molded, something attributed only to the life created by the sacred joining between he and his wife. This was no doppelganger.

He wanted Telperinquar to have a chance to grow and learn unhindered. He would not be the father he always despised and clip his son's spiritual wings.

Let the others think what they might of the sanctity of bloodlines and the silhouettes of kings. Let them dream of another set of skillful hands to build them unimaginable treasures and provide them with ingenious contraptions and designs. Let them wait and be disappointed when no third coming of Fëanáro, no third Curufinwë, emerged from the nest as a shadow of his predecessors.

Let his child shine as his own star, flying on the winds of freedom, choosing his own course. The father could think of nothing more beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru (God)


	90. Drought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor must let go of his past in order to live again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this to the song "Into the Open Air" from Brave. Love that song so much. Not really applicable but who cares.
> 
> Past relationship and torture.
> 
> The spontaneous brother is Teldanno from Locked (Chapter 35). And now there is a spontaneous nephew.

_"You cannot run away from your fears forever. The past will never leave you behind unless you leave it behind first."_ That was the advice his father had given him upon catching him leaving for the mountains in the dead of night like a thief.

Truer words, Celebrimbor could not recall.

If only reality were so simple.

Up in the mountains, higher than any rational person would consider living, striving for survival on the deadly edges of cliffs daily and sleeping beneath the gentle snowfall and listening to the thunder in the gorges below, Celebrimbor was more alone than a single flower blooming in a frozen wasteland. No one ventured this high into the Hithaeglir, not even in their diminished glory after thousands of years of wearing, their peaks no longer jagged wolf-teeth piercing the sky.

But despite the danger and the loneliness, Celebrimbor found it easier to live here, so utterly alone, than to face the past that he wished would disappear.

Every year, his father and mother would send a missive, a disguised plea for him to come down from the heavenly heights and stay with them and their kin, to head for what was left of Lindon on the edges of the sea, to see his younger brother who had married in the years since his disappearance, to meet the newest member of their family of exiles. And every year Celebrimbor would shred the fine parchment between his fingers and scatter it onto the high winds, watching the confetti drift as snowflakes into the distance with the heavy buffer of the wind. And he would never even blink.

He did not dare say yes.

Perhaps it was cowardly, but he did not feel as though he had much of a choice in the matter. A drought had come over his spirit, burning away the dangerous emotions that he feared to drown beneath. It was only this barricade that kept the unnumbered tears at bay. No brand of anger to scorch his bones. No rays of hope to torture his soul. No tide of sorrow to bring down the rainy season upon his head and sweep him away.

For if he began to cry, the elf feared he would never be able to cease.

He had seen it all before. He had seen how his father wept for loss of his mother. He had seen how Maedhros wept for the loss of Fingon. He had seen how Maglor wept for the desertion of his beloved sons. He had seen how Orodreth wept for dreams crushed beneath the weight of responsibility. He had seen how Aegnor wept for desperate longing. He had seen how Celegorm wept for unrequited love. He had seen how Caranthir wept for cruel fate. He had seen how Finrod wept for the future he desired but knew he would never possess. Every one of his kin wept for something, cursed as they were by the thoughtless words of a vala. Unnumbered tears of a Cursed people, on and on forever.

But it was none of those things that Celebrimbor son of Curufin would weep for. It was the desolation of devotion, the ultimate betrayal, and the hatred in fire-bright eyes...

No, better that he spend year after year holding himself tightly in check, feeling nothing but the cold bite of wind on his rosy cheeks and the cold touch of snow upon his lashes. If the rains began, he feared he might die and fade away.

And yet...

And yet as a new year came upon him, the snows began to melt farther and farther up the mountainside as they alway did with the coming of warmth, he felt the smell of a storm upon the air. As though the Lord Ulmo had heard the sorrow of his song in the lost haze of fallen snow melting and spilling down from the passes in gushes of pure water, the thunder and downpour of new spring broke upon his camp and soaked the elf down to his bones.

How much longer could his eyes remain dry? He steadfastly ignored the cold streams of water over his cheeks and pretended he did not taste salt as he licked his lips.

How could he ever face the past that lay in his wake and not fall apart at the seams? When the rain finally lashed down upon the land and extricated its payment from his fragile soul, would he be able to rise from the newfound world, sated of thirst, as one whole and sound?

Celebrimbor did not know how much longer he could wait in solitude for the answer.

Above his head, the Manwë's broad demesne wept crystalline droplets upon his world. Perhaps... perhaps he could bear to think of the all-encompassing heat of his terrifying memories with the refreshing water slipping over his slickened skin as a comforting touch, soothing away raw wounds left to fester, stoking forgiveness withered and parched without watering of the spirit.

Perhaps he did not have to forget. And perhaps it really was that simple.

And the heavenly tears did not stop until the green of healing peeked through the cracked, dry ground. It was that summer, Celebrimbor would fondly recall, that he first met his nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hithaeglir is the Sindarin name for the Misty Mountains.


	91. Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A behind-the-scenes encounter between Thorin Oakenshield and the exiles returned to Middle-earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connects up with Eternal (Chapter 3), Broken (Chapter 12) and Experience (Chapter 18). The Noldor have randomly returned to Middle-earth AU.
> 
> Read a story once where Bilbo's letter opener belonged to Glorfindel. That became my personal head-canon and inspired this piece. It's also my head-canon that Orcrist belonged to Ecthelion, but it is never explicitly stated.
> 
> It is also my head-canon that Ecthelion is Turgon's cousin through Irimë, daughter of Finwë. I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Gandalf = Olórin

It had been a very, very long time, but Ecthelion was an elf and elves rarely forget. No matter that at least six thousand years had passed him by in waiting and rebirth, he still remembered as though it were yester-eve, for how could a man forget the way in which he died?

Seeing the familiar curves and angles of that ever-sharp blade changed nothing. But they brought back memories with painful sharpness.

Still, his hand curled perfectly into position, knowing instinctively how the hilt would fit rightly into his palm, each curve settling deep into a callus built and honed for its use and balance. It was the sword that he learned the art of death with, the partner that had accompanied him into every skirmish and terrifying battlefield, that had never failed to strike down a foe until the day he perished.

Orcrist had returned from the dead, just as had her lord and companion. And she was in the hands of a dwarf, blazing in the sun as though she had been newly-made just yesterday, looking as perfect as when she had first lain in Ecthelion's inexperienced hands, his fingers and palms soft from a life of nobility and luxury then trained into a steely grip and rough hide.

It was exactly this way in which she gleamed before unholy flame in their final hours. As she sliced through the air to cut down his foes, she threw off black blood as though too pure for it to latch upon and stain, untouchable in righteousness.

For some strange yet undeniable reason, Ecthelion felt something vaguely resembling _comfort_ bloom in his chest. Surely this discovery was a good omen? Orcrist might not be his blade any longer, but she had slain two Balrogs as an extension of her lord's feeble arms, had brought countless lesser foes to their knees, and had been with him unto the very end, until he had dropped her from his nerveless fingers and heard her metallic clatter on the cobbles, his injured arms too weak to hold her weight.

Would she again see such glory? The elf hoped so, for he did not think he could bear to see her shamed. He would see her in honorable hands, or no hands at all.

And it was this urge that led him to corner the dwarf, the King Under the Mountain who did not possess a mountain, as twilight fell upon the city of Imladris.

\---

There was an elf. Annoyance twisted at Thorin's gut. Could the pointy-eared nuisances not be gone and leave him be for even an hour? He was sick of their height (for he hated craning his neck to see their alien faces) and sick of their voices (sweeter and softer than any woman's) and sick of their patronizing disposition (because, Mahal curse them! he was _not a child!)_. The temptation to throw something was powerful, causing his fingers to twitch, but Thorin held off the urge and turned to glare, to wait for the venomous conceit.

Yet this elf, dressed in embroidered silver and deep blue, did not immediately order him to go somewhere or do something as one would a clueless child. Nor did he gaze down his nose at the smaller man with distant, distrusting or repulsed eyes as did many of the others, as though the dwarf's lack of height and pension for facial hair were not only highly disorienting and aesthetically displeasing, but also contagious.

"Greetings, Master Dwarf," he said instead, dipping into a bow that was deep enough for respect but shallow enough to make it clear that they were of equal status, not a King and a servant.

And Thorin was often a rude man to those who deserved his ire, but he had been raised to return respect with respect as a civil man, and thus returned the bow at the same angle with a gentle incline of his head. "At your service, Master Elf."

"Forgive me for intruding upon your solitude," the elf said then, his voice shockingly deep for one of his kin, more as a dwarf's timber than that of a sprite of the woods. "I could not help but take note of the blade you carry."

Thorin reached to touch the hilt, feeling cold metal beneath his thick fingers. "It is of elven make from the city of Gondolin, or so your Lord Elrond has informed me," he replied, wondering of what interest it was to this creature. "I found it in a troll hoard on the Great East Road."

The elf's lips pursed in what might have been displeasure, but probably it was displeasure at the thought of cave trolls possessing such fine craftsmanship, a sentiment with which Thorin could at the very least sympathize. "Would that she had spent time in better hands," the ethereal creature finally murmured. "I knew her lord, fought as a member of his household. Orcrist, she is named, the sword of Ecthelion, Lord of the House of the Fountain."

Most of that meant nothing to Thorin, except that this man to whom this sword belonged was important and well-respected. And that suited him fine. A noble sword in the hands of a king seemed poetic justice, even if the blade was forged by elven smiths rather than dwarven. "Pray forgive me, but I have never heard of such an elf."

"One cannot expect your elven lore to be up to scratch," his newfound companion returned, sounding ever so slightly amused and not the least bit insulted by the faint snub. "It was a very long time ago. I had thought this blade lost when her lord fell in the destruction of Gondolin. With this sword, he slayed two Balrogs and fell downing a third."

Demons of the underworld. Thorin knew enough about Balrogs to know that they were creatures not to be trifled with, for Durin's Bane was one of those fiery creatures of evil servitude. And to kill _three_ of them as a man clothed in mortal flesh!

His fingers tightened about the grip of his new weapon. Worthy, it most certainly was, to have tasted such rich and glorious history.

"I am certain that to see it in righteous hands, fighting the darkness once more, would have made Lord Ecthelion a proud man indeed."

Thorin looked up then into blue eyes, incisive eyes that pierced right down to his core. _Use her well and honor her lord's memory_ , they ordered, and for once Thorin did not feel slighted at the demands. Would he not have done the same, were their places switched? It was not about bad blood between races, but about honoring the dead who gave their lives for all the right reasons, and dwarrows honored the fallen as fiercely as their elven foes.

"I will see to it that she draws the blood of many more servants of the darkness before the end of her years," he promised. "She has served me well thus, and a king needs a reliable blade."

A smirk formed on those lips. "Indeed, he does," the other agreed. "I will leave you to your silence now, Master Dwarf, with my curiosity fulfilled. Have a pleasant evening and try to hold some patience for our kin. Our people share unyielding stubbornness."

There was another bow, one which was returned, and the stranger vanished.

And Thorin... Well, he could not say he _liked_ elves, but every now and again he encountered one which he could stand. Just barely.

\---

Later Ecthelion found himself standing upon a balcony overlooking the company of dwarves in their smallclothes, roasting meat over a fire and generally making merry in the safety of the Last Homely House. Though he was not partial to the stunted race, he found their cheer to be catching, and his smile blossomed once more.

A glisten below caught his eye. The halfling and his knife. And did that not look familiar?

"Has your curiosity been sated, then, cousin mine?"

Ecthelion, still smiling, turned to his king and cousin, laughing deeply. "Indeed it has, Turgon. And yours, my cousin?"

The former King of Gondolin shook his head wryly. "I have little need to wheedle and pester a maia about the importance of swords. There is little doubt that Olórin will bear Glamdring with pride and dignity as befitting her stature. But still, I wonder..."

"Yes? What is it cousin?" Ecthelion was looking down again at the halfling, mind distant.

"I wonder if there were any other treasures to be found amongst that troll hoard." Turgon's eyes, too, fell down upon the company of dwarves, upon the hobbit twisting and turning his elven knife in inspection, running soft hands over elegant curves.

Eyes silvered with Noldorin blood darkened as a storm over the sea, and Ecthelion knew he was not the only one remembering those dark days of betrayal and terror.

And then wondered suddenly as well if a black sword rested amongst the stinking filth and scattered treasures accumulated in some dank, musty hole in the ground somewhere between here and the rolling hills of the Shire. And wondered if it would ever find its way back into innocent hands to carry out its malignant curse.

But maybe some things were better left unknown.


	92. Skill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm has a very unexpected skill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noldor return to Middle-earth AU. Connects up with Eternal (Chapter 3) and a little with Reap (Chapter 61). Written to the song "Samidare" by Yasuharu Takanashi. Love that song to death.
> 
> More baby Kíli in this chapter. He's so addictive and adorable.

It was the middle of the night, and the baby was crying. So very long it had been since her own son was this young, but Lúthien still remembered the sleepless nights well, and her relief when Dior had been able to sleep from dusk until dawn with no interruptions. Sighing, she rolled over upon the mattress and made to rise with her hair in disarray, only pausing when she realized that the opposite side of the bed she shared with her husband was conspicuously empty, the imprint still warm. Which meant Celegorm had awakened to the wails and was likely in a terrible mood, fumbling around trying to quiet the child.

She pulled on her night robe and went to save the baby from the stone-carved scowls and snarled words for which her mate's kin were renowned. As predicted, the temporary nursery's door was wide open, and she could see a tall silhouette within. She stepped closer, preparing to interrupt an ill-tempered glaring session, and promptly froze in place, shocked in stillness.

For the very moment she saw little Kíli in her husband's powerful arms, Lúthien knew Celegorm was a natural parent.

It was in the cant of his body, the way he pressed the child softly to his own warmth and was painfully, breathtakingly gentle in a way few could imagine a man of his past and stature. Almost immediately, the tiny dwarrowling stopped his loud wailing and sniffled quietly, huge brown eyes staring up and up into Celegorm's pale features and bright gaze.

Long, slender fingers—fingers she knew were honed for wielding sword and bow, for killing in the cold blood—traced over chubby, soft flesh, stroking a button nose and over surprisingly dark brows.

Strong little fingers captured the traversing digit, bringing it to a toothless mouth, and it was all Lúthien could do to silence her coo of delight when her husband did not so much as flinch away from the drool and sticky touch. That tall body, lithe and muscled, was rocking on its heels instinctually, and gradually even the whimpers and whining ceased as the dwarrowling closed his eyes and suckled contently away.

The very sight made her heart ache, for what she wouldn't have given to go back and see her own son in such arms, happy and at peace with his sire. It was not that she did not love Beren, of course, but Beren had been built for adventure and dashing romance, not for parenthood, and had stood awkwardly on by as his wife bustled about cleaning and feeding and bathing their infant son.

And Dior, of course, had never really been Beren's to begin with.

Biting her lip, she wondered if, perhaps, she had robbed Celegorm of something even more important and essential to his wellbeing than her love and devotion. Because at this moment, he did not look like he could have harmed a fly, let alone slain thousands without hesitation or remorse.

He looked like a father. And it made her faint heart stutter.

\---

Kíli was crying.

Groaning, Thorin rolled out of his makeshift bed in the living room before the hearth, leaving little Fíli alone, snoring softly. As much as he wished he could leave the child-rearing duties to Lady Lúthien, he knew that it truly was not her responsibility to be up in the middle of the night attending his infant nephew. And (he added to himself) he did not want to be more in-debt to her and her burly husband than he already was.

The crying died down before he even reached the doorway.

For a moment, Thorin contemplated going back to bed. Clearly Lúthien had beat him to the nursery. But perhaps he should offer to rock the child into dreams so she could return to sleep? As much as babies still confounded him, it _was_ his duty...

That decided, he padded with bare feet into the hallway. Only flickering shadows from the fire in the other room illuminated his way, but he could see in the dark well enough to make out the womanly shape poised in the doorway to the nursery, and that it was infant-less. Blinking, he finally made out her face, staring into the room with eyes that were distant and glazed, an elven look if he ever saw one. Always, they seemed to be looking into the far recesses of the past, never towards a better future.

"My Lady—"

She held up a hand to halt his words, and then beckoned him forth. Thorin yielded without a fight and found himself standing beside the fair elf, eyes adjusting to the sterling moonlight spilled across the nursery floor, broken with the blackened shadow of a faintly moving figure.

But if Lúthien was out here, then—

Then it had to be _Celegorm_ in there with the baby!

It was at that point when Thorin would have flown into a panic worrying that the sharp-tongued bastard had put a pillow over his nephew's face to snuff out the crying nuisance had Lúthien not laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder and squeezed. "Look," she murmured, sounding like a girl speaking of her very first love, unabashedly enamored and completely starry-eyed with that breathless quality to her lyrical voice. "Look at them."

And he _did_ look, at least enough to see that the elf he knew as being an ill-tempered, hot-blooded, murderous fiend was _rocking his nephew to sleep_ like a seasoned parent. For once, sharp brows were not furrowed into a permanently furious expression, usually pursed lips left relaxed to bloom into a soft little smirk, eyes no longer frosted over with frigid calculation and contempt.

It was just an elf and a baby. Everything was perfectly quiet and so still that he could hear their breathing, could make out the swish of Celegorm's long braid as he rocked and the flutter of miniscule fingers holding the mighty elf's hand in place as a bottle or toy to be gnawed. Soft hums rose, easing around them as a warm blanket on a cold night, sinking down to the bone.

Well he could remember the first few times he had taken care of Fíli when the boy had been that tiny and helpless, but he never had the aptitude for it. Always, his hands felt too broad and awkward, too heavy, as though they might accidently bruise or shatter tiny, brittle bones. But in this image before him, there was not an ounce of awkwardness, not a trace of the ruthlessness so intrinsically present in the elf that he had come to know over the past month living deep in the mountains.

"I did not know he had such skill with the little ones," Thorin murmured, barely audible, more to himself than to his equally silent companion.

Lúthien let out a breathy sigh. "Indeed, I doubt even _he_ realizes. He has not spent overmuch time with young children, not even in the days before leaving the golden shores."

Thorin never would have guessed, not whilst watching the scene before his eyes. "He will make an excellent father, if this is just instinct." In the dwarrow's experience, it took many months to ingrain parental instinct into one's bones. Until his nephews' father had died, Thorin had never bothered to do so, and afterwards he realized how utterly stressful it was, how foreign to his ancient and stubborn blood. No, the king without a mountain was not created for fathering little ones.

But this creature surely was.

At his words, he felt Lúthien draw a sharp breath. "He would have, indeed," she whispered. "But perhaps..."

Melancholy surrounded her, this beautiful elven creature with the stars in her eyes, who even Thorin could not help but fall in love with just a little. She just looked so heartbroken, so saddened, that he wondered if perhaps he had said something he should not have, but somehow she was still smiling tenderly through the sheen of tears glistening her endless blue gaze.

"Let us leave them be," she finally said, pulling him away from the doorway. "Your nephew is in good hands."

Longing could not be written more prominently upon her features.

Nor could nostalgia and regret.

And as she kissed his brow and walked away to her own bedchambers, Thorin found himself wondering exactly what it was that he had missed in their exchange. Surely such a skill in her mate would be highly prized, more so than skill in the forge or whittling wood or hunting with a longbow?

Confound the elves! They never made sense!

And with that in mind, Thorin headed back to his blissfully warm and comfortable bed, reassured that he would not be awakened again this night.

\---

And Lúthien, for her part, returned to the comforts of her bed and fell into Lórien's gardens, dreaming of silver-haired babes and hushed lullabies with the breeze of spring and flowers on the air. Sweeter than sugar and warm like Arien's rays, the idea inexorably settled into her subconscious, the vision of her dearest husband rocking and soothing their infant son.

It was not an idea that would be fading as the morning mist. Implacable as an old oaken tree, it laid its roots deep into her spirit and began to grow and branch towards the sky.

Celegorm would never know how that one little glimpse changed everything.


	93. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To sweep away the dust of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Rebirth AU. Random friendships.
> 
> Dedicated to one of my lovely vocalists who accidently gave me this idea.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo  
> Finrod = Artafindë (Noldorin dialect of father-name)

It was a moment Tyelkormo had been dreading with all his being for more than a millennium, a moment that had kept him locked away in the Halls of the Waiting out of stomach-churning nerves.

He absolutely did _not_ want to face Artafindë again.

One could hardly hold his reservations against him. After all, was it not he who had betrayed his cousin and sent the noble, honorable king to his death as little more than a beggar with ten loyal servants to his name? 

To claim the throne. To remove a troublesome pest. To sate his thirst for death in times of relative peace. Tyelkormo had heard all of these theories before, but none of them were even close.

All of it was for the sake of the woman beside him.

Tyelkormo felt Lúthien's fingers squeeze his arm, trying to soothe and comfort his vividly restless spirit, but he did not think anything could comfort him at the moment, not with the purest form of shame washing over his skin as acid, clawing its way beneath flesh down to bone in waves of agony that could not be treated. If he could, he would have bid the ground open and swallow him into its gaping jaws so that he might never be forced to thrust his presence upon his family—upon his cousin, who deserved much better than he had been dealt from the traitorous hands of close kin.

Because their long-lasting friendship had not been shredded and thrown to the wind over a circlet or a kingdom. It had never been about the crown. It had been about jealousy and obsession. And Artafindë, kind and generous Artafindë who had once been one of his few true friends on the golden shores, had merely been in the way, an obstacle to be removed.

Removed without hesitation and without remorse.

"What should I even say?" he wondered aloud. "What _can_ I say?" Nothing seemed appropriate but to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, and even his infamous pride could not have halted him but for the fact that he deserved no quarter of hatred and would therefore ask for none.

"Tell the truth," his lover's dulcet tones chimed in his ears. "None of us are fully to blame, and none of us are completely blameless. You may have acted through love and jealousy and desperation, but it was not you who swore an oath to Beren's progenitors. It was not _you_ who threw Finrod into the dungeons and devoured his friends. It was not you who killed him in the cold blood."

"That does not change my betrayal of kin unto kin. It does not change the fact that the filth of sin has defiled anything pure we once might have had."

Cool fingers touched his cheek, turning his face. Tyelkormo was nearly too ashamed to meet his lover's eyes, for it was she who should hate him the most, perhaps even more so than Artafindë. "Do you truly believe that?" she asked. "Between us, the taint of dark past was swept away, allowing new, hopeful light to burst forth. Cannot the same be between yourself and your cousin?"

"It should not be that way," Tyelkormo rasped. "He _should not_ forgive me for spitting upon hospitality and sympathy offered in old friendship and kinship."

She pulled his forehead down to touch hers softly. "Sometimes it is not about what _should_ or _should not_ be, but about the heart's desire. Give Finrod a chance. Give _yourself_ a chance."

"I will try..."

They parted back into two separate creatures, but his lover's warmth at his side was a reassuring pinprick of light in the overhanging darkness and doom washing up upon the shores of his mind. It was then that they entered the halls of his forefathers, and Tyelkormo stood in a vast room with Artafindë as kin through blood for the first time since that fateful day of needless betrayal and broken bonds in Nargothrond so many years ago.

Helplessly, his eyes trailed to golden hair, locking with orbs as bright and endless as the sky.

Artafindë.

The face was not as familiar. Scars raked over what had once been unspeakably handsome features, leaving them trenched and jagged, distorted into a visage no maiden would find appealing. But one only needed to glance at the soul beneath to know that Artafindë was a selfless and righteous man worthy of devotion and loyalty. And anyone who could not look beneath the skin-deep marks of his devotion to oaths and his indescribable bravery was not worthy to lick his boots.

He was the polar opposite of Tyelkormo, who felt the weight of his sins and the stinking odor of spilled blood hovering around his body even now. That anyone could bear to be close baffled him. That _Lúthien_ could bear to touch him, to make love to him, to kiss him, left him stunned.

Between the two of them, Artafindë was undoubtedly the better man, and Tyelkormo would not grovel for forgiveness from a pure soul, did not even want to taint his cousin's ears with apologies.

But it was not _he_ who approached the other first.

Shocked, he watched his dearest cousin slip away from the golden-haired woman on his arm and cross the room in long, confident strides like the king he had been born to become. Each second, he drew closer, and Tyelkormo's throat grew tighter with a strange sort of fear. Why he was afraid, he could not have said, but the symptoms were unmistakable—the heavy pulsing of his heart in the back of his throat, the sweat on the nape of his neck and the nervous nibbling of his lower lip.

Until they were standing face-to-face but three feet apart, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet and not crumple to the floor spewing empty words and promises that could never be kept.

Silence surrounded them. The room went quiet as all eyes beheld the estranged cousins.

No words were forthcoming, but Tyelkormo's lips parted anyway. "Cousin... I—"

The rest of the air was squeezed out of him by a shockingly powerful embrace.

"Thank Eru!" Artafindë gasped. "You have finally returned!"

_What in the name of Ilúvatar…?_

Confusion no doubt was plain upon his face, but Artafindë merely laughed and grasped him by the head, turning him this way and that to receive delighted kisses upon each cheek and one upon his brow. "Cousin, so greatly I have missed you, I cannot even describe!"

_I do not understand._

"Artafindë, of what do you speak?" he whispered, eyes wide. Because surely Artafindë _could not_ have missed him. Because Artafindë _should not_ have missed him, should have been _grateful_ that his tainted, treacherous spirit was locked safely away in the Halls of the Waiting so that it could not spread and infect the holiness of the untouched lands of Valinor.

"Am I not allowed to miss my own kinsman now?" the golden-haired man burst out, grasping his forearms and shaking lightly. "I have been waiting long to see your eyes returned to brightness."

"I merely thought... Did not think you would care to see the man who sent you to your death."

The room was still holding its breath. It was not as if they did not know the tale of Artafindë's bravery in the black pits of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, or who it was that had driven him out of Nargothrond with a tiny slew of loyal subjects to protect him. The actions of his cousin had been honorable from start to finish, if not admirable, whilst Tyelkormo's were heaped in the darkness that suffused all of his line.

Yet he could detect no trickery or malice in the wide-open eyes. "I am no fool, cousin mine," Artafindë professed, his gaze flickering over to Lúthien's unearthly beauty. "Indeed, I have known you since I was but a boy. Did you truly think you could hide your motivations from my eyes?"

Tyelkormo's heart swelled. Had he been completely obvious about his affections? But no, none of his family had been aware that he had done anything more than lust after Lúthien's glorious face. None of them had known what she was to him, or that he had been watching her for decades heaped upon decades in cemented longing, praying for a way to claim her despite all the odds stacked against their future.

And when that opportunity had arrived... Well, all things begun by his House well would end in tragedy, or so it was spoken. And that prophecy rang with truth.

"I had thought it rather... well hidden."

"Indeed." Artafindë smile was blinding. "It was my time to depart, and I was ready to return home to by beloved's arms. Perhaps you were not the only selfish man squabbling over Nargothrond's entirely unwanted throne."

"And you would forget everything I did, just like that?" It was too good to be true. Too good to be _real._

A hand gripped his shoulder tightly. "If there was anything to forgive, I would forgive in a heartbeat, but I cannot say that had our places been switched I would have acted differently." That scarred face sobered. "That I can say that I would not have acted from the same desperation would be a lie—for my Amarië I believe I could have done anything, good or evil—so can I blame you for doing so, my dearest old friend?"

"You _should,"_ Tyelkormo replied softly, though he wondered if he would have blamed _Artafindë_ had their roles been reversed. It was a dangerous contemplation.

All he received in reply to this statement was a long, piercing look. "Sometimes, it is not about what we _should_ do, but what we want to do, and I do not want this dust and ash between us to settle forever. Let us sweep away this past that covers the polished facets of friendship. Let us start anew."

_Could it really be so simple?_

"I cannot forgive myself so easily," Tyelkormo insisted, voice cracking ever so slightly. "It will always be there between us. The past is not as dust that can be swept aside on a mere whim."

"Oh, but it _is,"_ Artafindë assured him. "And I told you, there is nothing to forgive, my cousin, my dear friend."

Another hug wrapped Tyelkormo in the familiar and yet unfamiliar warmth of his cousin's blinding light, a light that was not hungry and devastating flame of the Spirit of Fire, but the gentle caress of Laurelin's gleam upon shivering flesh. The resistance drained away, and though he did not return the embrace, Tyelkormo felt a little lighter for it.

It was a start. All around him, light burst through his earthly body—the light of his cousin's understanding and his lover's beaming smile—to brush away the filth thoroughly encrusted upon what had once been Tyelkormo of Tirion in younger days. As the dust was swept away, the sweet dream of endless green fields and the sweet air of mountains reappeared in the back of his mind, a resurrected ghost of a wish long since abandoned to ruin, a painting uncovered from millennia of neglect. A little droplet of hope.


	94. Enchant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all know that Thingol fell for Melian at first sight, but what about her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love at first sight. Obsession. Possessive behavior. Enchantment.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Eru = Father (because I'm too lazy to screw with Valarin)  
> Lórien = Irmo  
> Melian = Melyanna  
> Elu Thingol = Elwë

When first she heard the footsteps crunch upon untouched grass, she hid from sight amongst the shadows, fearing some creature of darkness was coming upon her from behind.

But there came amongst the trees a stranger of the likes she had never known, and he was certainly no twisted servant of Melkor. He was no ainu either, that she immediately could sense, as he was bound in the fleshy cage of a body, but he was no less beautiful for his unknowing captivity. In fact, his sight and stance stole her breath away from her lips—this work of the Father could not be described in mere words, for she had never seen such glory! No creation, not the towering trees of the Lady Yavanna rustling overhead or the sweet voices of the Nightingales born from Lord Irmo's gardens, could compare with the grace of his measured movements or the brilliance of his broad smile or the wondrous fascination in his young eyes.

Tall and crowned in silver light as a star living and breathing, he passed through the woods like a lantern lighting his own way, humming softly beneath his breath in a baritone that vibrated through her body and did strange things to her mind. Heat sparked beneath her skin.

It was like an enchantment, watching him, hearing him, though she knew he had no knowledge of such magic and could not have cast a spell over her, ignorant as he was of Words of Power and the language of the Ainur, even had he so desired. He did not even know she was there, hiding herself from his passage through her domain in the twilight.

But she saw him. She saw _him._

If anyone later asked, Melyanna would have said it was _then_ that she discovered the darkness of the world—not within the shadows and gloom creeping down from the North—but within her own heart.

Selfishness was the word created to describe it, and greed soon thereafter. But when she saw him, so overcome was she with her _need_ to possess him, to have those glowing eyes looking only upon her with such delight and admiration forever and longer until the world rusted and crumbled, that she parted her lips and whispered in the tongue of her brethren, whispered for the trees to encircle his passage and lead him astray into her arms and for the Nightingales to lift their voices in song so that they could be heard for miles around and fill his ears with her music.

So enchanted was she with his beauty and spirit that she brought him deeper beneath the boughs of trees until the labyrinth was so great he would never find his way out of the forest, nor would his kin find their way in to save him.

To save him from _her._

And then she felt her chest swell and sang all the air from her lungs.

About her, the world took on a sheen of magic, writhing as a tangible creature, swimming through the air thick as water, twining with the trees and shaking the leaves into hushed harmony.

And he heard her, his footsteps pausing midstride in the grass. His head turned towards her voice, away from the camp of the Tatyar, away from the camp of the Nelyar, pulling him aside as though he were attached to her will by an unbreakable thread, drawn taut so that he might not stray to either side. And if he would later say his feet carried him without his knowledge, Melyanna would pretend not to hear.

She would pretend that, when he entered the clearing and first beheld her with his eyes wide and his handsome face morphed into shock, it was not silently spoken Words of Power which made his eyes catch upon her face, unable to move, unable to blink. She pretended that it was purely love at first sight—as he would later claim it to be—which held him immobile for decades stacked upon decades as the trees grew taller and wilder, that kept him gazing only at _her beauty_ and no one and nothing else, just as her yearning heart desired.

She would pretend that it had not filled her with bliss, with a strangely shadowed sort of ecstasy, and with the tinny taste of that power to which all dark maiar were drawn, the power that sucked them in and rotted away their holiness until they were naught but demons, enslaved to their own greedy whims.

Melyanna was not as those demons, but neither was she pure and free of sin. For it had not been solely riveted desire and longing and love which had cemented Elwë silently before her in the dusk, but also enchantment of the most real and devious nature.

Guilt, she should have felt. Remorse, she should have quivered with. Redemption, she should have sought in her prayers to the Father. But she could not regret and could not be sorry for what she had done in deceit. 

Because even now, thousands of years later, she still gazed upon his face with awe and marveled at his glory. Selfishly, but with satisfaction. She was his wife, his love and joy and ecstasy.

And he could not escape the trap in which she had captured his beauty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> ainu = holy one  
> Tatyar = second "clan" of elves (become Noldor)  
> Nelyar = third "clan" of elves (become Teleri and Sindar and a couple of others)  
> maiar = lesser ainur


	95. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is won and the Greenwood is blossoming, but shadows still linger in the hearts of some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the Lord of the Rings. For those of you who don't know what happens to Legolas after, I didn't make it up. It's all Tolkien's fault.
> 
> Soul-mates. Past torture and non-con. Bittersweet ending.

The darkness that had hovered over their blessed wood for so long was fading away, flushed aside under a roiling mass of foaming brilliance. Green things were growing again, the toxic undercurrent that poisoned the land drawn from the earth's veins as if the Valar themselves sucked it from the gaping wound rent by dark magic and evil. As the days waxed and waned, Thranduil's heart lightened, a massive weight lifted from his trembling shoulders with the new health and branching life.

For the Elvenking was as one being with his realm, and when the Greenwood was sickened so too was his heart, shadowed in dread, eating away at the corners of his mind where he could not find it, could not drive it away, his clawed fingers passing through something intangible and lurking as a noxious smoke. But with the defeat and destruction of the Dark Lord, he felt the entire earth blooming in relief, singing in ecstasy, the sunlight finally piercing through the thickly layered leaves overhead and heating the world beneath.

Flowers unfurled their greedy petals in the Greenwood, vibrant crimsons and violets. How long it had been since Thranduil had brushed his fingers over the sweet flesh and smelled the honeyed nectar of a wild bloom!

No more shadows. No more despair. His people rejoiced with their king and their land. For the first time in a great long while, Thranduil took to his rich drink with a grin and enjoyed the merrymaking of his folk.

And that night, when he met the flame-haired stranger in the wood, there was forgiveness glowing in his face. Joyfully, he cupped familiar cheekbones and drank of his lover's taste. Perhaps it was foolish, a fancy brought through intoxication and overwhelming passion, but he cared not that night, or any night afterwards.

"It has finally passed. There is peace," he whispered with his forehead pressed to the other's brow, staring into eyes flecked a thousand shades of storm and viridian.

The other sighed, their breath mingling. "Let us pray it stays as such for a good many centuries." They had both been veiled in the shadows of war and evil, and both were tired of running away and of fighting tooth and nail to survive.

Now, they could finally rest. Thranduil's heart beat fast and strong with life, with anticipation of what the next day might bring. With renewed hope.

For nothing seemed wrong in the world.

\---

It was months later that his youngest child returned home.

But it was not the boy he had sent away on a simple mission to interrogate Elrond Peredhel for information on the gathering darkness who was now standing upon his doorstep. No, this was an aged creature. Shocked, his stomach sinking to the vicinity of his toes, Thranduil beheld tiny wrinkles at the corners of his child's eyes. The smile that had once been as a breath of fresh air filling the lungs with delight and wonder in times of need was now thin and wane, stretched and utterly broken.

Even war did not often do such things to the soul. Certainly the death of a comrade would bring needles of sorrow to the heart, but nothing like this merciless despair that seemed to wrack the stranger in his son's boots. From his memories came unbidden days of senseless wandering and the memory of pain and fear. He could see the reflection of himself in this child of not even an age of the world, and it tore apart anything that Thranduil recognized.

Shadows had filled his son's eyes where once there had been only light.

Around them, the world began to recover, began to breathe again, but his son's soul faltered, its fire sputtering desperately without air, a flickering candle holding the tide of the night of the heart at bay. And Thranduil did not know what to do, what he could say to ease such suffering. Helplessness chilled him to the bone.

He did not know what to do when his youngest child came to him and wept. Did not know what to do when Legolas told him through soft, heaving cries that he would be leaving, that he would not be coming back, that he couldn't bear to stay beneath the thick canopies of the trees of his childhood home, connected as one with the land. No longer did the voices of Yavanna's beloved creations bring him the same awe and joy they once had. No longer did they soothe. Only torment did they bring.

For Ulmo had called him, and Legolas could hear nothing but the sea's raging chaos and the cry of gulls upon a distant wind.

Day after day, skin grew paler, taking on that gray tint that spoke only of lingering death, a wilting flower growing black around the edges, crumpling into disrepair. And, though he long denied it, Thranduil knew he could do naught but let his little one go, watch a gray ship ferry him away to some distant place of everlasting beauty.

And they would never meet again, for Thranduil's heart did not yearn after the Undying Lands. He was a sinda, born and raised amongst the wild growth and freedom of Beleriand, and he longed not for white-washed architecture and tamed fields of flowers and waving barley.

It was for the best that Legolas packed and bade the Greenwood farewell in the dead of the night, disappearing as a ghost whilst Thranduil was tucked sleeplessly away, tossing and turning in harried thought. If the king had had to stand in ceremony and bid goodbye ( _Goodbye forever until the End of All Things_ ) to the prince, he thought he might have collapsed into a pile of silken robes, finery and broken fears, weeping piteously before his people.

But it was not the people who beheld his tears that day, nor did they soothe the newfound darkness that filtered out the rising glory of the light.

It was strong arms that held him so safely and gently, and hot kisses that brushed his cheeks and temple. It was the breathy whispers washing over his skin, drying his tears, and the hushed lullaby that stroked through the ragged discord of his song, harmonizing and softening with sweet overtones. It was the brush of red curls, tickling against his nose, and the scent of warm comfort suffusing freckled skin.

"He has gone," Thranduil had gasped between wracking shudders, clutching for dear life to that strength. "He has _gone."_

"I know."

It was a presence so powerful and so brilliant which held these final shadows at bay. And it was the rumble of a steady heartbeat that rocked him into exhausted sleep.

It was the touch of callused fingers that awakened him to a new day.


	96. Powerless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwindor can only watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, I am finally caught up. All this editing has been driving me crazy! No more updates until Saturday.
> 
> War. Death. Somewhat explicit dismemberment and decapitation. Swearing.
> 
> *quote is directly from "Of the Fifth Battle" in the Quenta Silmarillion

At first, he did not even recognize the ragged elven thrall.

Tall and thin to the bone, in nothing but a dirty loincloth, the poor creature looked more like an emaciated, aged human than an elf. Shoulders hunched inwards, muscles quivering in terror, and eye sockets empty with blood smeared down gaunt cheeks, those were the first things Gwindor noted. But the telltale shape of pointed ears confirmed the elven nature of this tortured soul. In his heart, rage was kindled on behalf of his kin; to see anyone brought so low unjustly made his stomach clench and his blood boil with need to rend and tear!

Where he stood out-looking from the fortress, Gwindor leaned over the edge, his palms scraping painfully upon stone as he clutched the topmost ledge of the outer wall.

They dragged the thrall by his shackles—his wrists were weeping scarlet at the sharpened cuffs and his throat was bruised from maltreatment—and threw him forward like a child's doll. The stranger tumbled down as a limp thing, crying at the impact with jagged rock that sliced open elbows and knees without mercy.

A hand curled sharply in a mane that might once have been pale and glossy, beautiful and full with health, but was now shorn, thin and dirty, the wispy white of an old man's hair. Backwards it pulled the thrall's head, wrenching a half-formed scream from the blinded, terrified captive, bearing that visage to the pale-faced elves gazing out over the wall in horrified shock—Gwindor amongst them, shaking and feeling ill to his core.

"Take a good look," the filthy creature of darkness snarled up at them, face twisted into a parody of a grin, contorted as though it had been melted by blazing heat and left as a deformed wax visage. It roughly shook its clenched fist, rattling the confused thrall, who whimpered pathetically in pain and fear. "Take a look at your kinsman, elves of Nargothrond!"

_Nargothrond? But I do not recognize..._

Gwindor's throat swelled shut, his eyes widening until whites blazed about hazel irises. He looked. He _looked._

And _saw._

Saw familiar grins as phantom shadows in the falling light of day. Felt powerful hands clutch at his forearms in greeting. Remembered cheerful kisses pressed to his cheeks and a broad hand ruffling his hair from above. Recalled the comforting scent of home, warm, freshly baked bread and the metallic tang of weaponry.

In that face, he beheld a mask, overlapping the monstrous, gaunt, tormented creature kneeling and shaking before their inspection with familiarity so incisive it seemed as shards of glass stabbing unto Gwindor's throbbing heart.

"Gelmir..." His voice cracked sharply.

Sightless though he was, the thrall jerked as though he had heard the call upon the wind, as though he had been struck by a barbed whip of lightning.

His brother. _Oh Valar, his beloved brother, his beloved_ dead _older brother... Dead, he was supposed to be dead! His suffering was supposed to be over!_

And panic. Writhing downwards into his limbs, whipping his heartbeat into a frenzied gallop. But his legs were inlaid to the stone. For the life of him— _for the life of his brother, Eru forgive him!_ —he could not move. Could not breathe. Could not think.

Impotent with horror, he could only watch.

"We have many more such at home," the orc told them, and the others laughed amongst themselves, their gestures too obscene for Gwindor to dare comprehend. "But you must make haste if you would find them," the enemy continued, "For we shall deal with them all when we return even so..."*

A blade was unsheathed. Gwindor shook at the ringing vibrations cutting the air. Gelmir below him keened low in his throat, struggling weakly, knowing intuitively the fate that was crouching in the darkness, ready to leap upon his helpless form.

Equally powerless the brothers stood. But rather than cleaving off the thrall's head, the servant of Morgoth did much worse. Grasping the manacles arms, it pulled them taut and outstretched before the elf, pressed with breaking force to stone, and raised its blade overhead. With a sickening crunch, it came down and buried into rock, serrated edges fileting clean through muscle and bone, removing both arms above the elbow in one fell stroke.

He imagined Gelmir screamed, but Gwindor could hear naught above the ringing in his ears as he watched blood spurt forth in a tide, its copper scent so strong that it hit him as a cliff's face. His knees weakened beneath him.

And then it moved to a leg, forcing the bony limb out at an angle bent wrong and had it pinned in place so that it might be plucked as the leg of a bug. Bile hit the back of Gwindor's throat as the shrill shrieking in the air; others beside him covered their ears or wept bitterly, knowing they could only sit and watch and wait for their king's word...

But then it mercilessly hewed off the last limb above the knee, and the thrall squirmed and thrashed as a beast wracked with torment, pleading in garbled tongue as his lifeblood leaked out and out and out as a river down between sharp stones, as he was unable to move, to flee, to fight, to do anything but lie before his tormentor and wait for the end to come. The orc pressed a foot onto the elf's bowed back and shoved him down into stone so he writhed as a speared fish on land for the amusement and jeering of the enemy's troops.

With a grin that belonged on the wicked visage of Morgoth himself, the orc finally dealt the last blow, cleaving head from shoulders. Gray encroached upon Gwindor's vision; his head went light and fuzzy, his world spinning.

_His brother was supposed to be..._

_Many more at home..._

_Dead, dead, dead, dead..._

_Blood leaking over stone, dripping, its thick scent swallowing him in a blanket of death..._

And Gwindor felt rage swirl into the jittery lightness of his suddenly freed arms and legs. Hot and uncontrollable fury and terror flooding through him for every ounce of crimson spilled before his eyes. Acid burning his lungs out of oxygen, needles stabbing poison into his heart, claws twisting his ribs and ripping his organs. He knew he screamed, knew obscenities burst from his lips, felt hands holding him back as he raged and raged and wept and _wept..._

He had stood by and watched his brother die. Never had he felt so helpless, so _useless and wretched and traitorous..._

_We shall deal with them when we return even so..._

More comrades captured? More elven thralls enslaved and tortured and blinded? More frightened souls lying beneath their tormentors to be raped and pillaged and murdered for sport?

Gwindor had been powerless, but he would be powerless no more!

"Wait, my lord! The King said—"

_"Fuck the King and his orders!"_ the impassioned Lord of Nargothrond cried, throwing aside all who dared step in his way. "All of like mind, make ready. I will not see those demons live to breathe another sunrise!"

He would ride out. And he would make them _sorry._ He would make them _pay._

He would give them a taste of their own medicine. And when he watched them writhe on the ground, pinned beneath his spear, watched them slowly succumb to the leaking acid of their stomach or the sluggish bleeding of their intestines into the black earth, he would laugh as one possessed and revel in bringing his enemy low. Perhaps he would even gauge out their eyes and watch the black blood smear down their cheeks.

Perhaps then the guilt rising as a tight knot in the back of his throat would unravel. Perhaps, then, he would not hate himself for standing aside and doing nothing.


	97. Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros does not have much skill in the forge. But he does have a few other noteworthy talents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my younger sister, who thought it would be hilarious to torture me with such a mundane and sugary prompt.
> 
> Companion piece to Strive (Chapter 70), though it didn't start that way originally.
> 
> Dysfunctional family. Mother-hen!Maedhros.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Nelyo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë, Káno  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Turko  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë, Moryo  
> Curufin = Curufinwë, Curvo  
> Amrod = Pityo  
> Amras = Telvo

There was a soft knock at the door. It interrupted the steady train of thought—thoroughly entrenched in the subtle intricacies of political science and its many applications—and pulled the oldest Fëanárion back to the reality of his bedchambers, back to the golden light peeking through the half-pulled curtains guarding his windows and the echo of the foreign sound off his walls. Had he imagined that? But then it came again, still gentle, almost hesitant. 

At first, Maitimo suspected it was his mother for the lightness of it—his father would simply barge right in without bothering to knock, and his brothers would at least attempt to rattle the poor slab of wood off its hinges before admitting defeat and slinking away to brood at being ignored.

But whereas Nerdanel would never open it unannounced, unlocked or no, he heard the handle turn and the wood give a faint creak as his door cracked open.

Two sets of large, mischievous green eyes peered through the slit between wood and frame. Maitimo just sighed. "Come in." He knew better than to send them away; he would not be rid of this pair of troublemakers so easily. If they did not have his dutiful attention now, they would find some way to capture it later, some way that would probably involve a very large, sticky mess that needed scrubbing. "What is it that you need, little ones?"

They pushed the door open farther and shuffled inside. Tunics, stained with dirt and frayed at the edges, adorned their tiny bodies, and their wildly curly hair was full of dreadful knots and twigs. Maitimo winced at the thought of untangling that mess later this evening. Certainly it would not be his father or mother tending and braiding those locks before bedtime. Though the image of watching the unshakable genius Fëanáro struggle with childhood braids and tangles was secretly enough to put a half-hidden smirk on Maitimo's face.

Most likely, the twins were searching for a playmate. Often enough, they were shoved aside by their older siblings. Kanafinwë would occasionally make time for them, but was more interested in teaching them music than playing in the grass and dirt. Turkafinwë would roll his eyes and tell them to get lost. Morifinwë and Curufinwë were not even worth taking the time to question, for they had no interest in being associated with the "babies" of the family and would kindly send the twins off alone to get into trouble unsupervised.

Which, of course, left only Maitimo to assuage the twins' hunger for older company.

He fully expected a soft entreaty of _"Will you play with us, Nelyo,"_ from the lips that parted beneath his narrowed, expectant gaze.

Instead, he received "Will you help us bake cookies."

For a moment, he didn't quite comprehend the words. "Cookies?" he repeated skeptically. "Have... have you asked Amillë?"

"Emya is busy."

"She said to ask Káno."

"But Káno was busy."

"He said to ask _you."_

A pause.

"I do not know how to bake cookies." Which may or may not have been a blatant lie. It was not like their _father_ ever had time, and Nerdanel could not cook anything even remotely resembling edible. It was only by the good graces of a hired cook that they didn't all starve in this massive house. But she was not in charge of concocting sugary treats for greedy elflings; that job had definitely fallen into someone else's hands.

But Maitimo liked to pretend otherwise. It was embarrassing to admit (even to himself) that he was more skilled at baking all manner of pastries and sweet delights than he was at shaping metal in the forge or carving facets into timeless jewels.

Whether or not they believed him, both of the twins' little mouths formed adorable pouts, lower lips wobbling tremulously as they gazed up at him with star struck eyes. _"Please...?"_

_And here I wanted to get studying done this evening..._

So much for that plan.

"All right." Because how could he say "no" to _that?_

\---

And thus he found himself wearing an apron with his hair tied back in a bun, little wisps slipping free of their bonds to get in his eyes as he worked dough between his fingers. The squish of the soft mass between his digits was cool and soothing in a strangely cathartic way, like relaxing, reverse-massaging all the tension from his body that had been building up over the course of a very long and irritable week. 

The twins stood on stools to reach the counter and dutifully obeyed his every command _for once_. When he told them to knead, they kneaded, and when he told them to flatten, they flattened. When he told them to stop throwing flour at each other (because they were making an awful mess of themselves and the floor), they giggled and wiped their messy hands on their leggings.

Of course, the chocolate shards that he had laid out— _"They are for the cookies! Do not touch them!"_ —were persuasive incentive for good behavior. Otherwise, Maitimo fully expected he would have received a face-full of the clingy white powder for daring to interrupt their play.

"Here..." He directed small hands carefully with a circular cookie cutter. "Press all the way through the dough, and lay the cookies on the pan."

How the majority of them somehow managed to come out only vaguely resembling circles was a mystery he did not exert much effort to solve, but he thought eager mouths and sticky fingers might have something to do with it. For once, the fastidious older brother allowed it to slide. And he pretended not to see when the two little redheads fished the last of the chocolate chips from their bowl and devoured them whilst his back was turned.

As he placed the pan in the oven and closed the door, the oldest brother felt a strange sort of calm settle over his spirit. For the first time all week, Maitimo did not feel like his brain was going to fry under the pressure of his studies and melt out of his ears. And he did not feel like his mind was going to crack like a broken mirror from the strain of his father's disdainful eyes and hurtful comments.

Everything in the world felt calm and simple with his two little brothers pressing up against his sides, eagerly peering in at the cookies which would not show signs of actually baking and turning a delectable golden-brown for some time yet. Nevertheless, he found himself running his dirty hands through their hair, ruffling the curls.

The sweet innocence of children was enchanting. Perhaps someday...

"I see you have been busy."

It was Kanafinwë. The musician and scholar was leaning against the doorframe, immaculate as ever. Maitimo guessed that he had been watching as the oldest brother carefully set their handmade treasure within the oven to bake, judging by the amusement glittering in silvered eyes.

"Yes, well..."

"Káno, Káno, Káno!" Pityo cried in excitement. "Did you see? Did you? We are making _cookies!"_

As though it were the most amazing thing in the world. Maitimo's heart clenched just a little bit. The childish appreciation for something so simple was refreshing. More so than that, he enjoyed seeing the little ones smiling without that lurking aspect of attention-seeking trouble just beyond the edges of their sharp little grins.

"That I can see." The second-eldest joined them at the table, carefully avoiding sullying his hands or sleeves with the leftover flour smeared over the surface. "Are you having fun?"

Both little ones nodded eagerly. "Nelyo showed us how!"

"So I see..." Kanafinwë sent him a sly look indeed. "It has been a long while indeed since he has taken up the art of baking cookies."

A flush rose unbidden to Maitimo's cheeks. "I seem to recall _someone_ appreciating my proficiency in that particular art as a sniveling elfling," he muttered in reply. "Dear me, his name seems to have escaped me, but I thought it might have started with—"

"Are those cookies I smell?"

Surprised, he turned to find Turkafinwë in the doorway now, carrying the scent of earth and fresh air and sweat. To the eldest brother's annoyance, the third brother made himself at home, tossing down his longbow upon the table— _"Weapons do not belong on the surface off which we eat, Turko"_ —and threw himself down in a chair beside the room's other occupants. Maitimo's chastisement was dutifully ignored.

And then the twins, utterly pleased with themselves and their latest adventure, proceeded to repeat tales of their older brother's prowess in the kitchen to the new, willing, smirking audience. Luckily, Turko was no less guilty of both enjoying and taking advantage of that prowess, and so kept his teasing to knowing looks rather than his usual silver-tonged taunts.

Soon enough, the smell of baking cookies had wafted its way down the hallways and attracted the attention of yet another occupant of the house. Loitering outside the doorway was Morifinwë, his face shyly peering around the corner into the room

Resigned, Maitimo sighed. "Are you going to join us, Moryo?"

The fourth brother flushed vermilion, looking down at his feet as he shuffled into the room, but there was a smile upon his normally frowning visage that drove away innate darkness. And for once, he and Turko did not immediately break into a one-sided staring contest in which the oldest of the pair silently, invisibly beat his younger sibling's self-esteem into the ground.

Perhaps the sweetened atmosphere was good for _something._

Especially when their last volatile member joined them in the small room.

Fresh from lessons at the forge, no doubt about it. If the smell of smoke and the glisten of a thick layer of sweat weren't telling enough, the red rims about large, glazed eyes spoke the rest. All of the older brothers knew how trying such lessons could be with a perfectionist father like theirs, too concerned with his own projects and his own abilities to realize that all others did not have the same untapped, natural potential.

Curufinwë came the closest undoubtedly, but was far from the mark of perfection, young as he currently was. How their father could expect so much of someone so young and untried frustrated Maitimo to no end! He hated seeing the discouraged expressions and hearing the litany of doubts that would follow each lecture. Because no matter how he reassured, his words did not carry the same weight as did those of their esteemed sire.

Just as the eldest was removing the steaming, molten-hot cookies from the oven, the last brother appeared in the doorway looking worse for wear and an inch away from crying his eyes out.

It was all he could do to set the tray down and offer his arms. And if the child— _"I am not a child anymore, Nelyo, do not treat me like one!"_ —came willingly into his embrace and hid his face against his older brother's shoulder, no one spoke a word against it nor mocked him for needing comfort. If anything, the glances around the table were knowing and understanding. They had all been in that position before, many, many times.

Maitimo brushed away the few stray tears that had leaked free from the cracked poise of the trembling facade, leaving behind streaks of flour upon rosy cheeks instead. "Come and sit, Curvo," he said softly, pressing a kiss to his brother's forehead.

And they were all together in a single room without arguing, without fighting, without taunting and without belittling for the very first time since well before the last two brothers had joined their merry band of troubled siblings.

"You have flour on your face," Telvo pointed out blatantly as the last brother sat. The elfling scrambled up to perch himself upon his brother's lap, his tiny hand reaching upwards, but as it tried to wipe away the smudges, it only succeeded in adding more pale decoration to contrast the blotches formed from weeping.

And Curvo, rather than pushing away the touches petulantly, instead reached out to the flour adorning the table and whitened his hand with its softness, pressing the newly-sullied limb against the little one's cheek. Not that the child needed to be any messier. Now not only was there dirt to be cleaned from ragged clothing and twigs to be untangled from wild hair, but flour to be scrubbed from ruddy flesh. It would take hours to get the twins in bed and asleep this night.

Yet Maitimo could not find it within himself to be anything short of amused, even when the little one responded by throwing a fistful of powdery white in his brother's shocked face. Which Curvo returned tenfold, splattering not only the twins, but also Turko and Moryo as well.

Thus began the battle.

By the time the cookies were cooled, they were all thoroughly splotched and laughing, and Maitimo wondered when the last time was that his heart felt so light. It was a glowing feeling, bursting to life in his belly and radiating outwards to his fingers and toes, bringing a natural, broad grin unto his lips as he observed his messy siblings playing around like little elflings. By Eru, the affection he felt for them, regardless of their attitudes and intrinsic differences, arose in a heated wave to envelope him in an intangible, untouchable embrace.

They were still laughing as they dug in to the newly-baked treat courtesy of Nelyafinwë Maitimo, second in line to the throne of the Noldor.

So caught up were they in their newfound delight and camaraderie that it was only the oldest brother who witnessed the passage of their sire, star-eyes glinting from the darkness of the hallway, watching them with the strangest foreign look burning into silver depths. Yet for once Maitimo did not feel his smile fade at the sight, did not allow the intense presence to douse the glow of pleasure suffusing his skin and soul.

He met those eyes unyieldingly, equally adamantine. Let it not be said that the first son possessed none of his father's stubbornness and will to follow his own path.

They shared a gaze, for long moments unbroken, stronger than steel and hotter than embers. But it was the father, not the son, who glanced away first.

And Fëanáro passed them by without a word. Silent.

Brooding or scornful he might be, thinking of the waste of his firstborn son's talent, but Maitimo did not care, not at this moment. He commandeered the twins, settling them down in his lap as they joyously sang the praises of their scrumptious creations, and then the eldest redhead snatched a cookie for himself and bit into the gloriously melted chocolate, feeling the treat melt upon his tongue as butter and sugar.

Never had victory tasted so sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro  
> Amillë = Mother  
> Emya = Mama


	98. Euphoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir and reborn!Haleth revel in the simplicity of snow (and each other).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to a friend from Japanese class who came up with this prompt.
> 
> Modern AU tied in with Ballad (Chapter 75). Reincarnation. Fluffyness. Cliche.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Haleth = Haley (because not a lot of people nowadays would torment a child with a name like Haleth)

She was laughing and romping through the snow like an eager child, a broad grin splitting her face, freckles dancing over her cheeks. From beneath her knitted blue hat, blond waves spilled over her shoulders, tangled from the wind whipping through their veil, sending it flying in abstract curls about her heart-shaped face.

And Caranthir, he could hardly breathe. Her every free movement, her airborne lopes and her hands thrown to the sky in matching knit gloves, her hair waving as if through water and her bright hazel eyes flashing with glee, it was all entrancing, all-encompassing. Had he half the mind to, he could have sat and watched her joyous supplication to the falling frozen crystals forever and a day and been content for the rest of eternity. That she was made so happy by something so simple made his heart clench taut in his chest.

Looking back at him, she beckoned him forth with wild hand gesticulations. Even at this distance, he could see the flutter of her eyelashes, dotted with diamond droplets of melted snow, and the shapes formed by her lips, the words being created by her far-away, echoing voice that could not be received over the pound of his frantic heartbeat.

"Come on! What are you waiting for?"

An odd question. He was many thousands of years old, but Caranthir had never once played in the snow. Valinor rarely saw the white, powdery fluff, so his childhood had been mostly devoid of its splendor, and he had not been privy to the journey across Helcaraxë so did not know the bite of cold wind or the sting of vicious frozen pellets upon his cheeks. Only in Beleriand had he seen this strange phenomenon, and later in Middle-earth, but by then any youthful wonder at the sight had drained from his cursed blood and tainted spirit, deemed unimportant and childish in the face of darkening reality and danger lurking on the horizon.

How different things had come to be.

When he didn't respond—and the look on his face probably explained his utter consternation at the very suggestion—Haley pranced back the way she had come, carefully tip-toeing in her own calf-deep footprints to reach his side.

Her gloved hand curled around his wrist, so very warm and soft on cool skin, yanking him forward into the field of white. "Hurry up!"

Hesitantly at first, he followed her into the wintery wonderland, captivated by her rosy cheeks and the sway of her hips as she ran ahead of him, just beyond reach of his fingertips. And, as though pulled by invisible threads, he trailed after her wherever she went, tracing her footprints with his larger, booted feet. 

It was a foreign, strange feeling, this playing, like letting go of all the shadows that hung in a heavy shroud over his heart, letting go of all expectations and formalities and responsibilities. For once, Caranthir felt the air come freely to his lungs.

And she was laughing, snow struck up by her heels as she raced across white, falling fluff dotting her clothing and dripping down her warm skin. The sound of her euphoria hit him as a ray of sunlight to bare flesh, melting through rigid muscle to frigid bone beneath, soothing away tension and worry. Chasing away darkness.

Valar, but he loved her!

And he could not help but join her in laughter, could not help but join in her wild, joyous dance through frozen white, more two harmonious creatures celebrating the simple beauty of the world than two humans contemplating the complex reality of its mysteries. And perhaps it was not only the simple beauty of the world he admired as his Haley ran squealing out feigned protests and he gave gentle, relaxed chase.

And as he wrapped his arms about her waist and lifted her off her feet, spinning her through the air to the lilt of her cries and laughter and the touch of her hands against his arms. Glorious. Absolutely glorious.

They tumbled downwards onto the soft bed laid out by the grace of winter's bosom, their bodies turned towards one another, their faces so close that the white clouds of their panting breaths mingled between them. He pressed his cheek to the cold blankets and observed the ring of mossy green about her pupil, branching out into rich mahogany and the velvet of dark chocolate. Observed the flush of her face against cold and exertion flooding across confetti-dotted cheeks. Observed every crease around her smiling lips and at the corners of her glowing eyes.

Let the mortals think what they might, but even without a perfectly-shaped slender nose and elegantly rounded face and properly graceful chin, Haley was the most beautiful creature in the world. Beauty of the flesh was hardly the net that held the ancient elf as a willing captive.

Caranthir was gasping softly from running, but felt no fatigue in his limbs. Instead, his entire body felt as though it boiled over in lightness, in the weightlessness of their small little world. And if his vision went blurry, he never admitted to himself that the sting creeping up behind his eyes was entirely to blame.

None of the past mattered here. Just her and the snow landing softly upon their faces. Just her and the touch of their brows. Just her as their arms tangled, his knuckles stroking her cheek, her mitted-fingertips tracing his jaw.

They needed nothing more than this moment.


	99. Loveless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeglin's fire is sputtering out in the Halls of the Waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to a friend who needs to think of a less cliche prompt next time.
> 
> This was written in the very early hours of the morning and thus may be a bit strange and fuzzy. It's cliche and strange and OOC.
> 
> Also, another slash pairing in the works most likely. Can't help myself.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Mandos = Námo  
> Maeglin = Lómion

How long he had stared at these gray walls, Maeglin could not have said.

Often enough, he did not even truly see them, for their blank canvases served more as a catalyst for torturous images reflected from beneath his eyelids than they did as the planar bars of an empty, cold cell. All day and all night, as Arien drifted past the tiny window in the corner and Tilion replaced her golden hue with silvered glory, Maeglin just stared.

It was not the chill or the emptiness of the Halls of the Waiting that drove souls into depressed darkness. It was the walls, he decided, and the memories they projected.

For he looked upon them and _saw_ , saw all of the terrible things he wished he could forget, and forgot all of the wondrous moments he would have cherished forever. It was not his mother's sweet embrace or her whispered lullabies that came to him as he lay in a stupor, entrapped in the shadow of souls.

It was Idril's horrified face as he held a sword to her child's throat.

It was the wary glisten in his uncle's eyes beholding the father's face in the son.

It was the last glimpse of black hatred as Eöl was thrown over the wall and the sound of bones cracking and innards splattering as the body hit the sharp rocks below.

He felt so very, very cold.

_"They have never loved thee, and they _will_ never love thee, but I... I can give thee what it is that thou dost most desire..."_

Golden silk running through his fingers. Little children with her lovely visage and his dark coloring, or sharp-angled lads with those maddening curls.

_"Just tell me where to find the Hidden City, and I will make thee a King. And I will make _her_ thy Queen, the lady who thou dost love who loves another..."_

Like poison infecting the bloodstream, that honeyed voice slunk—hot and thick—through Maeglin's consciousness, temptation at its most terrifying, pulling him towards the choice that his mind screamed was wrong but his heart yearned to be right.

_"I will not betray my uncle—my King!"_

_"Thy uncle, who cannot even look thee in thy eyes. Thy uncle, who never loved thee, never cared about thee, not even when thou wert at your lowest, in thy darkest hours, orphaned and alone in the world. Thy uncle, who sees only the treachery of thy father in thy wild blood and sharp gaze..."_

_"You only prove the necessity of loyalty and fealty."_

_"What good is loyalty that is unappreciated? What good is fealty to one who spits upon it with scorn? Turgon of Gondolin will_ never _love thee as a man loves his son, and Idril Celebrindal will_ never _love thee as a woman loves a man."_

It hurt to hear it then, and it hurt to hear it now, repeated in his dreams in mellifluous tones. Hurt like being stabbed with a red-hot blade. Though he had no body which could feel, Maeglin still raised a hand to his chest, clutching as though at a mortal wound over his ghost of a throbbing heartbeat. He was bleeding, bleeding out all his spirit, all of that intrinsic matter that made up _himself_ , leaving a shell behind. Lifeless. Loveless. Devoid of wants and needs and desires.

Devoid of pain.

_"But I can change that... All thou dost need to do is tell me, dear-heart... Tell me what I need to know..."_

And he had spoken. Cried and screamed and wept and cursed all who had ever looked upon him foully. Cursed his father's derision and dismissal. Cursed his uncle's flash-judgment and unfair assumptions. Cursed his cousin's sunny smile and kind heart and cold rejection.

And now it was too late. Now he was naught but a traitor. A traitor through love. A traitor through lack of love. But a traitor nonetheless, named and remembered not for his great works or talents at a young age, but for betraying his people to the enemy, for spilling his heart to the only person seemingly willing to listen like a naive child, speaking the truth to make the horrible torture whipping gashes across his mind _cease!_

Maeglin the Traitor. He ought to have been Maeglin the Loveless.

_"Dost thou truly believe as such, child?"_

It was a voice he had heard only once before, a voice that had condemned him eternally to a small cell with blank walls that painted murals of his past. Doom. Judgment. Justice.

Perhaps this was justice, punishment for his weakness...

_"No... Think that not, little one. Never that."_

Maeglin shivered, wrapping his arms about his intangible being to ward off cold that could not be halted by blanket or fire or fury. It was soul-deep, filling and freezing and shattering.

He had just... just wanted...

Just wanted her to _love_ him. Just wanted his uncle's acceptance. Just wanted his father's approval. Just wanted to be worthy of his mother's sacrifice and not some useless whelp of a clueless boy hopelessly floundering about as a blade of grass lost in the wind. 

Why could they not love him? Had he done something so wrong?

 _"Of course not..."_ Phantom fingers brushed through his hair. _"Believe that not. Thou wert young and frightened and untried. Thou hast been punished, but thou art not condemned."_

"I betrayed my family. I _should be_ condemned." A sob, broken and wretched.

"Hush..." At first he thought he was imagining the powerful arms about his shoulders, the broad chest upon which his temple rested and the black robes which absorbed his copious tears.

"I should. _I should._ Who would ever love someone like me? A weak-minded, weak-willed fool of a child who threw away everything he held dear for a lie? The way she looked upon my face makes my skin crawl! _She hates me!"_

It felt like a long many minutes—though maybe moments, maybe hours had passed—that he ranted and cried like the child he was to the harmony of hushes and crooned murmurs. But afterwards, after all tears were taken and all tension released, Maeglin fell spent against the stronger frame, fell limp, finally hollow, finally bled fully of all lifeblood, an empty husk left behind to rot away in the darkness. He did not think he could have moved had Eru himself ordered him to his feet. And he was so ready— _so ready_ —to lie down and let the shadows take him, to drift away into oblivion.

"Oh, little one..." A hand cupped the back of his head, and Maeglin did not have the energy or thought to be indignant at being treated as a baby. To this ancient creature, he was a child, an infantile mortal, fragile and immature.

"Didst thou know every soul is born with another half?"

Of course, he had heard of mates of the soul. His mother claimed that his father was her other half, but Maeglin had never believed it to be thus. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, a delusion that kept her happy under the thumb of a tyrant. But at the same time, he had seen it before, seen smitten men and women so utterly in love, so utterly in synchronization, so completely one with each other that they could be nothing _but_ the other's missing half.

"I pity my One," he whispered. "To be stuck with me..."

"Thou shouldst not," Námo whispered. "Thou shouldst have faith, have _hope_. Someone out there in the cosmos is waiting for thee."

"For me...?" It was a nice thought. The thought of golden hair or dark locks, of kind eyes and a gentle touch, of smiles and kisses and holding hands. Of not being ashamed. Of not being hated. Of not being the son of a lunatic, but just being himself, just being Lómion.

"That could never happen," Maeglin finally whispered. "Not to me. Not now."

A hand stroked down his back, tracing the curve of his hunched spine. "Thou shouldst not give in to darkness. These empty halls were not made to house any spirit for eternity. Beyond these boundaries, there is sunlight and open air and warmth. Beyond these four walls the world awaits thy return to the realm of the living."

"For what purpose? To be spat upon as a traitor?" the child of the twilight hissed, eyes once again stinging. "I will never be accepted, never be loved. The Loveless. The traitorous ghost."

"Thou _wilt_ be loved!" Hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing new-fallen tears. "Thou shalt understand one day. Thy future lies not here. Thy hope fades beneath the eaves of my House. Thy hope and faith and future is _out there, waiting for thee."_

He looked up into blackened eyes, swirling as the darkest of wines mixed with the glisten of ancient stars upon dark skies. "I never lie. I cannot lie. Love waits not here for thee, but out _there._ In _life._

"And life is worth living. And one day, thou shalt know happiness," the vala spoke, voice as powerful and supportive as steel beams. At the steadfast certainty, Maeglin could not bear to look away, to miss a word.

"But thou needest to give life another chance. Thou needest to put aside those dark memories and insecurities and fears and trust in thyself."

_How could he trust in himself when he had betrayed everything he ever loved? How could he face reality with this black mark upon his breast?_

"Have a little faith."

He looked and looked into those eyes, and for a moment, he saw.

Saw smiling faces and stormy eyes with the glimmer of sun off dark water. Saw himself and another, hands entwined tightly. Saw himself _smiling_ and saw children running through the grass with bare feet and innocent, beautiful laughter.

Saw another, another who sang to his soul like a resonating bell, striking his core with ferocity enough to knock him from his very feet.

"They are waiting for _thee."_

And it was a familiar dream of happiness and sunlight and _love_ , a dream that vibrated through Maeglin sharply, painfully, as a broken trinket that could not be pieced together or repainted with a new scenic view. To grasp at these ashes was to invite pain, invite suffering...

But to leave them to fly away on a strong wind was to lose them forever.

Faith to collect the dancing shards. Hope to plant them anew and water them. Time to allow them to blossom into a dream more beautiful than any that had come before it, no longer a fantasy of realities that could never become corporeal, but a vision of what could be if only he dared to rekindle his fire and reach...

And Maeglin reached...

And came back to himself. Back to the cold and the gray and the swirling, dark eyes.

"Thou shalt not remain loveless."

And Maeglin _believed_. It was worth the pain, this love, this dream. And he burned and stretched and reached. And lived and breathed. And sought.

And found.


	100. Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir and Haley (Haleth) finally cross each other's lives for a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Connected to Ballad (Chapter 75) and Euphoria (Chapter 98). Divine intervention and reincarnation. Denial. Stereotyping.
> 
> This is Haleth's POV of a scene I wrote months ago from Caranthir's POV. Just for fun.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Haleth = Haley

At first it was but a whisper. Just beyond the edge of thought.

She saw his face and it scratched at the back of her mind, a little itch that befuddled her logical perception of the world.

Haley could not deny that he was gorgeous—even beautiful. And probably as gay as they come. After all, what straight man had such long, lovely, silky hair and such a comely, androgynous face and spent his time willingly working at a designer shoe palace?

But he was staring at her—staring straight _through_ her as if her body had suddenly gone transparent and he was seeing someone familiar on the other side—and it was making her uncomfortable.

"Excuse me? Are you alright?"

He blinked his long, dark lashes at her as one dumbfounded, and part of her almost found it cute. _Almost_ , but not quite. Especially since he was supposed to be ringing up her purchase (sneakers) and not looking at her as though she were small, green and had beamed down from the sky into his backyard.

And then he turned so red it would have made a tomato jealous.

And the itch became a poke. Haley's brow furrowed with the beginning of a headache. Something about this guy was just off-putting and at the same time familiar. It was like she could swear she had seen him somewhere before but couldn't quite place his face. How _that_ happened, she couldn't say, because Haley didn't think she'd forget a face as distinctive as his, with those arrogant angles and that blotchy flush and smattering of freckles over his nose...

_Stop. Just stop. Gay. Homosexual. Off-limits._

Except he was _still_ staring at her.

"I am... fine. You merely startled me." And _Lord_ , what a voice! Deep and rolling through her despite its softness of amplitude and timbre. It should be illegal to have a voice like that, _like molten chocolate on bare skin_ , Haley decided with much annoyance, even though that poking at the back of her mind only seemed to intensify with every syllable. Like it was trying to tell her something important.

But no, she wasn't into that superstitious stuff.

Instead of lingering on his voice, she looked up at his eyes, only to find that they were well below her face. _Maybe not so gay after all._

Irately, he slammed her shoebox down on the counter. "Yeah, well, could you ring these up please? I'm _kind of_ in a hurry..." _In a hurry to get out of here, and God help me if I catch you staring at my ass as I walk away, pervert!_

"Forgive me..."

"Yeah, yeah, just ring up the stupid shoes already." At least his eyes were on her _face_ now. And _her eyes_ were on _his hands_. Long, elegant hands with graceful, flowing movements even as they twisted and turned the box like a delicate treasure, taking their _slow_ and _annoying_ time...

Those hands did not look suited to running a cash register. Those movements, so dizzyingly slow, made her think of a dancer, moving as if through water. Part of her (that she would never admit existed) wondered if they _touched_ with such grace and gentleness. Immediately, she banished that obnoxiously unwanted thought _about a man whose name she didn't even know._

And still that presence (that she refused to admit was sixth sense because she did not subscribe to such ridiculousness) was still prodding fitfully, almost screaming that she _did know..._

And then _finally_ he was done. "Receipt?"

"Give it here!" She _needed_ to get out of here and clear away whatever cobwebs were lingering in the dusty corners of her mind, giving her these fuzzy, disturbing thoughts. With one last look at his face— _and what a face it was!_ —she turned tail and _fled_ from the store into the autumn chill of the parking lot.

And wondered. Why was he so familiar? She was certain she had _never_ met him before.

But one thing was for sure. That feeling on the edge of her mind, wriggling in through the cracks in memory, the déjà vu that _would not cease_ , was telling her to turn around and go right back inside. Curiosity and unhealthy interest bloomed somewhere in those shadows, much to her personal shame and embarrassment. Haley was not a woman who would allow herself to become flustered and infatuated over one man— _who was probably homosexual anyway_ , she added spitefully.

Yet even as she crossed the parking lot to her car, firmly ignoring the impulses raging just beneath the surface, she could not remove the stray thought of returning. Just for a second look. Just to satisfy her curiosity. Just _once_.

And somewhere beyond that edge of time and space and mind and body, there was a catlike smirk of satisfaction across an unknown, indescribable face of eternal, undying light and glory. For the Great Music echoing in Timeless Halls was playing out just as its maker had intended, harmonizing and resonating and crescendoing into the Void. And the ship of reality was navigating true to her compass and the keen hands of her faithful mariner, directing the opera of fate below to breathtaking perfection.

Everything was going exactly according to plan.


	101. Catatonic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oropher cares for Thranduil after the Second Kinslaying. Things are not going well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternately, the reason why Oropher has a burning _dislike_ for all things Noldorin.
> 
> Connected to Cheat (Chapter 5).
> 
> Semi-explicit aftermath of rape. Catatonia. Fading. Blatant mpreg.

It had been three months since the end of their world.

Three _very long_ months for the survivors of the second sacking of Doriath.

And for one Oropher of Doriath, these last three months had dragged on for an eternity, a never-ending torment whipping across his already-shattered psyche. Each moment seemed to stretch and stretch into the distance, never changing, never offering catharsis. Never yielding results. It was maddening—the helplessness, the waiting, the watching for some sign that everything would be okay when he _knew_ that it never could be again. Not now. Not anymore.

He would sit at the bedside of his only child and stroke pale hair, combing out knots that worked themselves somehow into the soft locks. He would stroke dark brows and smooth tension from the crease between. He would hold cold, lifeless hands in his own broad, callused palms and plead with the Valar, bargaining anything and everything he had if they would just _give back his son._

Of course, there was never any answer.

And when the reality became too heavy to shoulder, he would speak and pretend that the spirit housed in the body before him could hear his words, would tell the young elf about their new home far from the lingering shadows of the caves of Menegroth, about the fresh, clean air and the talkative trees and the broad open sky overhead, about how beautiful and warm Anor's rays were as they shone down upon bare skin and the soft coolness of Ithil lighting their way through their darkest hours.

Thranduil never responded.

He breathed, but never spoke. He blinked, but never saw.

And Oropher did not know what else to do. His frustration and despair and hopelessness mounted day-by-day until it consumed any happiness their escape and survival could possibly have provided. Because there was nothing he could do. Because no one could change the past.

He could not take away the haunting, bone-chilling memories. He could not take away the screams echoing through their sacred, beloved halls. He could not take away the sight of blood splattered over rich carving and bodies leaking crimson into the creases of marble floors. He could not take away the pure cruelty inflicted upon his people by the heartless sons of fire and death.

He could not take away _the memory of finding Thranduil staring vacantly into the distance. The young elf was tied down to a bed frame, trembling and bleeding and naked, and part of him was screaming and clawing and sobbing in horror at the knowledge of what he would see if he dared blink his eyes but dearly wished to deny. The frozen moments of denial lingered, warring with the pure instinct urging his body to flee as far and fast as his feet could carry him._

_Dead. His son was_ ravaged _and_ dead.

_Except the child was still breathing. The shallow rise and fall of bruised ribs was telling, but why was there no struggle? Why was he not rising, fighting or fleeing...?_

_And he knew... knew with terrible certainty that made him dizzy and sick to the core._

_Getting closer only made him wish that all of this was a nightmare, that any moment he would awake to dark, silent night to weep hysterically into his pillow with terror and relief that it was_ just a nightmare. _But when he reached out and touched the nauseating vision, it did not disappear. Neither did it stir._

_"Thranduil!" He slit open the ropes, removed bruised and bloody wrists from captivity. "Thranduil, ion-nín!"_

_Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a blink. Not a sound._

_And he was crying and the world was blurry and if they didn't move now they were both going to join their slaughtered kin in the mass grave of their home. But no amount of shouting or shaking would rouse the empty shell before him, devoid of spirit and light, limp and shaking. And where he found the strength to carry the other's broken form upon quivering arms, Oropher could not say, but somehow his limbs wrapped their way beneath wrenched shoulders and bruised thighs and ignored the slickness of red and white against his bare fingers._

_That he managed to carry the catatonic body from the wreckage of their once great, revered kingdom without being captured and murdered was a miracle._

But Thranduil never woke.

And Oropher knew... knew it was those Golodhrim Kinslayers that had done this, that they raped and pillaged and murdered without thought, that they must have enjoyed destroying all the lives cast aside and sundered from bodies left to rot in what had once been their beloved sanctuary, must have enjoyed unraveling innocence and staining it with filth and sin as their helpless prey thrashed and begged and screamed. It made him shake and tremble with rage, made him want to find whoever had dared lay hand on _his son_ and _torture_ them until they begged on the ground like a dog for mercy. And he would die himself before allowing them the precious gift of death's loving embrace.

And he would enjoy it. He would enjoy making that golodh scum scream and writhe like his child must have beneath the bloodthirsty, vicious warrior's superior strength. He would enjoy making the wicked rapist suffer a fate ten times worse than that which he doled out so carelessly.

But no amount of anger or vengeful thought would make Thranduil speak or drink or eat. No amount of fantasies of making the Golodhrim pay for the harm they had done, the souls they had ravaged or the families they had destroyed would be enough to bring back the sweet-hearted, bright-eyed youth swept away beneath a torrential downpour of marred darkness. No amount of wishful thinking could make the father deny the fact that ribs and hips were sticking out from malnourishment, but that the slender middle was swelling with something else entirely.

Inevitably, every rage ended in sobs and tears and sleepless nights at the bedside of an elf who would probably never wake from his stupor again.

Because Thranduil was fading away from the horror of memories that could not be erased, and there was absolutely nothing Oropher could do to make it stop, to make it better, to help or save or soothe away the invisible wounds.

Just sit and wait and pray.

Until the day those eyes _opened_ and _saw_. Until the day slender, cold hands twitched and reached out for touch, for reassurance. Until the day he heard a beloved voice whisper "Ada" and bring light back to his world.

Just sit and wait and pray. And try to have hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> ion-nín = my son  
> Ada = Daddy  
> Golodhrim = Noldor  
> golodh = noldo


	102. Defiant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The monotony of Angband is once again broken with the arrival of a curious elven thrall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torture. Slavery. War. Etc...
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

The breaking of the siege had been a success.

Sauron did not know whether or not he should be pleased by this. After all, any step forward for his master was always a step backwards for him, but it did allow him to avoid punishment for failure, which was always very painful and usually temporarily debilitating. Sauron might be a torturer, but he was not particularly masochistic and thus avoided being on the receiving end of his own trade as often as possible. 

However, that was about the _only_ positive outcome of this venture.

The golden dragon had returned to the fortress of Angband, and he had not returned alone, but with hundreds of broken-hearted, traumatized thralls, all having the life and fight sucked out of their shocked bodies and minds. Pathetic, but potentially useful as workers in mines.

Now Glaurung stood before the throne to present the trophies of victory to their master, and Sauron wanted nothing more than to rend and destroy the creature before him. As it stood beneath the glimmer of the Silmarilli, the scales were lit with fire and the dragon seemed more a creature made of gold and gem than of flesh and steel. And those eyes, so prideful and confident and greedy, Sauron wanted to _gauge them out_ so that this _runt_ would _know his place_ and return back to the pit of filth from whence he was born.

No one dared encroach upon the position of the Lieutenant of Angband, not even Gothmog. And this newly-born _worm_ thought he could just waltz in with a few elves as a gift and be promoted right to the top of the hierarchy? One victorious battle was hardly—

"Well done," Melkor rumbled to his _pet_ , and Sauron bit back the scald of fury rising as a tidal wave in the back of his throat. Right now, he certainly felt that he could belch fire with as much deadly accuracy as this experimental breeding project turned weapon. Given half the chance, he could destroy this pathetic excuse for a servant without even _trying_ , without even _moving_. It would only take a few hissed Words...

"Master," the creature purred, smoke billowing from flared nostrils and where a forked tongue slithered between arm-length fangs, "I have brought before you the enemy commander."

Like Nelyafinwë Fëanárion all over again, but this elf came forward in naught but tattered leggings, struggling wildly and hissing curses as violently as any foul-mouthed orc. Chained though their _guest_ was, the foot soldiers who led him skittishly pulled out of reach at his lunges and snarls, and Sauron nearly laughed aloud, because he saw bared teeth blackened with fresh blood and knew someone had gotten too close to the rabid dog and been bitten.

Pretty and golden despite the singed ends of long hair and the marks of a whip over naked flesh, this elf certainly made a more interesting sight than those slumped, broken creatures Glaurung had paraded around earlier. There was still fight in this spirit, still hot fire in a cage of iron.

The newest thrall of Angband was forced down onto the ground, kneeling in filth at the feet of their master under the glowing lamps of the Silmarilli, chains pulled so taut they bruised and drew blood but managed to keep the captive immobile at Melkor's massive boots, panting in great gulps of air, nostrils flaring, fists clenching and opening and clenching as if imagining a larynx being crushed to pulp in their grasp.

And Melkor, fool that he was, twined a hand in the wild creature's mane and pulled back until the neck of the elf strained into a lovely, exposed arch, revealing a face that was Noldorin in every line and angle, eyes that darkened to a storm over the sea and bubbled in rage.

The Lord of Angband gripped tightly that jaw, forcibly parting lips. "Tell me your name, slave."

And the elf—Sauron could scarcely believe it afterwards, but would cherish that moment for many centuries to come— _spat_ in his master's face.

There was no movement and no sound as blood and spittle dribbled down a dark cheek. Even the servants of darkness, even Sauron, scarcely dared breathe at the look that came over Melkor's terrible face, at the narrowing of glowing, demonic eyes. That he didn't squeeze the elf's head until it popped like a soap bubble and splattered brains across the floor was a miracle!

And not a hint of fear could be seen in that defiant, infuriated visage, clutched between the filthy claws of Morgoth's rough fingers, already bruised at the manhandling.

Shockingly, the thrall was not slaughtered on the spot either, and Sauron knew Melkor was having one of his more _sadistic_ moments, moments of frighteningly cold logic. His master did not merely want to _kill_ this elf. He wanted to make this challenger sorry he hadn't just bowed down and obediently licked his new master's boots like a good slave.

Torture. The head torturer himself licked his blackened lips greedily when Melkor's scarlet gaze connected with his own eyes of fire and lust.

_"I want him broken, but do not harm his body. I would not have him perish."_

Oh, it was _serious_. The only elf Melkor had ever wanted to keep _permanently_ was Fëanáro, who had commanded all the power of a vala from the puny cage of a mortal body, who was beautiful beyond description and whose downfall would have tasted as the richest of wines. Even the beauty of Nelyafinwë did not tempt the Lord of Angband to either covet or lust, but this strange defiance apparently captured his master's attention like nothing else. Had he a sympathetic bone in his body, the lieutenant would have felt pity for the elven slave.

Well, far be it for him to disobey such orders. Sauron knelt eagerly at his master's feet and smiled broadly with anticipation. He had just the thing in mind to test the limits of their newest toy.

Hopefully the thrall would not break too quickly. It had been a very long time since they had had such an interesting guest in their halls.

_"It shall be done, master."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro


	103. Powder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angrod was taken prisoner during the Dagor Bragollach. He quickly becomes Sauron's newest favorite toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Defiant (Chapter 102).
> 
> Torture. Slavery. Rape. Mind-games. Mercy killing. You get the general idea.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto

Another day in the darkness came with more screams and more snapped bones. Another victim.

By no means was Angaráto an imbecile. He knew with each heavy beat of his heart and thick breath filling his lungs with tainted air that it was because of his stubborn defiance that these poor souls were suffering. But he also knew with the same unshakable, undeniable certainty that this brief suffering of the body and mind was nothing compared to the fate awaiting them outside these horrible dungeons.

Better five measly days in the hands of the Lieutenant than decades gracing the mines or torture-chambers, collared and chained and mutilated for sport.

Maybe that was why he never spoke. It was horrible and sick and he should despise himself for even thinking it, but Angaráto felt justified, felt like he was doing his princely duty, like he was protecting these dulled, doused spirits during their short passion and journey to the safety of sweet rest beyond the cages of their earthly forms. It was arrogant and conceited, but it was all he had, all that stood between his mind and the shattering, jagged rocks of guilt below.

When his new cellmate joined him, bleeding and sobbing and pleading for him to keep his silence, to not give in to the darkness or the enemy's demands, to ignore the elf's torment, Angaráto met the eyes of the tormentor in the shadows and pursed his lips into a bloodless line of fury and hatred.

But he did not open his mouth or speak his name. He would not roll over and play dead like a pet.

And the Lieutenant of Angband, with eyes that glowed like embers in the darkness of hell, would incline his head, golden curls spilling over broad shoulders in a glistening wave of molten light, and smirk in satisfaction, in a mockery of the strength of the elves locked away from the sun and fresh air like filthy vermin. And so badly Angaráto wanted to stand, to rattle the bars of his prison until they crumbled, to reach out and crush the windpipe of that infuriating, disgusting creature in his trembling fist.

It was a test. Every day. Every hour. Every moment. With each new prisoner, gray-faced with the shroud of death, slicked with blood between trembling thighs, life leaking from wounds carved into their bodies and spirits, he was being tested. But he could not break. He could not _lose._

To that flame-eyed, beautiful monster, this was a game. And the victims were naught but pawns martyred to draw out the king on the chessboard, to corner the silent thrall into checkmate.

Five days with his newest cellmate. He had not learned the elf's name, just that he was a captive taken from the forces of Nargothrond and that he had seven more comrades besides himself who still lived. Every moment he could spare, Angaráto sat beside the exhausted prisoner, stroked his fingers through dirty, tangled locks and massaged joints bruised from chain and stretched to unnatural angles, soothing what little pain he could. And he would ask about the other's home, about the hallowed halls of his brother's jeweled masterpiece, about his companion's favorite place to nap in the sunshine and about the renowned glory of his home and the voices and scents of his family... anything to keep the mind away from what awaited the next night in this prison...

And then the prisoner was taken. The cell was opened and the torturer himself took the terrified, crying captive away, and Angaráto remained silent as he watched them go. But never too far. Not so far that he could not hear the screams. Not so far that he could not make out the begging for mercy or the pleas for death.

The prisoner was returned in the morning with the ashy first light of dawn peeking shyly from above, barely slipping through the haze of smoke settled over the land. Blue eyes once so vibrant were faded to white, hair once thick and blond now gone gray and limp, limbs once powerful with muscle and sinew now thin and trembling. A will once strong with loyalty fading until finally, finally the prisoner begged him...

And Angaráto would look up and see those expectant eyes and ask for warm wine. The Lieutenant never denied that request.

Nor did he look away. Not when Angaráto embraced and soothed the distraught, broken cellmate. Not when he stroked that ravished, beaten body until it was relaxed and leaning upon his chest. Not when he sprinkled white powder into the heady wine and held it to his friend's lips and promised everything would be well by nightfall if only he would close his eyes and sleep.

When the Lieutenant returned at dusk, there was naught but an empty shell to retrieve.

And the bastard just tsked and had the corpse removed, given off to the foul beasts of the abyss that gnawed off raw, rotting flesh to the bone, befouling the body that had once housed something pure and beautiful turned to ash.

The thrall and the torturer would look into one another's eyes, and Angaráto would feel such hate as he had never experienced before, such blinding rage that he almost stood once again upon shaking legs and reached for that swanlike throat from between cold iron bars so that he might snap it in two, so that he might crush it until there was a sickening crack and the angle of death. So that he might make that mocking stare cease and those blackened lips part in a scream of agony.

As though he knew what the elf was thinking, the monster in the disguise of glory would smile gleefully in the fading light. "Do not ever break, thrall," he would hiss between the bars in a lover's husky whisper, a sound that twisted Angaráto's guts into knots of revulsion and sent shudders down his spine. Because they both knew that that glimmer in eyes forged of the earth's bubbling blood had only one name and only one fixation.

But never did the Lieutenant reach out and touch and take.

The next morning there would be a new cellmate. Angaráto would wonder how many days would pass before he would send this soul, frightened and fluttering like hummingbird's wings against the strength of his determination, on to the mercy of the Halls of the Waiting. He hoped it would not be long, because this one looked young.

And had anyone ever asked, he would have told them that he was not sorry and did not feel guilty for what he was doing in the pits of filth in Angband. Kinslayer he now might be named and forever more, but Angaráto did not regret his actions.

He only regretted that his opponent in this game of iron wills was not ready to cease their play anytime in the near future. And he wondered how many more pawns would be sacrificed in the vain attempt to crush his righteous spirit.

And still, those eyes looked on, and those lips smiled. The enemy bathed in rich enjoyment of sin and hatred.


	104. Grateful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orodreth's concern leads to a confrontation that has unexpected consequences for the aspiring healer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slash pairing. I just couldn't help myself. Directly tied to Health (Chapter 39) (that's actually what gave me the idea). Also, I don't know if the other two stories have made it obvious, but my icon family has corrupted me and I can only imagine Orodreth with silver hair. It will be _really_ obvious in this piece.
> 
> Soul-mates. Crude language. Drugged up patients.

Whatever painkillers those crazy healers had given him on really had Beleg walking on air. Or something like that. Everything was a bit fuzzy and confusing. And his tongue was very loose.

To be honest, he was having a terrible bit of trouble remembering exactly what had happened to get him locked into this horrendous white-walled prison _yet again_. All he knew was that his side _really_ smarted and that he was absolutely bored out of his mind with nothing but lazy sunshine and a bare ceiling to keep him company. Just staring all day. And more staring. _And more staring._

But today had been different. His intimate silent acquaintance with afternoon sunlight had been interrupted most gratuitiously by the sound of the door opening. The creak of wood caught his stray attention, and Beleg had scowled fitfully at the newcomer. He did _not_ want to be babied by any more healers today. Was it not bad enough that he couldn't even get up to pee by himself?

Except the silver vision that stepped through the doorway was no healer that he had ever seen.

In fact, Beleg hadn't recognized the stranger in the least. But he hadn't needed to. Because he could have sworn, woozy and drugged though he might have been, that a vala in the flesh had just entered his lonesome abode, dressed in gentle grays with waves of silver hair spilling around a face that would have made Eru himself weep with envy.

Eyes blinked at him from beneath thick, dark lashes, and Beleg's mind could focus only on their color, the deep swirling gray and aqua of writhing ocean waters. Dancing entrancingly before him in a dizzying, ethereal phantom of a daydream. Drowning him down in their gently rocking depths.

And, of course, he had been drugged.

In retrospect, that was probably why the entire meeting went so poorly.

The angel sat at his bedside, and Beleg grinned broadly at a surprised, somewhat put-out face. "What brings you to see poor, unfortunate me, gorgeous?"

Valar, he had sounded like an oily flirt...

But then a flush had filled those sculpted cheeks, and damask lips pursed into a thin line. "I saw your return late yesterday evening, wounded with one foot in the grave. Prince Celeborn assured me of your continued health, Beleg Cúthalion, but I was determined to see for myself that you were in one piece. I see that my concern was quite unwarranted."

"Don't be that way..." He had tried to sit up then, and nearly taken a tumble right out of his bed and into the stranger's lap. Which he wouldn't have minded at the time. Not in the least. "But if you want to kiss it better, I won't object..." He offered his most charming, crooked smirk. But it may have come out a bit mangled judging by the expression that followed.

A twitch of a slender brow was in his peripheral. He felt hands push down on his shoulders, forcing his head back down onto the mountain of marshmallows—pillows—clouds—

"I think not. If you are healed enough to act like a scandalous rogue, you hardly need more attention. Good evening to you, Cúthalion."

The silver vision had risen to leave, and it was sheer luck and thousands of years of innate dexterity that allowed him to capture a wispy sleeve despite his world turning upside down at the fast movement. But he managed to keep his new companion temporarily imprisoned at his bedside. "Don't leave yet..." he purred, pulling weakly at the garment, prideful that such wondrous eyes rested upon his face for even a moment. "I am grateful for you attentions, my dove."

Those eyes narrowed, and a firm tug freed the flighty dream from his grasp. But despite the irate frown and lowered brows, a flush built its way upwards, layers of silken rose petals upon skin, only further complimenting the creature who would from that moment forward haunt Beleg's sleep as a teasing, seductive ghost of a memory. "Such insinuations are uncouth and uncalled for, Cúthalion. I am not and never will be _your dove_. You should be grateful that I do not wring your neck for such presumptuous slandering."

At the time, he remembered thinking that he wouldn't have minded if those hands wrapped around his neck. Or if those lips wrapped around his cock.

And when he told his lovely vision so, the fury swirling in the violent depths of ocean eyes overflowed as the wrath of Ulmo brought upon the unsuspecting warrior's head. Shortly thereafter, there was a shock of pain on his skull and the world seeped down into black.

No, that first meeting had not gone well in the least.

But looking back on it, he was grateful for the concern over his health, considering he had no close relations to worry about his continued survival. And brothers of blood and bow could only take their worry so far to the edge of hypocrisy when they put their lives on the line each day. It was novel, having such a beautiful stranger thinking of his well-being without even ever having met him in the flesh. It was stirring. And terribly attractive.

And he had gone and ruined it right from the beginning. Thrice-cursed painkillers.

But Beleg Cúthalion had never been a man to surrender to failure without a battle of wills. His courtship of the silver stranger would be no different. And the kiss of soft lips and the scent of ocean upon his tongue awaited him at the end of his quest.

The drugged marchwarden licked his lips and sighed up at the white ceiling. Perhaps this stay in the infirmary would not be _quite_ as painful as those before. For the phantom of flushed cheeks and scandalized overtones haunted his waking moments and filled him with anticipation. And when he slept in the sunshine, molten mithril and cool water surrounded him in his dreams.


	105. Decent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orodreth discovers that he shouldn't take the drugged rantings of a warrior to heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Rarepair. More crude language. Just because they're elves does not make them all nice and sweet. Continuation of Grateful (Chapter 104).
> 
> By the way: elven culture never actually addresses the gender-role question, but it is my belief that the "civilized" branches of Quendi are just as sexist as everyone else in Tolkienverse. Galadriel is an exception (and she rules over Silvan elves anyway. If Tauriel is anything to go by (and that's quite a feminist statement Jackson made there), Silvani do not have the same firm gender-roles as the Noldor and Sindar do). But any cultural interpretation is purely that—interpretation. Feel free to disagree.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Orodreth = Artaresto

Artaresto was avoiding Beleg Cúthalion.

And Beleg Cúthalion was doing anything and everything possible to make that task _impossible._

It was, quite honestly, driving the poor, aspiring healer up the white-washed walls. Artaresto had believed that snubbing the drugged, lecherous warrior would be enough—How much clearer could he be about his intention to _ignore_ the other's attentions?—but it was clear that Cúthalion, as many warriors before him, was less brain and logic and sound reasoning and more stubbornness and unappreciated determination.

Because Artaresto was _not_ playing hard-to-get. He simply _did not want_ the warrior's simpering apologies or declarations of intent or flamboyant grandiosity.

He did _not_ appreciate the elaborate bouquets of flowers that were delivered before his quarters each evening like clockwork, and grit his teeth as he read the scribbled apologies and poetry penned into the tiny cards attached with curled silk ribbons.

He did not appreciate the bowing and the knuckle-kissing and the courtly gestures either. A gentleman Cúthalion might act _now_ , but Artaresto could not forget the completely horrified shame and humiliation at being told blatantly to his face that the archer wouldn't have minded having him do... do that to... to...

Even thinking about it made Artaresto flush and slump his shoulders in mortification!

And he most _certainly_ did not appreciate how the phantom marchwarden would dutifully appear at the entrance to the House of Healing each evening with the idiotic intention of escorting Artaresto back to his own quarters, as though he were a petty, helpless maiden who needed to be led around on a leash lest she faint at the sight of a paper cut or get lost on a route she walked every _damn day._

No, Artaresto merely wanted to be _left alone._

And each day he would throw out the blossoms cut with lustful intentions in mind and burn the cards in the fireplace for kindling. Each day he would pull his hand from the warrior's grasp before lips that spoke such filth could sully his skin. Each day he would gracefully turn up his nose and tell the warrior—in a polite and completely coherent manner no less!—to get lost because he _did not need an escort_ and _was not a woman!_

But the worst part was that the bull-headed warrior _did not get the message._

Artaresto scoffed and swept through the hallowed halls of Menegroth on his daily route to the infirmary, gliding past the sindar who watched his passage with curious and mocking eyes. Let them think what they would; the Noldorin prince did not care about the pitiful lack of intelligence that permeated such a blooded and violent people. Let them call him a woman behind his back and snicker at their snide jokes and perverted fantasies. And let Cúthalion go and rot in a hole in the ground along with the entire lot of them! Warriors! They knew nothing but the taste of blood and death and steel and their own provincial perception of the world!

They could never understand.

And certainly he would never understand.

"It really makes you wonder, does it not? What do you believe that ice-cold bitch has done to capture the attentions of Beleg Cúthalion? Makes you wonder if there might actually be a wanton maiden with an eager sheath hiding under all those robes, kissing all those _wounds_ better..."

They knew he could hear the crude slight from a meager distance, knew that he could see the perverse gesture of hips accompanying the insinuations from the corner of his eye, and when his spine stiffened and his cheeks flooded hot with a wave of infuriated humiliation, he could hear their soft laughter. When he refused to fight back and turned away instead, he could feel the heat of their searing eyes on his back. But truly, let them think what they would. He would not lower himself to—

_Crack!_

There was a shout and the sound of bone rattling on marble. Artaresto spun about, coming face-to-face with Beleg Cúthalion himself towering over the quivering sentry who had been laughing and mocking mere moments ago. That infamous black bow spanned across broad shoulders and hazel eyes narrowed beneath an expression of repulsed fury. Like an ainu in the flesh, pure intensity thickened the air and brought unnamable tension to the limbs.

"Ungrateful _child,"_ the warrior hissed between his teeth, and Artaresto actually felt a sliver of terror set itself into his throbbing heart at the rough, raw tone. The victim on the ground, clutching his rapidly reddening cheek, was shaking from head-to-toe at the sight of the older, experienced veteran of battle and close brushes with the Halls. "How dare you shame us by uttering such _filth_ in these sacred halls!"

"It... Captain, it was merely a jest..."

"A _jest?_ You would _jest_ about the healers who have devoted their lives to the art of _saving lives? Saving your lives?_ Without _them_ , where do you think _you_ would be? I can tell you right now that without _those womanly healers_ and their _wanton attentions_ , many of _you_ would not even be _alive!"_ With each syllable, that deep voice rose in volume, until it was echoing so loudly that even those warriors halfway down the hall stopped where they stood and shrunk back like castigated children.

"Please," the sentry whispered, "I did not mean it maliciously. I—"

"You would lie to your captain as well?" Cúthalion's lip curled up in disgust, and Artaresto held his breath, feeling suddenly light-headed, rocking on his heels.

The sentry said no more.

And for his part, the captain turned away as though he could no longer bear the sight before his eyes. "I am ashamed that men under my command would act so disrespectfully toward those who devote their lives to protecting the protectors of our realm. Apologize. Immediately. Or you will not like the result."

 _Apologize? To... to_ me?

Artaresto blinked, shocked, when the younger warrior scrambled upwards and bowed deeply, flushed with eyes averted. "I... I am sorry, Master Healer. F-forgive my callous words. I had no right to slander you in such an unforgivable manner."

And though he knew it was out of fear and not true remorse that the warrior was bowing and scraping for forgiveness, Artaresto inclined his head in acceptance anyway, if only to get the stranger out of his personal space. Already, he was late to his lessons and there were patients to be cared for and—

And Cúthalion was staring straight through him as the sentry scurried off like a stricken dog with its tail between its legs.

And Artaresto felt his cheeks heating in something other than mortification as he turned away and walked in long, quick strides (he refused to call it fleeing) down the hall, head half-ducked to avoid any wandering eyes. The entire way, until he turned the corner and the familiar doors to the sanctuary of the House of Healing were in blessed sight, he felt those distant hazel eyes boring into the nape of his neck.

Cool, fresh air and the scent of herbal remedies greeted him beyond heavy oak. Artaresto swayed and pressed himself against the cool wood, thinking about...

About _him..._

That maybe... _just maybe..._ Beleg Cúthalion _might_ be a decent man. For a warrior.

Sometimes. _Maybe._

(Though he would not give any further than that. He did not _like_ Cúthalion. Absolutely not.)

And if the healer did not object to linking his arm with that of the warrior to silently traverse the halls that evening in companionable relaxation, Cúthalion never said a word about the abrupt change of opinion. He did not have to. He smiled and stared at the healer's faintly rosy cheeks and shyly downturned eyes the entire way, departing with a soft word and a bow but thankfully a lack of knuckle-kissing.

And if Artaresto kept the card he found in the bouquet of flowers abandoned upon his doorstep as dusk faded into night, no one ever need know that it made his heart flutter traitorously.

_Apologies, my dove._

Because he did _not_ like Beleg Cúthalion. Not even a little. _Not at all._


	106. Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marriage of Beleg Cúthalion and Orodreth Finarfinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. This is about the closest I'll get to writing an explicit sex scene on my prompt list. Implied mpreg. Where did you think Finduilas came from? (And can we not all agree that her parentage is terribly, tragically ironic?)
> 
> Of Names:  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë

Sundering was always difficult.

Many times in the past, Artaresto had been privy to its monstrously devastating effects. He had seen it in Findaráto when the eldest son of Arafinwë spoke of his beloved across the sea, the longing so potent it ached and burned as a physical wound in Orodreth's chest. He had seen it in Turukáno after his wife fell prey to the vicious tides and jagged ice of Helcaraxë, had seen how it scarred so deep that the wounds could never be healed no matter how much Orodreth tried to soothe and croon away the pain. He had even seen it in his cousin Kanafinwë, whose eyes were distant and sad when they were not veiled in protective ice, because his wife was far across those waves, and he would probably never hold her hand or kiss her cheek again with the Oath hanging over his head.

But he had never experienced anything like it himself. Sundering of fathers and sons was nothing like sundering of two parts of one whole.

And he understood that now.

Because the desperate and disappointed gleam of hazel eyes as they looked at him from beneath a mane of dripping blond hair struck him more fiercely than any physical blow or mocking taunt ever could. Beleg stood with him in the rain, and Artaresto did not care that he was soaked to the bone and shivering, did not care about anything but the tremble of his other's hands as they reached out towards him in denial.

"I am leaving on the morrow," he whispered, voice oddly choked. The hands froze mere inches from flesh, but did not dare touch. "I... I am sorry..."

There was a deep, shuddering breath, and Beleg's chest heaved, muscle rippling beneath the clinging fabric stuck to flesh. "You've naught to be sorry for," he finally replied, voice raw and low, barely audible beneath the sound of droplets in the trees. "But you know I cannot go with you."

And Artaresto's heart stuttered, because he _did_ know. Beleg Cúthalion was a warrior of Doriath, pledged to the service of their king, and he could not forsake his duties for the favors of a Noldorin healer. Artaresto had known all along that they would never be able to stay together, live together as lovers in peace.

But still he could not resist falling for this pig-headed warrior's charm.

"You can," he whispered, and the healer took the hand hovering over his cheek, nuzzled into the rough palm and breathed deeply of freshly-fallen rain and something intrinsically _his One._

The other hand cupped his nape tenderly, squeezing with hesitation. "Do you even know what you're saying, my dove?"

"Of course I do." Where he found the strength and the daring to press a kiss against parted, shocked lips, the inexperienced healer did not know, but he stood upon tip-toes and discovered that Beleg's lips were quite soft and pliant.

At least, until they kissed back, easily parting his own, consuming the soft moan that rose in reply. And Artaresto, for his part, found himself reaching upwards to grasp at powerful shoulders, lost beneath a tide of heady taste and searing touch and vibrant sensation, eyelashes fluttering closed to the patter of raindrops on heated cheeks.

They did not remain standing for long, and it was cold and wet on the ground, but he barely noticed for the sudden fire moving as a wild creature beneath blood-flushed skin. Nothing but Beleg could capture his attention. Nothing but shockingly gentle caresses stroking downwards and soothing warmth burning into his muscles and the frightening, joyous thought of sacred joining that had his fingers scrambling across hard shoulders and flanks. That had his thighs embracing tight around the other and his head falling back in supplication, crying words of longing and devotion. That had his toes curling into the grass when they came together and the oneness burned up his spine as a bright light behind his eyes.

Until there was nothing left but him and his other half in the whole world. Two as one.

\---

There was sunshine when Artaresto awoke. The darkness of night had passed, and the storm that had christened their hasty joining was gone as a phantom, leaving behind the dew dripping down from the cups of leaves and the songs of birds in the fresh air.

They were entwined, pressed together, skin to skin, and the healer sighed in wistful satisfaction. If he could have stayed here forever, he would have been happy to be naught but a Sindarin healer with no noble heritage and no royal duties, but he was a Noldorin prince, and as Beleg could not throw aside his oaths and responsibilities, neither could Artaresto. Not even if it was his dearest wish. And thus he squirmed out of powerful arms, untangling their limbs and the sodden blankets of pale hair until their bodies were two again, until he knew where his skin ended and his lover's began.

But that did not stop him from pressing a faint kiss to his warrior's brow and lips, smiling affectionately at how Beleg leaned into the touches and mumbled low in the midst of his rest, arms reaching for the other half of their union.

The healer did not dare join his other half again, but slipped into his wet robes, stained with grass and dirt, and left his lover beneath the shade of the trees. No goodbye would be necessary, and he would not offer one.

Because they were not truly sundering. Even at this moment, Artaresto felt the heated glow within him, the warmth and comfort of Beleg's presence stretching and purring just beneath the membrane of his skin. He was not alone.

They were as one. A union of two souls and two spirits. And Artaresto was never going to be alone again. Beleg Cúthalion would always be there with him, and he with Beleg. Even if they never laid eyes upon the other again. Even if they never shared in the intimacy of closeness or the warmth of a physical embrace.

Artaresto did not look back.

And when Beleg awoke alone and naked in the late morning, he needed only close his eyes to feel the touch of cool lips on his skin and hear a hushed voice murmuring words of doting love in his ear. Nearly purring in contentment, he rolled onto his belly and dozed into the afternoon with his silvered dream at his side.


	107. Cleansed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeglin is reborn (as a girl *cough*) and runs into Elladan of Imladris. They share some interesting similarities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. AU where the Noldor return to Middle-earth. Maeglin was reborn but didn't have the guts to go back to his (her) parents, so she lives with Turgon in Imladris.
> 
> And yes, I Rule 63ed Maeglin, who is now called Lómiel (a pathetic play off his original Quenya mother-name).
> 
> Interpretation of Elladan and Elrohir's reaction to their mother's fading is all my head-canon.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maeglin = Lómiel  
> Lady of Mercy = Nienna

Her first encounter with Elladan was tense and full of white-hot rage.

It wasn't shocking. Everyone in the valley knew of the tragedy that had befallen the House of Elrond. And everyone also knew of the dangerous and unstable reaction of Elrond's twin sons to their mother's capture, torture and departure to Aman. Like a shroud of death and mourning, the sorrow of their Lord and the hatred of his sons laid heavily over their blessed valley as a long storm lingering at the base of the mountains that refused to dissipate and let the land recover in light.

It rained. And rained.

To Lómiel, this was nothing out of the ordinary. Her past had been full of these long years, years spent wishing her mother had never thrown herself in harm's way for the sake of a useless, ungrateful child, wishing that her father's love for his family would have stayed his prideful, tragic actions, wishing that the only family she had left did not look upon her as a curse and a burden of remembrance with their dark, leery eyes and pitying glances.

Such had been the existence of Maeglin of Gondolin.

And though that was another lifetime ago—another lifetime of chilled, unrequited love and passion turned to hatred and bitter longing—her actions still laid heavily upon her heart and always would, an equally dark and mournful storm of self-hatred and guilt that would never break apart to reveal sunshine overhead.

Happiness was not a gift she would ever wish for or ask for, not now and not ever. She dared not think herself worthy of such mercy. But there were others who deserved it, and that it was brutally ripped away rankled her as nothing before. She, as many other occupants of the valley, wished she could do _something_ to help their beloved Lord and his sons recover from tragedy and heartbreak.

Until that fateful day she would never have dared attempt to console either of the sons of Elrond. She understood that words from a stranger would not be enough to chase away guilt and sorrow.

But when faced with a weeping Elladan alone in the gardens, what was she to do?

"Are... Are you all right, my Lord?"

Her movements prior to voicing concern were soft and hesitant, barely brushing the lush carpet of grass beneath bare feet. Hearing someone so near without warning startled the young lord so badly that Lómiel found herself with a knife's wicked edge pressed to her windpipe and a vice-like grip about her middle, pinning her arms against her sides.

A hot cheek was pressed against hers, but it was slick with moisture. The scent of salt burned into her nose.

"P-please, I... I meant no harm..." she whispered. "L-lord Elladan?"

Whatever had come over him was gone in an instant, and he threw her ungracefully upon the ground with a scoff of disgust. When she looked up, Lómiel faced eyes glistening with untamed fury, with hatred pointing outwards as a threatening blade to cleave her in two if she dared step any closer. "Foolish girl," the heir snarled, lip curling up in disdain. "You should know better than to infringe upon the privacy of others, lest you get _hurt_. Now _leave."_

"B-but, my Lord..."

"I said _leave!"_

She left, almost running in her haste to escape the intense wave of murderous intent in the air. But not before she glimpsed his tense jaw and red-rimmed eyes. Not before she glimpsed the familiar pain that resonated with her suffering.

The seed had been planted and the rain continued to fall to earth. 

She could hardly resist returning.

\---

It was a long while before she dared "infringe upon his privacy" again, but Lómiel knew the confrontation was inevitable. She may have changed much after the Halls, but she was still herself, still naturally curious with the Noldorin stubbornness of her mother and the sheer pig-headedness of her father.

And thus she came to stumble upon the same clearing in the garden, upon the same sight of Elrond's eldest son sitting alone in the grass, staring into the distance with a scowl and watery eyes squinted against the barrage of tears beating down the gates of pride and feigned strength. No matter that he was angry and full of black hatred; Elladan was still a boy who missed his mother, who blamed himself for failing to protect her from the evil in the world.

And Lómiel could understand that better than her companion would probably ever know.

This time she didn't try to be quiet.

Elladan turned to look at her, and his eyes were piercing, sharp and accusing blades clashing violently against the shield of Lómiel's resolve. Squaring her shoulders, she walked right past the young Lord of the Valley and settled herself upon a stone bench.

"I told you to leave me alone," he growled.

"Feel free to continue sulking," she replied tartly. "I am merely admiring the roses, Lord Elladan."

"Sulking," he whispered, and she could see the fury bubbling under the surface, rising and boiling and burning. "You think I am sulking."

Lómiel had not anticipated him standing and crossing the space between them, heavy with overflowing tension, had not expected to be grabbed by the arms and shaken like a doll, had not expected the pain of deep muscle bruising as her bones creaked beneath his grasp. Had not expected to see his face inches away from her, contorted in a way she had seen only once before, only when her father had hurled a poisoned spear at her heart in an act of spontaneous and thoughtless violence.

And he shook her until her teeth rattled.

"Sulking!" Hot breath washed over her face with his shout. "A little girl like you would _never understand!_ Maybe if I tortured _your_ naneth to death, made her scream and cry and beg for mercy that would never come, maybe then you would understand my _sulking!"_

It was hard not to cry; the tears were beaded on her lashes as diamonds. But Lómiel breathed shakily and looked up at those eyes full of darkness.

"I live with my uncle," she whispered. "My nana has been gone for a very long time."

Shocked realization set in, the eyes so close widening until the whites showed. And she was released so suddenly that she nearly toppled backwards off the bench to the ground below at the sudden loss of his painful support. By the time she looked up with words upon her lips, Elladan was already gone, and she was alone.

\---

He approached her first. Three days later.

"I... I am sorry... for what I did to you in the gardens... It was inappropriate behavior unbefitting an elf, let alone the Lord of the Valley, and I am ashamed of my actions."

Lómiel turned towards the heir and found Elladan's eyes downcast, head bowed slightly. If there was shame in his eyes, she could not see it through the thick, dark lashes hiding swirling silver and shadows. But his voice was low and less acidic than usual, and she was inclined to believe his words and forgive his transgressions.

Of course, he didn't know that she still had bruises on her arms, and she didn't intend to tell him. The purple splotches were not visible through her sleeves, and it was not like she hadn't suffered worse. A few measly aches and some shaking could hardly compare to the time she had spent in the loving care of the Lieutenant of Angband as Maeglin. The words and assumptions about her worldliness and understanding had caused far deeper wounds. But maybe she deserved the derision.

"It is quite all right. There is nothing to be sorry for," she murmured, clutching her hands in her skirts. "You were upset, and I should have let you be, Lord Elladan."

"It absolutely is _not_ all right," her companion growled. "You did nothing to... I should not have..."

"I was trying to help," she told him. "I pushed too far. I deserved your anger when I belittled your sorrow."

"It's not an excuse."

"Be that as it may, I shall not be encroaching upon your time alone again." And she meant it this time. It had been selfish and rude to put her curiosity above his comfort and security. Sweeping into a curtsey, she looked up at him again. "Have a good afternoon, Lord Elladan."

And she turned to leave.

"Wait..."

And paused.

"If... If you want... you are free to come back whenever you like. I would not want to disturb your admiration of the roses. And maybe... maybe I would not mind company every now and again..."

It was shy and strange coming from the normally self-assured and troubled half-elf. When she looked over her shoulder, his downcast eyes were most certainly averted from her face, and she could see that his hands were clutched tightly around the sleeves of his robes, crinkling the heavy fabric. His knuckles bled white as bone.

"I would like that," she murmured. And his hands unfurled as blossoms.

"I look forward to seeing you again." Elladan fidgeted and bowed stiffly. "A good afternoon to you as well, my Lady." And then he swept past her in a great rush, and Lómiel had the sneaking suspicion that he was embarrassed for desiring her companionship during such an intimate ritual of mourning. But she never said anything.

\---

It seemed that the seed of curiosity had grown into a sprout and managed to survive the first treacherous onslaught of the elements. Lómiel found herself joining Lord Elladan in silence in their garden clearing at least once a week. They didn't speak often; sometimes he did not even look up from the scenes that played before his eyes as invisible reminders of his crimes. But she was there.

And, finally, he broached the subject that both of them had skirted around for a very long time. He, out of fury and denial. She, out of self-hatred and guilt realized and tended to perfection.

"I am sorry... about your naneth."

Surprised, Lómiel looked up at him, and he was staring straight into her eyes with his glazed orbs, always on the edge of tears but never brave enough to give in to their catharsis. She wished he wouldn't consider it a weakness to cry. But she never said, because it would have been hypocritical when she subscribed to exactly the same form of self-punishment.

"It was a very long time ago," she told him. As if that dulled the sorrow.

And he didn't believe her for a moment. It had been over a century since his mother's departure and he had not healed in the least. He understood that such wounds could linger and fester. "But you are still sad."

"It was my fault she died." And it _had_ been. Many atrocities had been laid at her—at Maeglin's—feet in those dark days, and all of the blame and wary glances had been deserved in the end. "She took a poisoned spear to save me. She should have let me die."

"Say not such things!" Elladan, for once, looked neither furious nor despairing as he stood and crossed the space between them on winged feet. Instead, he was utterly scandalized. "That... It... Not... It is _not_ your fault!"

"Is it not?" If Aredhel had lived and Maeglin had died, perhaps the future would have been different. Perhaps so many noble warriors and innocent citizens would not have died beneath fire and betrayal at the whims of Maeglin's madness and jealousy. "She died in my place."

And it _was_ her fault. The writhing sea of guilt would never evaporate from her soul. Nothing could change the fact that she had _destroyed_ her family.

"It is _not_ your fault," he repeated fiercely, shaking his head as he knelt at her feet. His hands were warm when they grasped hers, but she would not allow that little bit of comfort—that horribly tempting _lie_ —to assuage the pain of purgatory. "Never think that."

But maybe... maybe she could assuage _his_ pain. Just a little.

"You should not blame yourself for your naneth's fading either, Elladan."

The soothing caress of his thumbs on the back of her hands ceased, frozen. When their eyes met, his were dark and clouded, both filled with rotting anger and with hatred, such cold hatred that she shivered before him at its icy touch, remembering other eyes filled with the same ash and flame.

"That is different," he whispered.

And she dared to squeeze his hands in her own. "No. It is not."

"It _is,"_ he hissed, and for a moment his grip was crushing. "I _failed_ her. If we had been faster, if we hadn't fooled around like ridiculous elflings and had taken our mission seriously, we would have been there sooner. We could have _saved_ her from... from..."

"You couldn't have known what—"

"That doesn't excuse us!" Her bones felt as though they would crack, and it took all her concentration to avoid wincing in agony. But then she remembered the feeling of having her fingernails removed one-by-one and decided a couple of broken fingers would hardly do her harm if it helped Elladan calm himself amidst the overflowing tide of rage burning through his veins. "We failed as sons and as protectors!"

"You did not fail Lady Celebrían." She pulled her hands from his grasp, and though they were already blotchy with the beginning of bruises, she cupped his cheeks and ran her thumbs beneath eyes pooled with hot tears of shame, the tears of a little boy whose world had been rent and torn to shreds. "She would have forgiven you in a heartbeat."

"No, no, it was _our fault_ , and—"

"You did not do those horrible things to her." Lómiel forced him to look at her, forced him to see the present and not the visions that haunted his every waking moment, a torment all too familiar and poisonous. "You did not hurt her. You saved her and brought her home. There was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened; she made the decision to travel with only a handful of guards on her own, and there was no way you could have changed her mind or her fate. You do not control the world, Elladan."

He was shaking his head, but the tears were overflowing. And Lómiel felt relief with the next deep breath of rose-scented air. Because she could see the tears washing away the dark stains, cleansing the innocence blackened by horror and guilt. Even if it was just the beginning of something beautiful, something inside her chest tightened, a knot forming in the back of her throat.

"We should have... should have..."

"Hush..." She wiped at the tears, but more came to replace them. These tears, though, were worthy of the Lady of Mercy, tears of healing and new life. "She would not have wanted you to blame yourself for her suffering."

And he wept. Lómiel pressed his face against her stomach and stroked her fingers through his dark hair, watching as he cried out all of that pain and anger bottled up inside, layers and layers of soot and ash from his ravaged reality. And she was glad that she could, at the very least, be there for someone. Just once, she wasn't a burden or a traitor, but a helper, a healer.

And maybe seeing him smile for the first time afterwards cleansed a bit of the dark stain upon _her_ soul as well. The sunlight of his happiness peeking through the thick clouds of despair was potent, warming her down to the bones. She liked this feeling. She liked the feeling of usefulness and companionship and affection.

She liked that she could help him in a way no one had ever helped her. "Would you like to admire the roses with me, Lord Elladan?"

His face was blotchy and reddened, dried tear-tracks upon his cheeks, but that little crooked smile was there on the corners of his lips. "I would be honored, my Lady."

And the little sprout was blossoming beneath Arien's rays in the wake of devastation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> naneth = mother  
> nana = mama; mommy


	108. Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil may not be able to kill Amrod, but can he _live_ with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Victory (Chapter 73) and the precursor to Delivery (Chapter 74). Thus, it is the Noldor return to Middle-earth AU.
> 
> Past non-con. Somewhat unhealthy relationship. But this is a consensual relationship at least.

It was utterly terrifying.

The affection. The dependency. The _wanting._

The smile that longed to twist his lips when green eyes blinked up at him beneath shy, dark lashes in the early morning light. The unceasing urge to run his hands over rippling muscles, shadowed and gracefully curved, and watch them ripple and flex at his every whim. The _want_ that settled low inside him, that screamed to be touched in return, to be kissed and caressed from head to toe, to have words of love and devotion whispered beneath his jaw as his spirit touched the sky at the heights of ecstasy.

But the most frightening were the moments between the bouts of forgetfulness, when his mind was not lost beneath the shattered remains of that dam once tasked to hold back the oblivion of pleasure and passion.

Those moments, he would lie in the grass and feel the closeness of the other body beside his, the radiation of white-hot spirit melting against his skin, dripping in a veil of sweat down his nape to be lapped up by a hot tongue and brushed away by honeyed lips. And he would shudder with desire, with the need to be close to his other half, to be wrapped up in powerful arms, to be stroked and kissed and _loved._

But in the back of his mind there was always that little voice, no longer locked away tight behind invisible bars.

That little voice that wondered when he had begun to need this tainted touch.

That little voice that wondered to where his pride and dignity had vanished.

That _annoying and insidious and painfully observant_ voice that whispered the word _traitor_ and _whore_ in the back of his mind. What kind of king was so weak-willed to need comfort—to need companionship and union of the body—from the man who had destroyed his young innocence, who had ripped apart his fragile world and left behind shambles? What kind of person was he, that he woke up each morning in the calm silence with the fading stars overhead and wished he would never need to leave this little slice of perfection that was the silken blanket of red curls and the heavy, steady beat of a heart beneath his ear?

And every little brush of skin on skin would burn as a fresh wound. Every kiss would feel as acid upon his flesh. Because he shouldn't love this man, shouldn't desire him, shouldn't _need_ or _want_ him. Thranduil knew he should want to be as far away as possible, that the color of russet on emerald in his peripheral vision and the kisses pressed across his shoulder blades should make his stomach turn in revulsion, should incite the wicked memories of blackened, maddened eyes and cruel, bruising hands and ears deaf to screams and pleas.

Who wouldn't have been frightened and uncertain?

No matter how wonderful the catharsis of forgetting was, no matter how it filled him with brief joy and bliss, it was hollow in the end. Because the memories and thoughts would return, and the incessant voice would hiss in the dark corners and shadows. And his body and heart would betray him again and again.

Until the uncertainty was eating him alive, gnawing in the pit of his belly as he laid in the lazy afternoon sunshine, bare and vulnerable with the company of the last person he should desire at his back, with that embrace hot around his waist, that touch feeling safe and secure and altogether _dangerous._

And suddenly he needed to stand. He needed to _go_. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.

He needed to think. He needed fresh air without the scent of cinnamon burned onto his tongue and golden bubbles of arousal rising in his belly. He needed the feeling of fabric covering naked skin and weighing down his too-free limbs. He needed to be able to breathe without the heady lightheadedness of fear twisting and turning inside.

He needed to _get away from this illusion!_

And he needed it _now_. Or he thought he might...

"Amrod..."

Or he might give in to the madness offered so freely. He might never leave again. And he would be a prisoner to temptation and empty forgetfulness.

And he feared.

\---

Only a fool would expect paradise to last forever.

Amrod knew it was not forever—not eternal light driving away the darkness. He knew that the bliss they had was only temporary, no matter how much his heart clenched at the creeping thought, no matter how much he longed to deny the truth and look the other direction. Ignorance had never offered reward or relief in his long, painful life, and it was not a path down which he would wander after thousands of years of failure and disappointment and torment.

He could see the way shoulders would tense as his fingers skimmed across their smoothness. He could see how eyes would flicker in wary surprise when he brushed through long, pale hair and held it to his nose to take in the lush scent. He could see the shivers and shudders and twitches that followed his slow movements and the rise and fall of his callused warrior's hands.

He could _see_ the fear that writhed beneath the protective exterior. Because Thranduil could never hide anything from his gaze, not even behind a dozen layers of chilled nonchalance and royal heraldry.

Nervousness ran heavy and bitter through the air in moments of quiet when they were not in the throes of passion or the afterglow in the aftermath. Like a cracked glass heart on the edge of a shelf, Thranduil was just waiting to shatter. One wrong move could tip the bauble from the wooden corner to plummet to unforgiving marble below.

Or perhaps it was already plummeting, and Amrod was far too late to catch it before it smashed against the ground into a million shards, cutting through his flailing hands like poisoned knives.

Because no matter how much he _knew_ that this was all an ephemeral dream, he was all too aware that this paradise—this delicate creation—was all that stood between himself and a different sort of oblivion.

He was just as fragile as Thranduil, and he did not know if he could bear to go back to the way things were before the brief moments of soothing love-making and gentle words. Could he spend forever watching from the shadows? Forever lamenting what could never be changed or mended? Would it not drive him insane?

But if Thranduil asked...

And he had known that day was coming.

"Amrod..."

Shaky and wavering, too soft and too diffident for his assured, adamantine royal lover. He rolled his head around, pressed his cheek to the grass, and looked upwards at his companion's enchanting dark lashes and the waves golden hair gleaming bright beneath Arien's touch. It was a different sort of warmth, this presence. But it could not hold off the encroaching frost... "Yes, sinya?"

"I..." Lips that had been kissed until they were swollen and red parted, fluttered helplessly with silent direction. Eyes as clear forest pools were darkened and looked away, anywhere but into his attentive gaze. And Amrod shivered with his personal make of fear, the chill of cruel fate creeping down his spine as surely as the sun sank into the West.

"I need... I need to..."

Thranduil did not want to say it. _Feared_ saying it. Feared his lover's reaction to being rejected and cast aside as a used bit of trash. Feared that Amrod might tie him up, keep him prisoner in this dark forest where no one could ever find him or save him from captivity. Feared to be raped again.

Feared to be destroyed again.

The little fool.

The urge was there. It never left. No man touched by thirst for blood and death was ever empty of its ravages. No man who had killed in the midst of madness could ever erase the addictive burst of _power_ that filled his blood at the screams of his kill, at the sight of their crimson life spreading over his skin in hot slick waves. That dark part of Amrod did not cease to be in the Halls, and it even now whispered that he _could_ do those horrible things, but that—despite the pain and terror of his lover—at least Thranduil would never be able to leave his side. Would never be able to leave him behind in the cold wasteland of loneliness.

But Amrod would never allow that side of him to win. Never again. Once had been enough to destroy every hope and wish he had ever possessed, enough to rend apart the bright future of a boy who only wanted to please his father and brothers but missed his mother and twin terribly. Enough to destroy Amrod Fëanorion as thoroughly and completely as Thranduil of Doriath had ever been.

His One had asked.

"Go," he whispered. He was proud when his voice failed to waver and flounder, was not lost and adrift in the wound being reopened and bled a second time, rubbed with salt and filled with poison.

It was worth it to see those eyes _look at him._ Look _into_ him. Clear and deep and wonderful, glittering with the light of the stars—divine. Beyond his reach. But looking at him, taking him in, widened at the sound of his soft voice and broken answer.

Waiting for that single word to be revoked. But Amrod would not take it back.

"I said, go," he repeated, louder but with less force.

It wasn't about his well-being anymore. It never should have been to begin with. And the delusion upon which was built the foundation of his happiness would crumble into nothingness, and he would fall and fall to a fate that only Eru could know.

It hurt to watch the naked body he knew better than his own rise from their shared bed of grass, their simple home in the forest. It hurt to hear the soft pad of bare feet on flexible blades, moving _away_ instead of _toward_. It hurt _like nothing had ever hurt before_ to hear no words of parting, no last whispers of love and affection, no little piece of hope to cling to desperately in the darkness just _waiting_ for that last little candle of Thranduil's presence to go out.

But he did not rise from the empty forest bed. Did not speak another word. Did nothing but watch the bare back disappear between the trees and the footsteps fade into horrifying silence. Emptiness.

Arien's touch was cold and the stars' lights were pale. The world was dark and gray.

But he couldn't see Thranduil's eyes filled with terror and hate. Not again. And that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> sinya = my sinda (sinda + nya)


	109. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valthoron is too young to know the truth of his conception and birth, but not too young to be too observant for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is closely tied to Catatonic (Chapter 101) and all the stories derived from Cheat (Chapter 5).
> 
> Exploration of the OMC Valthoron, the first son of Thranduil. Possible child neglect/abuse.
> 
> Noldor are sort of hated by the Sindar in this piece. They brought war and death and nothing good, so it only makes sense that the survivors of Doriath are wary of a half-Noldorin (half-Kinslayer) child.

Early on, Valthoron learned that being different was not something of which to be proud.

It was an unspoken resentment which festered about him as a haze of discontent and unease, but he could sense it as surely as he could see the stars in the sky. Could feel it in the sting of eyes between his shoulder blades and the slice of bladed words whispered behind raised hands. He might be young and he might be foolish, but he wasn't _blind_ and he wasn't _stupid_.

He could hear them speak.

Demon. A creature of darkness and wickedness come to despoil their home.

Murderer. Even though he had never harmed even the most helpless of woodland creatures.

Golodh.

But he didn't know what that last one meant. He thought it might be a curse. One worse than being called a servant of darkness or a cold-blooded killer, if the venom with which it was oft spoken was any indicator.

He was the shadow child with the hair of flames. A sign, they claimed, of his tainted spirit and blackened soul, so hot with rage and wrath that the hair that should have been silvered blond instead came out red as molten metal in a forge's bellows. The other children wouldn't dare talk to him or play with him, and the adults just watched him walk past as a ghost through their forest, the underlying hardness in their gazes keeping him well out of reach.

Because they looked like they would strike him if he so much as dared part his lips to ask for directions. Valthoron learned his way around quickly. Alone.

But none of these words or looks could compare to the agony of being at home.

Looking into his grandfather's eyes and seeing the same wariness, the same veiled revulsion, was a thousand and tenfold times worse. Oropher was never obvious about his displeasure, never glared so sharply or snarled so viciously as the strangers whose names were as phantoms in Valthoron's memory. But beneath layers and layers of protective, cautious cold in turquoise eyes, there existed that same spark—that glimmer of shadows that sent shudders down the young elf's spine, the glimmer of _their_ eyes—that narrowed dark eyelashes over blue and furrowed brows into a dark glance.

Oropher would not touch him except to pull his arm to direct or scold with a rap to the knuckles. He would not kiss Valthoron's brow, not like parents and grandparents kissed their own offspring's foreheads and temples. He would not braid the wild mess of curly hair spilling over Valthoron's shoulders, would not even stroke his fingers through it, as though it were actually fire instead of silk. As if his fingers might truly be blackened to a crisp of they dared get close enough to be burned.

But worse still were the times when he would see a spark of _fear_ in his beloved ada's eyes. When he would curl up at Thranduil's side and look up, and the eyes that held such affection and love would flash suddenly dark and wild and distant with memories of other places, when the hand hovering over his cheek or his hair would flinch away, would hesitate as if waiting for him to bite.

And Valthoron _hated_ it. Was ashamed of it. Of _himself._

He looked into the river, looked into his reflection, into the high cheekbones and slightly cleft chin and the vibrant curls and the brilliant blue eyes, and wondered what he had done that was so terrible. Wondered what was _wrong_ with him that his father could not even touch him, that his grandfather would not kiss him.

Wondered if it was the hair like fire waiting to strike in the darkness.

Wondered and lingered and despised it so much that one day, he stole a knife from the kitchen and hacked it off as he gazed on in the water. Grabbed a handful of the soft curls and tugged a knife against his scalp, feeling the waves of hair come loose into his fist. And he threw them in the river, watched the water put out their heated spark of wickedness, watched it carry away his shame.

Watched and watched and watched until only ragged clumps of the startling redness were left behind. It was all shorn as short as he could reach without cutting open his skin.

And it wasn't enough, because he could still only see the red.

\---

His father was first to see him.

There was a startled gasp and the sound of a plate breaking against the wooden floor as it was dropped from nerveless fingers. The young elf looked up into the endless blue, wide and clear and bright with shock. "Valthoron, what happened?"

The hand that ran through the mess that had once been his mane of curls for once did not hesitate, and its touch was like water on a burn, washing away the near-constant ache. If it had drawn away, the young elf thought he might have died on the spot from the wrenching pain crouching in his chest, waiting to strike down his quickly throbbing heart.

"I..."

"Did someone do this to you?" A soft hand cupped his cheek, lifting his face from where it had been downcast. "Tell me what happened, ion-nín!"

Shyly, he glanced upwards, almost wishing he still had a curtain of red hair behind which to hide from the concern glowing back at him. He didn't want to make his ada upset, and Thranduil certainly did not seem as pleased as Valthoron would have hoped at the loss of so much of the redheaded monstrosity that made him wince in fright.

"I cut it off." Valthoron paused, eyes averted once again in utter shame. "It makes everyone unhappy, so I cut it off."

_I make everyone unhappy. But I can't just disappear. I would, if it would not make you sad. If it would not make you worry._

"Oh, little one... say not such things..."

"It's true," he insisted, and winced at the burn of tears behind his eyes, overflowing. He could already feel the itch in his nose and the swelling around his eyes from the oncoming flood. That glimmer of light certainly wasn't a minute crystal on his lashes. And salt was in the air. "It makes Daeradar angry. And it makes you scared. It makes everyone glare at me all the time and no one will talk to me or play with me. I _hate it!"_

_I hate_ me. _And even cutting away all the red won't change me enough to make you happy._

And he was crying and pathetic and didn't dare look up at his father's face. Because he was afraid of what he might see staring back.

At least until a gentle hand cupped the back of his neck and guided his cheek to a shoulder, to the heartbeat steadily pounding beneath his ear. Croons rippled through him in soothing waves as familiar hands stroked his back and wrapped around him tight.

"I love all of you," his ada told him, chin settled in the nest of shorn red hair, breath stirring the uneven locks without fear of being scorched. "Every single part of you, even your beautiful hair."

"It's ugly and horrible—demon hair made of fire."

"It is thick and soft and made of the finest silk. It is cool to the touch and so very bright, a candle to fight back the darkness." A kiss was pressed against his temple, and Valthoron felt the constriction around his chest loosening. Until he could breathe. Until he could sob. "It is different, but it is glorious and nothing of which to be ashamed, my sweet ion-nín."

_But then why? Why does everyone look at me so? What is_ wrong _with me?_

He must have spoken aloud, because the arms around him pulled tighter, squeezed him closer until Valthoron felt surrounded by warmth and safety and the scent of forest and light. The scent of his ada. _"Nothing,"_ Thranduil whispered against his hair. "There is _nothing_ wrong with you, my perfect little one." A kiss was pressed to his forehead, and he was rocked as a young child through the convulsive jerks of hitched breaths.

"And never let anyone tell you any different. You are perfect just as you are, my Valthoron."

And his ada was still stroking tender fingers through the red, over and over until even the sobs died away and the tears ran dry. Until he was spent and exhausted and limp in those arms. But some of the weight, the terrible heaviness sitting on his shoulders, was lessened. And the frightening words sifting through the back of his mind quieted into inaudible whispers, driven back by the sweet lullaby in his ears.

If only his ada loved him, it would be enough. If only Thranduil could look at him, red and all, and smile and laugh and kiss his cheeks, it would be enough. If only the person he loved most in the world would be happy without fear and darkness at the mere sight of him, it would be enough.

Enough to quell the shame. If only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> golodh = noldorin elf  
> ada = daddy; papa  
> ion-nín = my son  
> Daeradar = Grandfather


	110. Objective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elenwë is a matchmaker at heart. But really, it isn't as if Amarië is objecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Helping Hand (Chapter 20) and inspired by the ridiculousness of My Candy Love.
> 
> Amarië being Elenwë's cousin is my head-canon.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Argon = Arakáno

_Mission objective: initiate courting of Findaráto and Amarië_

Easier said than done. But not impossible. After all, she had dealt with the stubborn thick-headedness of the House of Finwë before. And she could do it again.

No, most assuredly not impossible.

\---

Lunch had quickly become excessively awkward.

Amarië was too shy to even look at her rescuer, who was (quite purposefully) positioned directly across from her at the table. It was not surprising. Elenwë had known her cousin since they were very young girls in the court of Ingwë, before they were even old enough to attend parties and dress in proper floor-length gowns, and Amarië had always been on the shy side, the sweet-hearted wallflower hiding in the corner of the room. It had always been Elenwë who was outgoing, who lured unsuspecting and handsome young men into their quiet little space.

But that now posed a serious problem. It was not _Elenwë_ whom Findaráto was meant to be "getting to know better".

"—and all the trouble we used to get into on the grounds of grandfather's estate! Turukáno and I are right around the same age, only a few months apart in our births, and we have been playmates since we could both walk."

 _Need to get them alone, or only_ I _will be speaking to Findaráto._

She glanced at her husband's golden-haired cousin. And _he_ had eyes only for Amarië. That was a relief, at least.

"We were also playmates at a very young age," Elenwë butted in, unsurprised when Findaráto barely glanced towards her but focused his attention almost entirely upon the golden vision across the table as he nodded. "But I'm sure Amarië can discuss it further with you. I need to go and check on the baby. It is about the time that she usually awakens from her nap."

There was a flash of blue, the grateful gleam of beloved and familiar eyes to accompany just the slightest little ray of sun that was her cousin's smile. Even if there was nervousness, too, Amarië knew well her own weaknesses, particularly her crippling inability to hold conversation.

Unless alone with a man, that was. Because then there was no other choice.

"Of course, my lady," Findaráto replied. And didn't once glance in Elenwë's direction. Not even when she stood from the table and slipped out the door.

"Well, are you and Lady Elenwë the same as Turukáno and I, Amar— ah, my lady?"

Elenwë leaned against the back of the dining room door, pressing her ear against the thick wood.

"You may call me Amarië..."

"Then it is only right you call me Findaráto as well, my la— Amarië."

"Very well, Findaráto. And I... Well, yes, I suppose we are quite like to that..."

"Did you ever get up to any mischief?"

"Mischief!" Amarië sounded nearly scandalized. "Well, I never!"

Findaráto chuckled, and Elenwë could imagine him leaning across the table, propping his chin up on his knuckles, gazing as though at a vala in the flesh. "Even I, a prince, got into trouble as a lad."

"W-well... Well, I suppose there was this one time..."

Smiling to herself, Elenwë backed away from the door and headed for the nursery. The lovebirds would need a little bit of private conversation time.

And she was relieved to hear, when she returned an hour later, the mixture of laughter, the ringing bells of Amarië and Findaráto's lower rumble rolling out of the crack between door and frame. When she peered inside, the two were leaning over the table towards one another, vividly chatting amongst themselves and too focused on one another to even notice Elenwë's presence in their reality. The food from lunch had grown cold and remained untouched. But it was a worthy sacrifice.

\---

"Your cousin is delightful company, Lady Elenwë."

They were, as of then, walking sedately out to the patio for afternoon tea. Little Itarillë was perched against Elenwë's shoulder, cooing softly. 

She turned towards her husband's cousin and smiled graciously up at him. "Amarië can be a bit shy, I am afraid, but she is such a sweet girl once you get to know her a little bit, don't you agree? Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking her out to see the gardens after tea? I'm afraid her ankle might still be smarting and I wouldn't want her to become stranded on the grounds a second time."

"I would be more than pleased," Findaráto assured her almost breathlessly. "She mentioned that she is fond of flowers."

_Oh, did she?_

"Quite so," Elenwë replied. "She is fond of roses especially."

If that wasn't a hint, then she didn't know _what_ was.

And poor Findaráto merely bowed and escorted his cousin-in-law onto the patio. Not twenty minutes later, Elenwë was busy burping her infant daughter as she watched the pair slip away into the maze of the gardens, quite alone. It was sweet, really, how Findaráto busied himself with assuring Amarië's precarious balance by offering his entire right side for her use. Never mind that it was horribly forward for a man to wrap his arm around a lady's back and shoulders in such a manner.

Who was there to see but Elenwë? And as for chaperones...

Well...

That would have been counterproductive.

She was, however, quite pleased to see both a healthy blush on her cousin's glorious face, a lovely pink accent to match the rose carefully braided into waves of molten gold, upon the return of the pair from their private "outing". The two women's eyes met, and the light reflected back from her quiet cousin's gaze was both grateful and calculating.

And if Findaráto was too much of a bull-headed male to realize that the tiny beauty he cradled in his arms was more mischievous than anyone ever gave her credit for... Well, Elenwë was hardly going to be the one to burst his bubble of naivety.

Amarië was her best friend, and no one knew either of them better than did the other.

\---

It was well into the evening before Turukáno joined them.

Occupied as he was, though, with cradling and spoiling little Itarillë, Elenwë found herself free to observe her newest matchmaking scheme slowly unfolding beneath her watchful and expectant gaze. Everything was going along delightfully according to plan. Findaráto had been unable to remove his eyes from his new sweetheart all evening.

Even Turukáno had noticed and was sending his cousin strange looks.

"It is getting rather late, do you not think so?" Elenwë murmured, her voice hushed but still loud enough to interrupt the one-sided staring contest between the golden-haired cousins.

"You are most correct, my lady," Findaráto agreed.

"Perhaps it is about time I went up to my room, but... I'm afraid that I don't think I can walk up the stairs on my own," Amarië whispered, heavenly eyes downcast with modesty. False modesty. The women exchanged a look between them.

There weren't many ways to get a man alone in a lady's chambers, but this was one of them. Elenwë winked and inclined her head. She had just the thing.

Turning towards her husband's clueless cousin, she clucked her tongue and shook her head, feeling the tiny escaped strands of golden hair brush her cheeks and hide her eyes. "My dear cousin, Findaráto, would you be so kind as to help Amarië up the stairs? I am quite afraid that I should not be doing any lifting of any sort for at least a few weeks more after the birth. Turukáno is quite worried that I might injure myself..."

"O-of course!" He was on his feet faster than she could blink and offering his arm to Amarië like the prince he had been raised to be.

And dear Amarië was smart enough to trip as she attempted to stand.

"Are you quite well?"

"I think m-maybe I won't be able to walk at all," she whispered, biting her lower lip. "Would it be terribly forward of me to ask that you carry me, Findaráto? I think all that walking earlier in the garden must have tired me out because my ankle smarts quite so..."

"Let me help!" She was up in his arms as easy as that. Elenwë waited until the man's back was turned to lift a hand and cover the laughter trying desperately to escape her lips.

And over his shoulder, Amarië returned the wink with a tricky little smirk.

And just as they disappeared out of sight, Turukáno gave her one of _those_ looks, his dark brow rising. "My cousin has no idea what he has gotten himself into, does he? But I can see that you have plans for the two of them. Does he not get a say in the matter, my love?"

"In what matter?" she replied. "I have no idea what you are speaking of, husband."

"Of course not..." He rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to baby Itarillë's nose. "Do not grow up to be just like your mother. I do not know if I could stand living with _two_ of you. Mischievous, crafty, calculating creatures, you women are."

"We are not all _that_ bad."

He sent her a look from the corner of his eye, and she could see him smirking. "I suppose not _that_ terrible. After all, I was once that naive sap being led around the nose, and I ended up with a beautiful wife and a perfect daughter. I'm sure my cousin will survive the ravages of courtship and family as well."

"And be happier for it," she added, standing to give her husband a kiss on the cheek, which he dutifully returned.

"Happier for it indeed."

\---

It was almost disappointing that there had been no sign of impending courtship by the time Findaráto was set to depart the next day. There had been no talk whatsoever of the two cousins meeting once again or perusing Ingwë's famous rose gardens together in the twilight or spending a day together in Tirion and eating lunch at one of the restaurants in the city. Let alone talk of Findaráto actually _calling_ on the young woman at her father's estate with a bouquet of her favorite flowers and a mandatory recitation of flattering poetry, the marks of a true and committed suitor.

"Well, we are sad to see you going so soon," Elenwë told them as she hugged Findaráto and pressed warm kisses to his cheeks. "Take care and come visit soon."

"Aye, you wouldn't want to deprive your poor cousin of the only male company to be dredged up around here," Turukáno added as he gripped his cousin's forearms tightly. "Have a safe trip back, and give Findekáno and Arakáno my greetings."

"Wouldn't forget it," Findaráto reassured, grinning broadly. And then he turned to Amarië, and the hopelessly smitten smile on his face was all Elenwë needed to see to know that he was about to broach the subject she had been breathlessly waiting for since last evening. "Will you be staying much longer, my lady?"

"Oh, no, I do not think so," Amarië murmured, looking down at her slipper-clad feet. "I will be on my way back to Valimar tonight and will hopefully be home by evening on the morrow. It... It was nice meeting you, Findaráto. By the grace of the Valar, may our paths cross again."

The golden-haired elf's chest expanded, heaving upwards with a deep intake of breath, shuddering with nervousness as he sighed. "I... my lady Amarië, I was... Before I leave, if I could..."

And her cousin's eyes opened fully, looking up at the prince with eyes faintly tinged with surprised delight hidden beneath a sunny exterior. Elenwë leaned forward on her heels, firmly ignoring the impolite sound that Turukáno made at her side as he observed the exchange, knowing very well what was about to escape from his poor, besotted cousin's lips.

"What is it, my lord?"

"If it would please you, would... would you mind if I paid visit to your house in Valimar? If... if it is no trouble, that is..."

"Of... of course it would not be!" Amarië exclaimed. "I... I mean..."

"Truly?"

"I-it would please me greatly if you would visit me, prince Findaráto."

"Please, just Findaráto. There is no need for formality between... between friends."

"Alright, Findaráto, then," Amarië corrected softly, her gaze every bit as besotted as her suitor's. "I would be most pleased if you would visit me in Valimar. I can show you around the city, if you like, and perhaps even Taniquetil if you have the time to spare."

"I would make the time to spare," he replied, reaching out to grasp the young lady's dainty hand and press a kiss against her knuckles. And not an airy, barely-there brush of the lips sort of kiss, but a true skin-to-skin press of flushed lips to sinew and bone, lingering and warm. "I shall send word, then, my lady. Expect my visit."

And Amarië was flushed, but there was a triumphant gleam in her eyes. "I shall await your visit anxiously, Findaráto."

And Elenwë, safely tucked away in her husband's arms, watching the lovebirds who had thoroughly forgotten the existence of anyone else in the world but one another, felt a matching smirk adorn her plush lips at the sight.

_Mission objective: attained._

It had been close, but Elenwë had never failed in her matchmaking before. And, perhaps, a little trip to Valimar to visit her dearest cousin and observe the courtship burning brightly on the horizon would not be remiss. All she needed to do was convince Turukáno of the advantages of being more closely linked and politically aware of the workings of Ingwë's court. And while he was away mingling and coaxing and being a prince, she would be...

_Mission objective: initiate formal engagement of Findaráto and Amarië._

She would be assuring the success of her newest self-appointed task as the family matchmaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valimar (alternately Valmar) is something like the capitol city of Valinor. Golden roofs and silver floors and all that.  
> Taniquetil is the mountain upon which Manwë and Varda built their mansions.


	111. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil has awakened, but his spirit is still quite broken. And there may not be any glue that could put it back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Past non-con. Mpreg. Postpartum depression (or just regular depression considering the circumstances). Connected to Catatonic (Chapter 101).
> 
> Valthoron is the spontaneous child who appears in Shame (Chapter 109).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Lord of Dreams = Lórien

It had been a long month. A very, very long month.

A very, very long month of staring at the blank walls. A very, very long month of wondering what on earth he was even doing awake and alive and still fighting against the heavy weight pulling him under. A _terribly_ long month of hearing the baby crying in the next room and feeling empty and listless and _so tired..._

No longing to hold. No urge to comfort. Just crying on and on into the night with footsteps just outside the door, pacing back and forth.

And Thranduil felt useless.

Useless, watching his father bustle about caring for him when he couldn't even shift out of bed without help. Useless, knowing that when the baby cried in the middle of the night it was his father who went and hushed the child's whimpers. Did the feeding, the cleaning, the changing, the bathing. Of his baby.

Of _his_ baby.

And he didn't even _care._

And he didn't think he had ever felt more sickly, more wretched and full of heartache, an empty black pit lacking feeling other than wracking pain. Any urge he had once had to rise from bed dwindled. Hunger pangs wouldn't come. All the time, he was tired, wanted to sleep, wanted to escape from staring all day at the blank wall across from the bed and thinking and remembering, doing nothing but "rest" and "recover" in silence.

And cry. And cry. And cry some more.

But never when Oropher was there. Never when his beloved father could see or hear. The shame would have eaten him alive, would have dissolved his innards into slush.

Because what reason would he have to cry like a whimpering, puerile child panting after attention? If anyone had reason to be upset, it was the man who had been managing their home, caring for his bedridden son and raising his unexpected, unwanted grandchild all at once without ever complaining. While Thranduil sat around and did _nothing._

And if all he could do in his state of vacancy was sit still and stare at the wall and make his father's life a little easier, then he would. He would hide this horrible weakness and remain silent.

And try not to cry. And cry. And cry some more.

\---

That lasted all of a second month.

The house was supposed to be empty at this time of day. It was always around this time that Thranduil curled himself up into a ball and sobbed out the day's pain while the baby napped away the afternoon in the next room over. It was the only time that the silence wrapped around him as unforgiving arms, but protective ones nonetheless. Because it hid him away from the world and allowed all the ash those burning eyes had layered inside him to spill out and blow away.

And Valar, the pain was twisting and coiling in his stomach, rising until he felt bile in the back of his throat, and all he wanted was to scream and throw something breakable against the wall, to watch it shatter into more pieces than had shattered his spirit, spilling all over the floor to be stepped on and crushed into dust.

And then the door opened. Unexpectedly. And no amount of thin sheets could hide the wrenching sobs.

"Thranduil?" There was the sound of a tray being set on the bedside table. "Thranduil, my dearest, what is the matter?" That voice was painfully soft, velveteen and cool. And he didn't deserve the gentleness and caring.

Weight settled upon the bed at his back, a hand sliding down his shoulder and the curve of his spine as he shook with hiccups of utter shame. The touch was soothing, and it only made him sob harder, because what right did he have to demand even this small sliver of time when all he did was lie around like a sack of potatoes, lamed and lacking purpose?

"Tell me why you are so upset, little one. I only want to help."

And Thranduil was so ashamed. Almost too ashamed to form coherent words.

"You help t-too much," he choked out. "I d-don't... don't..."

"Clearly, you are in upheaval." Gently, Thranduil felt himself lifted with ease, tucked against a firm shoulder like a young child being comforted. And was that not what he was? "Come, now, tell ada what has you overwrought." And that hand was combing through his tangled hair, stroking his cheeks in such a familiar manner, pulling back the layers of ice so that the tears came and came with a waterfall of words.

Words about weakness and uselessness and worthlessness.

And why couldn't he get out of bed? And why couldn't he be hungry? And why couldn't he _want to see his baby?_

And what was wrong with him that he almost wished he had died instead of lived to suffer? That the Halls of Mandos still called in the shadows of his dreams as a temptation, to lift him away from scalding guilt?

Because he was nothing but a burden.

"And you do all the... all the w-work and I just lie in bed and weep... like a child..." Even as he cried. "I just d-don't understand. I don't know _what to do..."_

"Hush, my little one..." Arms crossed about his slender, trembling body firmly, tenderly cradling him to his ada's chest. "My sweet darling, do not put such blame on yourself. I am more than happy to care for you and for little Valthoron. It is my job to take care of you during such a hard time..."

"But I... I feel so _useless..."_

"Never that. You need to rest..."

"I'm _weak!"_

There was stillness between them, heavy and tense. Lingering like a shroud of death over their heads. Choking him with despair like a cork in his throat. And then a kiss was pressed to his forehead, warm breath washing over his skin as a cleansing wind. "Believe not such utter nonsense. You are the strongest person I know, my little one. Do not slander yourself so."

"Strongest? I'm pathetic! I cannot even crawl out of bed to care for my own son!"

Thranduil breathed heavily, sobbing with each gasp of thick air into his clenched lungs. Because these thoughts had festered and festered and lingered and lingered for so long...

And... And he couldn't sleep anymore... Couldn't _live with himself anymore..._

Hands cupped about gaunt cheeks, thumbs stroking under swollen eyes, wiping away the marks of lamentation, and their brows pressed together. And Thranduil cried and cried because how could _his father_ think that he was _strong_ when _Oropher_ was the strong one?

"There are different kinds of strength," his ada whispered. "When I talked to the healers after... after the attack... they told me that you would never wake up. That you would fade away. That perhaps you would live long enough to give birth to the baby, and then you would _die."_

And his head was shaking...

"But you're _here_ , my darling little one. You _lived_. You _survived_. When no one else ever has. No one has ever been _brave_ enough or _resilient_ enough or _strong_ enough to throw aside the horror of what you have been through. _No one._ And no amount of skill of arms or stubbornness of mind or dexterity at craft could _ever compare..."_

"No... No, I..."

"It could _never compare to your strength_. Never doubt that. Never." Oropher kissed his cheeks and his nose and his brow, over and over. "No more crying. You are not a burden to me. You are a miracle. A _blessing."_

And Thranduil could not help but cry—and cry and cry—until he was empty of tears. Until he was tired and stretched and wanted nothing more than to rest in pleasant sleep for the first time since waking up. To close his eyes and feel the arms of the Lord of Dreams embrace him tightly and safely and guide him into sweet dreams. Sweet dreams of dappled clearings no longer scorched and charred black, of stroking chubby cheeks and seeing blue eyes. Blessed blue eyes.

Maybe... maybe this rest would not be without recovery. And maybe with the black pit in his heart emptied, there would be room for something more.

For a new beginning. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> ada = daddy; papa


	112. Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandos will frequently tell you that he is never wrong. And Lómiel is only proof of his prowess in the realm of prophecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mates. Fluff. Heavy references of the blatant and metaphorical sort to Loveless (Chapter 99) and Cleansed (Chapter 107).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maeglin is genderbent. Her name is Lómiel.

When she had first returned from the Halls of the Waiting, Lómiel had doubted her second chance. Had doubted that being housed in a living and breathing cage of flesh and bone would change the circumstances of her eternal damnation. Had doubted that life could return to her the light that had been so systematically and brutally extinguished.

Because what could ever make right the wrongs she had committed? What could ever erase the suffering that laid heavy over her soul? It had seemed so impossible at the time—so hopeless.

But she had been wrong. And _he_ had been right.

Life had a way of reviving that tiny spark of hope, of gluing back together the scattered shards of broken dreams into something new and dazzling as it refracted the rays of the newly-come dawn.

"Enjoying the roses, melethril?"

She turned slightly, and the sun-kissed face of her husband filled her vision. Eyes that had once been filled with nothing but pain and shadows—darkened as a storm over the seas—were now lightened, silvered with joy. Her sweet Elladan settled himself beside her on the bench in the clearing where they had first met, where they had bonded and the vines of their lives had grown together and entwined permanently into a single creation of beauty. His hand wrapping about hers was like heaven, the squeeze of his palm against hers a promise.

Then she could feel his happiness reflected back onto her as Arien's rays, warmth seeping into her skin and down to her bones, driving away the chill that always lingered with visions of flame and death and betrayal. It clouded the wicked black gleam of hate-filled eyes and the shadows that lingered as a curse over her family's head for thousands of years.

And though Lómiel did not think she could ever forgive herself for everything that had been said or done, for the crumbling white city she had once called home and the beloved blue eyes of her cousin lit aflame with terror, she thought maybe she could put it behind her.

Because there really had been a simple choice. Regret forever in the Halls as a ghost of a man whose life had been too short and too brittle, lacking in love and torn apart by violence, or take the chance and move on to find something greater waiting in the world outside. Regret would not take back the horrors that had been committed. Damning her spirit to eternal isolation would not fix the betrayal that had been wrought on all sides, nor would it heal the hurts that had been dealt as mortal blows. But there was something here that could mend at least a little of those broken bonds.

As she leaned against her mate, she thought here, at least, she could become something worthy of recognition. Could pay back her debt. Could soothe a heart as equally broken and longing as her own. And it would be enough to hold back the darkness.

"Will you join me in enjoying the roses, Lord Elladan?"

He laughed, leaning over to press a kiss against the corner of her lips. "I think I have been distracted from the roses by a flower much more glorious. Hopefully they are not _too_ jealous."

And he smiled. Always, his smiles made her heart flutter. The shadow over his lively spirit after his mother's fading and departure was leaving a little more each day, and though it would never be gone, Lómiel liked to think that she helped him in every way a friend and lover could, liked to think that her words were comforting and her touch gentle, that her actions cleared away a little more of the thick layer of clouds blocking out the sun.

She liked to think that the tears she brushed from his cheeks made way for something better. Something worth returning to life for.

They had a future. _She_ —Maeglin the Traitor reborn and returned after all he had wrought in sin and foolishness—had a _future_ beyond endless days of gray walls and memories of loveless homes and unrequited fantasies. A future with a husband and children and a home unsullied in the new days cleansed of darkness.

Never had she been so grateful to her savior for arousing her from her stupor in the Halls, for guiding her away from nothing short of self-induced ruin and torturous suffering until the End of Days. Thinking about what would have become of the heartbroken Maeglin lingering on and on in those gray rooms—watching memories bittersweet and tainted flash against the walls as a torture more cruel than any whip or brand—it was a terrifying contemplation.

More than that, though, she was grateful to be given this second chance, because for Elladan it had made all the difference, and she had never loved anyone so potently or completely as he, not even Idril in the days of Gondolin. That love, one-sided and born of the desperation of an orphaned boy alone in a strange reality with only the comfort of words offered in kindness from kin to kin, was pale in comparison to what she felt now for the man whose spirit was so closely woven into hers that she was not certain where he ended and where she began. Both broken, but piecing the other slowly back together with their own damaged parts until something gloriously hale and whole was sculpted into being.

And though this life would never be perfect, it was all she would ever need. All _he_ would ever need.

She lifted their embraced hands, resting them over her rounded belly as she leaned against her husband's shoulder. And together, they enjoyed the afternoon clear and calm in the wake of war and destruction. Finally, there would be peace.

"I am certain the roses are quite jealous, but they will have to admire from a distance," she whispered against his ear.

Because the little seedling planted amongst the endless rain of sorrow was still growing and growing, blooms bursting to life and hungrily taking in the newfound sunshine. And a new little bud had just begun to unfurl beneath their watchful eyes, almost ready to greet the world. And it was beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> melethril = lover (female)


	113. Contempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many of the sons of Fëanor have made enemies over the centuries, but Caranthir has attracted one of the most traitorous and deadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easterling culture (completely head-canon, so don't kill me or anything). Sexual slavery. Back-stabbing. Revenge. A little swearing. The usual sorts of stuff.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë Carnistir  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

It was a mutual sort of hatred.

Eyes as green as summers on the northern plains ringed with dark lashes—eyes that belonged on an odalisque for the jewel-like beauty—would narrow in the purest form of spite. Waiting and watching for even the tiniest mistake, the smallest sort of disdain, the most minute deviation from devotion to the cause.

_"Never have I spoken to an honorable son of the tribe of Ulfang. Stupid animals, all of them. Beasts to be led to slaughter."_

It was their little game. Dancing around one another. Both holding the other in utter and complete disdain. Imparting words whispered just within hearing. Spitting out insults at the other's turned back.

Uldor rather believed Lord Caranthir enjoyed it.

_"They will be naught but waves of barbarians sacrificed on the altar of victory. They must be good for_ that _at least."_

Enjoyed lording over all the men of Uldor's tribe and over the other tribes come from the far east, enjoyed looking down that long, perfect nose at all of them and scoffing at their barbaric dress and their untrimmed beards. As if that smooth, pale woman's face were so superior to weathered skin and covered chins. As if that slender body better suited for bedchambers than war was the pinnacle of a warrior's strength. As if those waves of dark hair braided with such precision weren't meant to be grasped and held in rough hands during coitus.

_"Worthless. Useless._ Mortal."

Hatred was too light a word to describe the feeling that churned sickeningly in Uldor's gut at the very _sight_ of his "superior". A mere word from those lips, and he wanted to strangle screams out of them instead, wanted to rub that beautiful face in the dirt and tell the scum exactly what Uldor thought of his _orders_ and his _training_. Wanted to make that _bitch_ sorry for daring to—

"My master said that thou hadst requested a... renegotiation."

Purred and sultry was the voice of the golden-haired vision that haunted the Dark Lord's shadow. But Uldor was not a fool. Even in Lord Caranthir, he could sense the inherent _purity_ , along with the imagined _superiority_. This creature, on the other hand, was like a jeweled dagger dipped in slow-acting poison. One wrong move on one side of the fence that was the life of a turncoat might earn him a snapped neck or sword to the gut from the followers of Lord Maedhros. One wrong move on the other side, however, would earn him a fate worse than he dared to imagine in the dungeons and torture chambers of Angband. Uldor knew which side held his true loyalty.

No, he would not play games with Lord Mairon, not games like those he played with the foolish immortal demons. Not when he knew that those manicured hands, seemingly soft and pampered like those of a lady wife, were hands that knew the art of torture and death better than did any man walking upon the earth.

"As you already are aware, I am certain, my father, our chieftain, has recently passed."

"So I heard." Lord Mairon sat cross-legged before him, golden curls spilling about him as the finest of silks. They would have been the envy of any woman. But the eyes on that perfect face were those of a devil. "I would suppose his death changes the circumstances of the alliance."

"Not by much." It was a dangerous game. Uldor knew he couldn't _back out_ of the deal struck with the Dark Lord. To do so would be to invite destruction upon his head, upon the heads of every warrior of his tribe. But the thought of emeralds set in a face that made his blood boil kept his lips moving, kept his fidgeting hands tangled in his beard, kept the flames stoked until they pumped wildly through his veins. "I would not say that our allegiance to your cause has flagged, Lord Mairon. Nevertheless, I would be willing to put forth more effort on behalf of your master... for a small price."

Perfect lips curled into a catlike smile, and Uldor felt sweat build on his nape when he looked into those eyes. For all the amiable facade, the truth was written in depths of fire so hot it could scorch with a mere glance. "A small price, thou sayest?"

"Just a trinket," Uldor continued. "A certain thorn in my side."

All-knowing. All-seeing. Terrifying. "Morifinwë Carnistir, fourth son of Fëanáro. Is that what thou dost desire? He _is_ rather beautiful."

Biting his lip, Uldor tasted blood and reveled in its hot iron flavor. Would that it was _his_ blood flowing so freely between the man's lips and down his throat. "I do not desire his beauty."

"Not his beauty, but his pride," Lord Mairon continued, head tilting to the side. "Wouldst thou believe me if I claimed to understand thy plight? Is it not _maddening_ , that conceit, that arrogance? And what a rich wine t'would be, to have ash-filled eyes burn with desperation, to have a raw voice beg for your mercy? And to laugh and say 'no'?"

_He knows. He knows my heart and my mind. He knows everything._ A sorcerer, dangerous and cunning, reading every stray thought and desire from his mind as though he'd written them for perusal. But he was on Uldor's side of the war. "What say you?" he ground out. For he did not want to continue this conversation. Did not want to admit to anything more than vengeance.

"For thy loyalty unto the end—for the ultimate and open betrayal on the battlefield—I should think a mere noldo would be a small price to pay. Should the plans proceed as foreseen." Lord Mairon did not touch the food offered by the servant who came within the tent's curtaining folds, but he did taste of the wine. If he weren't a venomous snake waiting to strike, his golden beauty would have been positively seductive as he leaned his head back and sighed, the bow of his lips opening in an expression that had Uldor's loins tightening. That had him thinking of a different perfect, white-skinned face with hair darker than night rather than as molten gold.

And then Lord Mairon stood, body stretching into an arch that did nothing to quell the growing heat or the rise of hatred that darkened Uldor's eyes and left his hands itching to clench around a swanlike throat and wring. All the while, those eyes were upon him, could see right through him.

"Thou shalt have thy thrall when all is said and done, kneeling at thy feet, licking thy toes in worship. Does that please thee, my friend?"

"It does," Uldor admitted. "Thank you for your time, Lord Mairon."

"It was a most profitable exchange. For both of us," the other replied, still smiling—sharper than any blade and more deadly than any toxin.

And Uldor should not have believed in his seemingly innocuous generosity for a moment.

But still in the pit of his stomach, he felt the churning, over and over until black smoke longed to spew forth in noxious waves to consume and rend and damn. All he could think of were those jewel-eyes and that smirking mouth and that velveteen voice hissing out orders and veiled insults with blatant pleasure. When he had that bitch at his feet, maybe he ought to cut that tongue out. A mouth could be used for other purposes, less defiant and more enjoyable than _speaking._

So great was the vision that overcame his senses that he did not rise alongside the golden companion to see him out of the tent, to watch the lieutenant slip away into the nighttime gloom. Instead, Uldor laid back on his cushion, satisfaction joining the mixture of white-hot and blackened emotions bubbling over in a tide of mouth-watering, addictive contempt.

Contempt left without satiation. For now.

But not for much longer. He _would_ have the object of his hatred at his feet, pleading for his favor, gracing his bed, waiting upon him hand-and-foot.

But he hoped the ash that would appear in those eyes never fully put out the fire. It was no fun, after all, if the contempt that burned so fiercely in return, requited and desired, was snuffed out like a mere candle in the night. 

Breaking Lord Caranthir would have been fun. But it was so much sweeter to know that, in the end, that bitch would lie at his feet as a chained pet and feel this same bubbling, churning disdain as Uldor, torturing the arrogant beauty brought low until he could not sleep and could not eat and could not think for the sheer potency of hatred and despair that would devour his existence. And he would suffer so gloriously.

And Uldor would come out as the superior. The victorious. The master.

And he would sit and _watch_. And _enjoy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> noldo = Noldorin elf


	114. Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely refuse to think that Aredhel was raped and/or forced to marry her husband. But that's not to say it was the smartest decision she's ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor change in canon in regards to when and where Aredhel first meets Eöl.
> 
> Skinnydipping. Some naivety. Seduction. Kissing. Etc...
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Turgon = Turukáno

The forest was too still. Too silent.

Írissë almost held her breath, stepping carefully in the silt along the shore, so softly that her bare feet did not even leave imprints in the sand. All she could hear was the whispering babble of the river flowing along quietly in the dim light, water appearing black with no glimmer to reflect off the writhing surface.

Quiet. Alone. So perfectly alone it was unsettling. Almost frightening.

She bit her lip. Really, it wasn't like she had never done this before. There was absolutely no reason to be so nervous or paranoid about stripping naked to bathe.

Pulling off her cloak, she abandoned it in a heap on the shore, followed closely by her gown and shift. Cold air bore down on naked flesh, but she reminded herself as she unbraided her hair and set her toes into the cool water that there was no one in this lifeless forest to see her unclothed anyway. Besides, she had gone four days without bathing and was in desperate need of cleanliness. Surely anyone who came upon her would sympathize with her plight.

And the water felt lovely despite its mysterious and unsettling appearance. With that, Írissë tied her hair loosely in a knot and stepped waist-deep into the gentle current with a sigh, uncaring that should anyone stumble upon her, they would find her as bare as the day she was born like a common woman without shame. They would just have to avert their eyes as gentleman and patiently await the conclusion of her bath, never mind if they thought her actions improper.

She could not bring herself to care what they might think. There were many things she couldn't bring herself to care about.

Like her brother's bullying, for one. Just like her father before him, Turukáno managed to be every bit the overwhelmingly protective older brother that no maiden in her right mind would request or wish upon herself. Following her about, watching her every move, putting her deliberately out of harm's way as if a little bit of fresh air in the city (let alone sword training) would do her grievous injury. 

And then there was the ridiculous stigma against women riding with one foot on either side of a horse. How else was she meant to ride and shoot at the same time? But one sight of her in leggings and boots nearly had Turukáno in paroxysms of horror.

Compared to wearing britches and shooting pheasants astride a horse like a man, bathing naked in the river was positively _tame._

Maybe _too_ tame.

After all, had she not left home for an adventure? For something scandalous? Maybe to ride in and stay without a chaperone with her cursed male cousins (Turkafinwë had been out when she had arrived), or settle down with some barbaric sindar and learn the ways of the land (never mind that the border to Doriath had been shut) or... or something? Anything was better than sitting at home learning to better her embroidery skills like a proper princess of the Noldor.

Ridiculous. Propriety, respectability, modesty, all of it was a waste of time and energy. They lived in a time of war and Turukáno wanted her to learn to crochet? Just _ridiculous._

By this time, she had scrubbed every part of herself until all the dried sweat and dust was washed aside, leaving behind only flawless, white skin tingling in pleasure. Sighing, she looked down upon her body, curvaceous and comely as any woman's, and wished desperately that she had been born _male_ in _body_ , if only for the freedom that it provided, for the social barricades and traps that it negated. Her hands cupped her breasts and then slid down her sides to wide hips and a flat, soft belly, so feminine and gentle that it had her frowning. What she needed was an opportunity to be anything _but_ a prim and proper, virtuous and modest young princess.

And then she looked up and froze.

Because she was _most definitely not alone._

Because there, on the shore, stood another elf, tall and cloaked in black. A stranger. A _man_. With a face that carried sharp, cruel angles and a mouth that seemed pursed into a permanent frown. But somehow despite the downward curve of angry brows into a permanent scowl and the almost un-elf-like harshness of that set jaw, he was gorgeous. Mysterious and shadowed like something out of a forbidden romance tale.

And his eyes were black. From so far, the pupil and iris seemed fused as one opaque gem, ringed by long, dark lashes, the shape painted by their thickness delightfully recherché. Breath-stealing and exotic.

And they were looking at _her._

And she _wasn't wearing any clothes._

(So perhaps she had exaggerated just a touch about having no care whether or not she was caught stark bare by a man.)

Gasping, her hands tried to cover her breasts and the dark triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs even as she splashed ungracefully through the water and up the shore to her abandoned clothing, leaving definite footprints in the damp silt behind. Clumsily, she dragged her cloak upwards and held it as a curtain before her nakedness, blocking it from his sight. 

And the stranger's lips quirked ever so slightly at the corners, dark eyes never once blinking yet somehow filling with distant amusement, a glimmer that clashed sharply with another, darker shade of curiosity. A look that sent primal shivers through her untried body.

He stepped closer, and the look solidified and burned as a hot coal to bare skin. Lust.

It was at that point when Írissë knew she should flee. Knew that she should wrap her cloak tight about her body, grab her dress and take off into the forest in search of her horse or a road that led out from beneath sunless eaves. Knew that she should do anything but stand still as a startled doe in all her bare glory, chest heaving as she looked into hungry, cold eyes.

Knew that she shouldn't feel heat building in the pit of her stomach and spreading downwards to somewhere much, much more intimate. Knew that she should be horrified and frightened, that she should back away and not stare back with equal ferocity.

Knew that she should be thinking of anything _but_ how much of an adventure it would be—this dark liaison in the forest with a beautiful, foreign stranger. Knew that she should be thinking of how _shocking_ and _sinful_ it was that, when he was close enough to touch, she did not object to his hands settling on her arms and sliding downwards in a shudder-inducing rough slide over soft skin.

Did not object when they teased open her fingers and sent her protective shield fluttering down to the sand. Did not object when he stepped so close she could taste his alien, spiced musk on the back of her tongue as their breaths mingled and the abyss of his eyes lured her closer to the perilous edge.

_This is utterly wrong. I should scream and run. I should slap him and demand that he leave at once. I should... I should... But... I cannot..._

How horrified everyone would be, if they knew that she let a stranger set his eyes on her uncovered silhouette, put his hands on her unprotected body. How scandalous, that her first adventure carried her into a lover's amorous embrace in the silence of the darkness in which she found herself consumed, carried away and lost forever. How terrible, that when he kissed her and pressed her naked torso to his clothed form, she moaned as a wanton creature and wrapped her arms about his neck. That she soundlessly, wantonly, pleaded for _more._

That she let him take her down into the damp, marked silt and lie atop her. That never once did her lips part with words to cease.

 _Because it feels so very_ right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> sindar = Sindarin elves


	115. Sweeten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eöl is not naturally a nice man, but he has a sweet side buried underneath. And Aredhel knows just how to uncover it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly fluff and couple cuteness.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aredhel = Írissë

It did not take long for Írissë to learn that her husband was, generally speaking, a bitter and ill-tempered man. He was prickly and kept quietly to himself when given the chance, preferring the loneliness of smoke and fire to a gentle evening of talking or a session of cuddling in the sitting room. Such things were simply not in his personality or nature.

But for all his bitterness, even the temperamental, uncooperative craftsman had weaknesses, little soft spots to be exploited when he least expected.

And it did not take Írissë long to discover them. One by one.

It did not take her long to discover that carding her hands through his hair, scraping her nails ever so softly across his scalp, left him nearly purring in contentment. For hours, he would sit still at her feet or in their bed, dark lashes fluttering on his cheeks as she stroked, his harried schedule and long list of tasks to be completed left floundering in the wake of simple pleasures.

She learned all too quickly that, while most sweets did not appeal to his palate in the least, fresh blueberry muffins would draw him away even from his valued experimental work in the forge. It was almost adorable, how his head would appear in the doorway to the kitchen, peering shyly around the frame to take in the sight of the golden delights set out to cool on the table, how his eyes would be so soft and wide, almost childish in anticipation and mischief.

How he would sneak a few when she turned her back without bothering to take off his dirty, sooty gloves and hide them in his apron pockets to tide him over in the long stretch of evening into night. Írissë found that she did not mind cleaning the crumbs out of soiled pockets or scrubbing blueberry stains out of the garment later.

And if she remembered even a droplet of his complex explanations and ratios in the art of metallurgy, she could prompt him to speak of his work and spend hours sitting in his lap with her head on his shoulder, his heartbeat firm to her hand and his low, rumbling voice soothing her into a doze as he went on and on about his latest experiments with composition and shaping. She thought he was just happy to have someone listening after leaving the busy halls of Menegroth and the home of his kin of blood to live alone in the darkness of Nan Elmoth.

Truly, he wasn't as bad as first impressions might suggest. 

Perhaps he was burly and sometimes rather rude—goodness only knew the number of times she had flushed in shock at his language!—but there was a sweetheart hiding under that tough skin who only dared show his face on the rare occasion when he thought she wasn't looking. But she was. 

Írissë knew she did not imagine the soft touch of callused fingertips skimming over her bare, pale flesh as though it were the most delicate glass, the most precious of treasures to be admired and worshipped. She knew that, when he finally whispered little words of love into her ear, he believed her to be fast asleep, that perhaps the words would reach her in dreams for he could not bring himself to speak them in their waking hours.

And yes, sometimes he was frightening in the midst of a spitting rage—they had lost more than one piece of furniture or glassware to his tantrums—but if she wrapped her arms about him from behind, held him tight against her and rocked him along with her as she laid her head on his tense shoulders, she would feel all the knots and strain seep slowly out of those trembling muscles. Until he breathed a deep sigh of relief and mumbled out a tiny apology with a quavering voice and downcast eyes.

Never mind the times he would blush at something so innocent as a kiss to the cheek or a soft-spoken thank-you when an entire seduction had not so much as tinged his face with pink. Never mind when Írissë reached out and grasped his hand as young lovers did in Tirion, and he looked away as if pretending not to take note but squeezed back just to see her smile.

So he wasn't perfect. He wasn't a standard gentleman born and bred for the high courts of civilization. He was loud and spoke like a commoner. He spent all day working in the forge and returned sweaty and sooty, tracking mud over the rug and the floor. He had a definite tendency towards sniping and sarcasm and scowling faces. And she didn't even know where to _begin_ to broach the subject of his past.

But underneath the crusty, bitter outer skin was a fruit just as sweet and supple as any peach, all rosy and sultry perfection on the tip of one's tongue. One just needed to know how to peel away that skin to reveal the bashfulness and beauty beneath.

And though it never would be paradise, this world that they shared, Írissë was content, was happier than she had ever been as a prisoner of her brother's court, dancing like a puppet on her strings, a good, empty-headed woman with no future but a houseful of children and a few hundred poorly-made tapestries on the walls. No, that life had never been made for Írissë Anairiel.

Now she had her bitter prince and just the correct amount of sugar to sweeten the mixture of their life—stubbornness, willfulness and wildness tempered with chaste kisses and whispered words in the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Anairiel = daughter of Anairë


	116. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel's thoughts as she lay dying by poison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major character death. Poisoning. Violence. Accidental uxoricide. Connected to Wrong (Chapter 114), Sweeten (Chapter 115) and Believable (Chapter 7).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Maeglin = Lómion

Before the rash actions had come, she had known her husband might do something foolish. She had seen it in his betrayed, wet eyes, in the quaver of his deep voice and the tremors of his tightly clenched hands. Hands not oft moved to violence, but which spoke of deep-seated emotion cultivated over many long years of terror and bloodshed.

They had been moved.

And lying as she was, sickened with unknown poison and staring up at the ceiling of her old bedchambers, Írissë could not help but think that she had been a great fool. Or worse. Selfish.

On the white sheets, her own hand moved feebly beneath her restless gaze, long white digits stretched out towards a phantom that would never again appear before her eyes. They were bereft, aching, and even now, after being stricken down by their counterpart, only longed for the warm embrace of a callused palm on soft, cold skin. Familiar and safe.

Many times she could recall such an embrace in the twilight of the forest beneath the eaves of trees that blocked the sunlight, that shaded their personal paradise. Could recall bashfully averted eyes and the squeeze of fingers around her own in return, and the warmth of small smiles twitching at the corners of perpetually frowning lips.

She could recall the feel of her skin being caressed gently—ever so gently—just by the tips and nails writing nonsense runes and drawing invisible pictures into her flesh. Secret words and visions that remained branded there after dozens of years without sunlight.

And she could remember their first meeting, how those hands had lowered her white shield and showed her a world she hadn't even known existed, filled with passion and wonder. With such certainty but no less gentleness, they had so easily coaxed her into wild and wicked seduction, and held her tenderly in the aftermath. Long-fingered and elegant.

Elegant even for all their strength. And she knew that, too, and recalled watching him at work in the forge many a long evening into the early hours of the morn. For it was his passion, and he longed to share even that part of himself with her. Directing hands, firm but steady, spotted with little burns from spitting embers and lined from long hours of work at creation and destruction.

Such steady, sure hands. They only trembled in rage or fright.

As when he returned home in a fury and hurled glasses at the wall, shattering them to bits. (As if her Noldorin cousins did not ever do the same in their tantrums.) And then they would curl and uncurl, grasping at some shreds of emotion he could not seem to catch between his fingers and strangle.

Then, they were strong enough to bruise, but never had he harmed so much as a hair on her head in fury. Not a once.

Only in fear.

And she remembered that as well, vividly, for she could hardly forget seeing fingers widespread and shaking so hard they could barely latch on to her arms, but once there they sat like a vice and shook her until dark prints were left behind on snowy white flesh. But for all his rough voice and sharp actions, his eyes had not been angry.

_"Where were you?"_ he had asked, had yelled, and obsidian eyes were crazed and dark and on the verge of weeping. He had shaken her until she was as rattled as he, until she cried tears to match those streaming traitorously over his cheeks.

And he had been so frightened. Írissë had not wandered past evening into the long night again, not without him at her side. Because she came to know him better than he would ever know or she would ever admit.

He was afraid of being alone, of being deserted. And was that not precisely what she had done? Thrown all of his love and sweetness and bitterness back in his face as a defiant slap of captive to captor and taken off into the light of day, all because she desired—for what? To see her brother once more? To show her son the glory and prowess of the Noldor, whom her husband despised and slandered? To prove herself to be correct in the end over words spoken with blood and fire in the heart?

What was there here that she even wanted, when in her last hours her hands were empty of that for which she needed and that for which she longed?

Hands that had led her into a world worth living, even though it came with its own cage and its own bars. Hands that had shown her naught but love and devotion, that reached out to her and let her see the shadow hiding beneath a sharp protective exterior to softness underneath.

Hands that had taken away that world just as easily as they had given it. Out of fear and out of hatred.

And while her brother raged and her son cried, Írissë could not bear to hear their voices speak of execution and treachery when it was _her_ who had been treacherous, who had brought Eöl over the brink into madness by running away to spite his authority rather than coaxing and speaking. Perhaps she could not forgive his intention to murder their son, but she understood his fear, how cornered he had been, how betrayed and lost and desperate, and no matter how much fault her brother pushed upon her husband's shoulders, an equal amount lingered upon her own as well.

And the world was fading around her. Lómion's face faded into the background and his sobs into echoes of a dream. And the hand that grasped hers was not _his_.

It was not only the hatred of Eöl that had brought this terrible fate down upon their family, but the selfishness of Írissë. And she didn't think she would ever forgive herself for forcing his hand. Or for rending his heart.

She just wished she had the strength to say...


	117. Strangle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "[The sons of Ulfang] reaped not the reward that Morgoth promised them, for Maglor slew Uldor the accursed, the leader in treason..." from _Of the Fifth Battle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Treachery and betrayal. War. Somewhat graphic violence. Implied sexual slavery and underlying sexual themes. On-screen murder. Maglor is not a warm and fuzzy person in this story. Sequel to Contempt (Chapter 113).
> 
> All Easterling culture is based off head-canon and the little info Tolkien provided.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë

They must have been betrayed.

Chaos abounded, and all about him Makalaurë could scarcely tell the difference between up and down, with only the chilling triplet peaks of Thangorodrim to guide his sense of direction as they towered overhead, above the haze of blood and battle rising as a cloud over the battlefield, choking their voices in their throats. What went wrong, he could not have said, for all had seemingly gone as it should until, from behind, there came the shocked screams and their lines were shattered in rippling waves of fear and uncertainty.

And then out of the endless tide of bodies and dust arose a familiar face. Dark-skinned and bearded was the rather ugly fellow, but Makalaurë did not think he could care less about appearances at the moment, just that Uldor son of Ulfang might know what in the name of Eru was happening at the flank of their force.

His relief was quickly and unceremoniously cut short by a sword swift and cruel.

Because even as he stepped towards the wiry atan, the Easterling had an elf by the braids on the ground, curved blade at an arched white throat. There was a blinding flash off metal, and then blood poured out onto the scalding dust, mixed into a crimson mire as the body went limp and landed, face-down and nameless. The wet sound of suction pulling the limp form down made Makalaurë gag and shudder. The unknown soldier, who had not even known to expect attack from behind, lay motionless, dead.

And the look into those dark eyes sent the elf's heart beating as a hunted doe's, throbbing its way up into his throat like a warning fist pounding on the door of his mind. Because those eyes were looking straight into him with wicked glee.

"What... what are you doing?" he cried, stricken almost to madness when the blade he himself had hand in training came away dripping rubies onto his fallen comrade, soaking into blue fabric and staining golden armor. "What is the meaning of this treachery, Son of Ulfang?"

"Is it not obvious?" was the reply.

And it was.

They were betrayed, and Makalaurë knew by whom.

The dark-skinned atan moved forward, and Makalaurë pranced back to keep equal distance from his newfound foe. Mortal though he might be, this man was not to be underestimated. He had been a warrior long before joining forces with the Eldalië, and he had only become more dangerous—and treacherous—under the tutelage of the stern hands of the Fëanorioni.

The elf's retreat seemed only to amuse his opponent, whose lips were curled into a deadly smile beneath the shaggy black of his beard. "Do you flee before me like a coward, demon?"

"I flee before no one," Makalaurë hissed in response. "But I did not expect such cowardice from _you_ when finally did you face our enemy across the field of battle."

"Cowardice? Is that what you think this is?" And the man laughed, voice deep and rugged, a touch hoarse in the back of his throat with the tang of wild revelry, the enjoyment of rampant murder painting his hands with streams of crimson. He crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, and it was all Makalaurë could do to evade the flash of steel aimed to slice open his belly and spill his innards across their boots. "I fear no one. Certainly not _them_ , and certainly not _you."_

The clashing of blades consumed Makalaurë's ears, invaded his thoughts until reasoning became muddled with the pure survival instinct born of much experience in combat, fighting for his next step, for his next breath. "We had an alliance," he ground out, too focused to feel much of the betrayal he knew would later steal away all breath from his lungs. For he _had_ trusted these men of the east to guard the backs of his kin, the backs of his brothers.

 _"We_ never had any such thing," Uldor told him, still grinning, still silently laughing in a mockery of Makalaurë's confusion. "No man of the tribe of Ulfang ever was on _your side."_

"It was all a lie." That much became obvious. "Whatever Morgoth offered you—land, wealth, power—you will receive none of it, mark my words! The Dark Lord is naught but a thief and a liar, and he will throw you to the dogs as scraps of meat once your use is spent, traitor! You betray us only to be betrayed in return!"

More laughter, loud and carousing, almost frightening. For all his words, Uldor—accursed betrayer—was undaunted. "All of those things he offered my father, and Ulfang took his word like a fool, but I—I desire something of a different nature." And suddenly there was a gleam there, in eyes like murky pools tainted with filth, one that sent shivers down Makalaurë's back, that left every hair standing on end with bone-deep terror.

It was like a man consumed with greed looking upon a feast laid out to satiate his lusts. But it was not upon food which he gazed. Sickened, Makalaurë dropped his guard and tried to retreat again, to leave the proximity of this hideous beast, only to find his arm wounded and his sword slipping from numbed fingers. Only to find the crazed man upon him as a foul breath of wind from the north.

"You understand," the Easterling purred, gripping his hair in a taut fist, lips pressed against his ear. "It was never land or wealth or power that _I_ wanted, but rather a pretty trinket with emeralds for eyes and ebony silk for hair, with alabaster for skin and poison running through blue veins."

Morifinwë. The older brother felt shock rake its claws across his soul. This foul beast wanted _his brother_ as payment for loyalty to Morgoth.

"I'll have him at my feet in chains, that mouthy _bitch_ gagged and bound and naked for my enjoyment. A prettier slave would be hard to find, even back east. Can you imagine how lovely he would be, marked from the whip, laid out on the floor in his place as a dog, but with those eyes hot with fury, even as he bathed my feet with his tongue... or maybe something more turgid and hungry instead."

How could Makalaurë _not_ imagine it? The image came forth unbidden, a nightmare of jewel-encrusted hopelessness and torment. But this human imagined only hatred in green eyes, imagined only the stubbornness and flamboyant facade surviving through the hardship to burn as a flame in the night.

This human knew not Morifinwë, knew not the sweet-hearted, bashful creature hidden in the thicket of scowls and sullen silence and mocking words. Knew not that, of them all, Morifinwë was perhaps the most fragile in spirit, the least confident in his beauty and intelligence and individuality. Knew not that being degraded and raped would destroy the outer shell and reveal something all too soft and vulnerable underneath to be exploited, to be utterly wrecked and rebuilt as a new creature in a wicked form.

It was no vision of defiance that Makalaurë saw before his eyes. And the horrifying image would not leave him—would _never_ leave him.

Nor would the vision of the monster before him, dark eyes boring holes into his heart. But rather than draining hope from the breach in the walls of Makalaurë's endless patience and calm, something else was seeping through the cracks drilled so deep into his core, something molten and searing hot.

Like the blood of the earth was his core, searing and searing until every inch of flesh burned as if laid bare to open flame. Until his empty hands shook so hard he could not have gripped a sword had it been laid in his palm for the taking. Until all the pain that moaned and whined at the back of his mind was gagged and shoved into the shadows where he could not see, could not feel.

Nothing but flame and ash, a black smoke filling the pure emptiness of his soul. Building and building until he could hardly breathe for its taint, for the pressure in his chest.

His eyes were reflected in Uldor's darkness like miniature suns.

"He will be mine, and I will make good use of his body and passion. Maybe being a whore and a slave will drain away some of that arrogance in his blood. In _your_ blood. But we won't need to worry about _your_ blood—it will soak into this field with the rest, lost in supplication to the Dark Lord."

The curved blade stained with the life of his warriors came down towards his throat, but, though Makalaurë would never recall later what happened, it never struck true to its mark.

"Fool," he hissed between clenched teeth, the wrist at the hilt of the blade captured in his hand. And he squeezed until his arm screamed in agony, until Uldor echoed its sentiment and the crack of shattered bone met his ears as harmony to the ringing of a lost blade on bare stone. And oh! the beautiful sound that pulled the second brother to his feet, that resonated with his spirit, that gave him the strength to drag the vermin with him. That gave him the will to pull back his arm and plant his fist into the other man's nose if only to see the spurt of blood on his white, bruised knuckles.

Makalaurë was too far gone to think of caution and recklessness. Too far gone to think of right and wrong and justice. Too far gone to think of anything but seeing those eyes staring dead up into the face of their murderer, their executioner.

For how _dare_ this mortal spit upon _his_ family! How _dare_ he _sully_ one of Makalaurë's brothers in speaking such heinous plans aloud! How _dare_ he think himself _above them_ , this traitor and rapist! This keeper of slaves and the council of darkness!

And with each curse he laid upon the mortal, his fist bore down in another strike. Such fury he felt, that he barely saw before him the sudden change from triumph to terror in black eyes, the sudden struggle to flee from his grasp, crawling through the mud formed of spilled rubies and burning sand. He _could not_ stop, not until this _worm_ had _paid_ for his foolhardy words and actions, for his sickening fantasies.

Paid through Makalaurë's fingers wrapping around his throat, heedless of the scratch of rough whiskers and the clawing of blunt nails digging into flesh. All the elf wanted—all the _brother_ wanted—was to strangle the noxious, sinful, blasphemous soul out of this easily broken outer shell and chase it away into the Void where such filth belonged.

There was the sound of a rattling, airless breath, and satisfaction bloomed hot and thick in his belly, almost as arousal, for he could see the vessels pop in the whites of eyes that looked upon him as a demon stepped bodily from a nightmare. It should have made him ill to the core, this joyous feeling of power spilling through his body. But fear was no replacement for regret or remorse, and this pitiful monster before him had neither. No redeeming light in the shadows. It needed to be exterminated, annihilated and washed from the face of this sweet earth.

Until dark skin tinged blue where once it was fleshy pink. Until the hands that pawed desperately at the vice around a heaving, crushed throat weakened and fell to the red below. Until lashes stopped fluttering as a fleeing bird's wings and the body stopped wriggling as a fish speared clean through.

Until no new breath was drawn, and no heartbeat pounded against Makalaurë's clenched fingers.

And there was no guilt. He was not sorry.

The fire burned all the kindness in the older brother's heart to ash. When he took up his foe's sword and looked upon those men with whom he had once trained and shared drink and laughed in the night, no pity was awakened in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind. For once, no treachery lurked in the shadows, and Makalaurë knew with all his being what was _right_ and what was _wrong_.

Because _no one_ was allowed to lay finger on his brothers. Neither orcs, nor Morgoth, nor the Valar themselves. Not until every ounce of breath and life was faded from Makalaurë's fallen and rotting corpse.

He stood and spat on the accursed traitor. And, seeing his fey, wild eyes, before him the enemy fled. And he pursued on winged feet, the hunted turned the hunter, tracking through the forest his prey without rest and without regret, a predator hungry for just desserts.

And none who caught his eye escaped. There was no mercy this day. Not an ounce to be found. Not a drop. Not even a whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> atan = man (of the race of Men)  
> Eldalië = elves (light elves generally)  
> Fëanorioni = Sons of Fëanor


	118. Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is not completely heartless and inhumane, no matter how much he might pretend to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions the usual murder/death associated with the Kinslayers. Possible insanity. Some fluffiness.
> 
> Vaguely associated with Villain (Chapter 23).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë, Laurë (nickname of sorts)  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Nelyo

The twins had been restless.

But that wasn't an entirely unexpected development. They had been completely uprooted, taken from everything they had ever known—home, life and parents—by wild-eyed, blood-soaked strangers with gleaming swords and dark gazes full of hatred and senility. And though it had been months since the duo's arrival in the household, they were no less leery of the wandering souls that took to these halls than they had been at the beginning of their stay.

Especially Nelyafinwë. Makalaurë understood—truly, he did—for he had feared for his own life at his older brother's hands before. Should he choose, Nelyafinwë could be more terrifying than the visage of Morgoth himself! Certainly, he was not a man to be crossed, not even by his close kin. Yet in the back of Makalaurë's mind there were always the golden memories of hands that could snap necks playing gently through his hair, tucking him cozily into his nest of pillows and sheets each night. Of hugs that encompassed and soothed and warmed even the bitter chill of starlit eyes. It was the dichotomy between the shadow creature that existed now and the wholesome older brother that had doted upon him in the noontide under the light of the Two Trees.

No matter his brother's actions, Makalaurë could never forget being comforted in the dark by a soft voice and warm hands stroking away the tears on his cheeks. That was how Nelyafinwë lived in his memories, the father who tucked him into bed and kissed his brow goodnight.

These two had no such experiences, no such memories, to attach to the red-headed Fëanárion. They saw the towering demon with flame-hair and cold, distant eyes—naught else. And they took to avoiding Nelyafinwë at every turn, staying well out of the other Fëanárion's way, skirting around the possibility of a vicious temper or spontaneous violence.

They came to Makalaurë instead.

"We cannot sleep" was often their primary complaint. Nightmares, the second brother was all too familiar with. And the second brother would get out of his own bed and take them back to their chambers. Would tuck them in nice and snug and kiss their brows. Because he desired nothing but to help, but to leave behind the sins of the past and begin anew. To become something better, something that the Nelyafinwë he recalled in his dreams would be proud to call brother and son.

And so, tonight as many nights before—as many nights before Nelyo had done for _him_ —he bundled the little ones into their cocoon of covers and sheets, stroking his fingers through downy locks and over soft, chubby cheeks. So young and so sweet. So innocent and untouched by darkness.

And he sang.

Lullabies he remembered from childhood, from his mother in his sweetest, faded reckonings, and from his brother's off-key voice before bedtime until the end of childhood. The words were as second nature to him, the musician, and their themes were well-woven into the story of the rise and the fall, more so now than ever before, a lighter chapter to combat the horror and tragedy that had overgrown and choked out any happiness he could recall.

Soft and sweet melodies rising away towards the stars. Makalaurë closed his eyes and let them carry him away from this hellish reality, away from desolation.

At least, until he felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder jolting him back to bitter tangibility. His voice cut short in his throat, squeezed into silence as he looked up and up into eyes at once familiar but all the same those of a stranger. Eyes that he could recall glittering with needy thirst for blood, with a lust for vengeance and vindication that made him shudder in fright and despair.

On the bed, the twins were fast asleep, their eyelashes resting on soft cheeks, lost in the gardens of Lórien, far away from death and blood. Unaware of the monster lurking in their midst.

But Makalaurë could see that those darkened eyes were soft now. Soft and calm as still waters, gleaming oddly in the night. Reflecting starlight as the newcomer knelt beside him and red curls spilled over his lap. Against his hip, the older brother rested his temple and released a gusty sigh. "Do not stop, Laurë. Please."

 _Please, sing me a lullaby_. How often he had once begged his older brother, even knowing Nelyafinwë's voice—low and running over him as a soothing breeze—oft missed notes and wavered tremulously in the dusk.

It had once brought him such comfort. And who had there been to give that same gift to his fatherless older brother?

Relief pounded in his chest, relief that something inside the shadow of Nelyafinwë still desired—still _needed_ —soothing. Still required a gentle touch and remembrance of sweet and familiar words lost deep in the past. Still had that spark of unique familiarity and tenderness.

And though none had ever done as such before for his brother, Makalaurë greatly wished to be that catharsis the other needed, to push away the nightmares he _knew_ sent Nelyafinwë screaming hoarsely with terror into the early morning. No, the twins were not the only ones within their broken household to suffer in sleep and dreams, nor who needed his voice to exorcise inner demons.

"All right," he whispered.

Makalaurë tangled his fingers into the sea of curls, combing through waves and waves of softness as they parted. And he continued to sing, ignoring the trembling form pressed against his body, the hot liquid soaking through his tunic to skin underneath. Looked away from the quivering pressure and tension seeping out of open, invisible wounds until the shaking shoulders ceased and there was restful breathing in tandem with song.

And he kept singing. Because Makalaurë knew he wasn't the only one who wanted to fly away, who wished for days long past and green, days before blood stained permanently unclean hands and innocence was lost in a black wind of treachery.

Days without the necessity of pride and strength and ruthlessness on the field of battle. Just comfort and simple pleasures. Just the soft stroke of familiar caresses and the lull of age-old words rocking them into sweet dreams of a hopeful tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = son of Fëanáro


	119. Untouchable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prince of Belfalas falls in love with a silent, beautiful elf maiden lost in the wilds of his fiefdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat sappy and cliche. This one is actually a branch off the Unfinished Tales, not the Silmarillion. I blame _Elf Academy_ by Fiondil on the Silmarillion Guild. If it weren't for that story, I wouldn't even have paid attention to these two.

She stood ever still. Statuesque and silent. Always, she stared off towards the mountains with great distance and pain in her ocean-deep blue eyes. Never had he seen her move a muscle nor glance asunder in the trance which captured and held her immobile and pale. Never did she even turn to gaze in his direction, though she must have known of his presence at her back.

Often enough, Imrazôr sat just as silent and just as still, watching her as she held her unspoken vigil with the wind whipping through her loose silvered hair, catching and clawing at her thin gray garb. He could not help but watch, for she enchanted him beyond reason without a droplet of effort.

Glorious in face and form was she. Her beauty left him breathless in awe. No woman had he ever laid eyes upon who could match this phantom for the softness of her skin or the perfection of her visage. Had he not known better, he would have called her an angel in the flesh, fallen to the dilapidated earth. But it was not only that which captivated the mortal in body and mind.

It was her sorrow.

So potent it seemed to wash against him in waves, great breaths of the sea sighing over his soul. He dared not try to catch and hold her gaze—for fear that it would consume him, pull him under and drown him. Yet all the same she was suffering and he could not bring himself to turn away from her need.

"Come with me. Let me help," he would say, would reach out a hand and wait for her to move, to touch his rough warrior's palm with her smooth white hand. So that he might lead her away from the hazy White Mountains lingering in the distance and the ferocious screams of the sea at her back. So that he might teach her to smile again and forget the long years of darkness behind her, lost in the tangled labyrinth of the wilds.

But she would not allow him close.

Would not take his hand. Would not turn away from the wide open land beneath her eyes. To others the view might appear glorious, but Imrazôr came to think of it as an open wound, stretched wide and festering at the edges, refusing to heal and allow his angel to rest.

Days turned into weeks. And then into months. He brought her food and drink but never saw her eat her fill or quench her thirst. Left her blankets which never moved from where they lay folded and cold on the ground. Whither or whether she slept, he could not have said, for even in the night she stayed still and quiet on her weathered cliff, eyes fixated on far distant peaks even when the darkness laid a blanket over all the land and they could no longer be seen from afar.

And in the darkness she would hang as a star—just as cold and just as untouchable. Distant beyond reach of his grasping hands. Shining down on his mortal form and filling it with longing.

What he would not have done for her! He would have followed Eärendil the ancestor and built Vingalótë a thousand and ten times over again were it enough to ferry him to her lofty height and allow him to brush against her brilliance. Would have followed Elros Tar-Minyatar and built an empire remembered for ten thousand years—would have gifted it unto her hands without hesitation or question if it would only make her eyes rest upon him with fondness.

And even after five years had passed and she still moved naught, he did not give up the hope like moonshine raining down on his heart.

Stubbornness and determination were written in his red blood, in the marrow of his bones. It was this woman Imrazôr loved more than any other—more and more and more each passing day he stood beneath her shine and her sorrow and wistfully awaited the moment when he heard her voice speak his name for the first time, accepting his copious offers of a home and a family—of a husband to lay by her side and hold her steady against the ravages of whatever past left her so sad and so still.

Awaited the moment when his climbing and striving and praying finally delivered him into the vicinity of her otherworldly glory and he managed to touch the cold adamantine of her heart, managed to embrace it in his fingers and warm it with the heat of his palms.

Awaited and awaited. Awaited until the day when he mustered the courage to lay a diffident hand upon the graceful curve of her back in silent comfort. Until the day he reached out and grasped her slender fingers where they lay limply at her side and squeezed the chill out of pale flesh trembling ever so softly.

Until her soft eyelashes fluttered and her midnight eyes finally blinked, finally closed and opened again, and _moved away_ from the far distant peaks that offered none of the comfort he presented before her so graciously.

Until they rested on his face and his heart burst with untold joy, because they were neither angry nor distant, but awash with the shattered gleam of tears left un-fallen veiling shadowed affection. Tears that overwhelmed the icy defenses of this star in bodily form and spilled down her cheeks, hot droplets splashing against his flesh.

Her arms were around his neck, and against his shoulder she wept in soft little gasps.

And the feel of her in his arms left him floating, walking amongst the towering clouds even as he crooned and hushed her quiet, airy cries. Her brilliance may as well have blinded him to all else and burned brands of devotion into his skin, for he could not so much as glance away.

By the Valar, he loved her so. And to touch her untouchable, broken beauty was a miracle in of itself. To see the hesitant little smile overwhelm lips that had not so much as parted since the day he first beheld her left him reeling.

"Master Imrazôr..." His name from her melodious voice was as the most heavenly, divine music. But it was so quiet and quavering, nearly inaudible, and her body trembled against him as a slender tree in a strong wind, collapsed into his hold as she was uprooted. It was all he could do to lift her lest she topple to the ground. And against him she curled, light as a feather.

"Shall I take you home?" he asked, hoarse as he looked down into her face. Even the red rims of her eyes did not diminish her beauty, not by an ounce.

And the bloom of a grateful smile curving up the corners of soft lips made his heart stutter. Her head was laid against his shoulder, a hand sliding over his nape and through his dark curls. "That would please me," she told him, whispered against his skin.

And just as gratefully, he carried her away from the wide open scar of the land towards his white pearl of a city waiting below. Carried her down from her fixture in the heavens amongst the far distant stars in their black and empty space, down to the marred earth to shine her beauty upon his meager mortal world.

"Thank you," she added in the surrounding dusk. And he held his breath. For she was real.

His angel. His star. Reached. Touched. Fallen. For this singular moment in the recesses of time.


	120. Whispered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treachery has come to Nargothrond. But all is not as Orodreth believes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connected to Dust (Chapter 93) and Snore (Chapter 51) in a few ways. Poor Orodreth has no idea what's going on.
> 
> Betrayal. Back-stabbing. People keeping secrets from each other, as usual.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Turko  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

They were everywhere.

Behind fluttering curtains. Behind closed doors. In every dark corner. But nonetheless, Artaresto heard them loud as thunder, as clear as the midday sun cast upon the earth. Treachery at its finest and most insidious, close enough to touch his ears but far enough to remain hidden from his sight.

_"—will bring ruin upon our heads—"_

_"—is it not disturbing?"_

_"—would put a man above his own kin—"_

_"Did you hear that—?"_

By the Valar, Artaresto was sick of it. Everywhere he turned, he could see the dark tendrils taking root in the minds and hearts of the faithful servants of Nargothrond, despoiling their purity and loyalty with lies crafted in darkness and coated in poison. Poison slowly eating away at his brother's hold on the crown.

_"I heard that he took that young man and—"_

_"—giving that dirty, filthy _atan_ special favors—"_

_"—swore she saw them go into his bedchambers—"_

_"—is going to just run off and—!"_

And it made him _sick._

But worse still, he knew the culprits. Knew without a doubt from which blackened lips these tales of sexual depravity and moral ambiguity had originated, for no men had more silvered or pointed tongues to wag than the dispossessed brothers.

_I told him not to let them make themselves home in our halls._

He had _warned_ Artafindë, had for once fearlessly told his brother exactly what doubts and shadows crisscrossed in the back of his mind. Warned him of the tainted, slimy feeling that surrounded what had once been his ill-tempered half-cousins who no longer felt as kin and close blood. Warned and begged and _pleaded_ for Artafindë to _turn them away._

But the words of a wary healer could not sway the kindness of their king.

_And now look what has happened!_

He was going to speak to his brother, and he was going to pound sense into that too-sweet, too-thick head, was going to halt this nonsense in its tracks before it had the chance to bloom any further into a massive disast—

"And where are you going in such a hurry, dear cousin?"

There was hot breath on the back of his neck, and Artaresto shivered all the way down to his toes in primal, concentrated terror, in weakness so great he nearly toppled. But just for a moment.

A moment was all it took with Turkafinwë, though.

When he turned, knowing silver eyes were boring into him, stabbing shards of glass through his flesh and pinning him in place as a rabbit frozen beneath the gaze of a bird of prey. Always, Turkafinwë had unsettled him, but now it was far past discomfiting, was downright frightening. The look those eyes gave him, writhing up and down his body, filled his belly with boiling, bubbling dread.

"I— I think that is none of your concern, Turkafinwë," he rasped out.

"None of my concern," the silver-haired son of Fëanáro purred, leaning towards him, sliding forward and forcing Artaresto into retreat until carved stone met his back. Hands dug into rock on either side of him, caging him within. Too close. Too vulnerable.

They were but inches apart. Inside those eyes, Artaresto saw his wide-eyed visage reflected back. "Do you intend to speak with Artafindë, little mouse?"

"If I did, it would still be none of your concern." But despite the—perhaps foolishly—brave words, Artaresto's belly quivered. On either side of his head, nails scraped over rock. And in those eyes, something mad and fey was burning behind a wall of icy amusement. Something that resembled more a wild beast than a sentient man.

For a moment, Artaresto could not breathe or think. For a moment, he feared utterly that Turkafinwë would kill him where he stood—or worse.

But then the moment was gone.

"Release my brother, Turko. I have want to speak with him."

Artafindë. _Thank the Valar!_

And he was released. Turkafinwë pushed away from the wall as he was bid and stalked away into the shadowed corridor. There was between he and the king naught but a momentary, testing glance. Harsh blades clashing silently, filled with whispered secrets to which Artaresto was not privy. But it drove the Fëanárion back as a dam holds back a river.

Only when Turkafinwë was gone did he dare speak.

"You know what they are saying about you."

Artafindë gave him a look, nonplused and almost disinterested. "Of course I do, little brother. I would be a fool not to notice how Beren's arrival has stirred up the political stew."

The younger brother bit his lip. Now was the moment to act. To spit back on the filth-covered names of those who dared slander his king. In his belly, satisfaction at his half-cousins' defeat was just _waiting_ to unfurl. "Why do you allow them such free rein, those sons of Fëanáro? They whisper and hiss sibilant lies behind your back, slander your honor and your propriety. And yet you sit in your chambers conferring with that _atan_ and do nothing to cease the spread of this _disease of weak-minded fools!"_

"Let them say what they will." A stone cold look was directed his way. One that warned him to discontinue his argument, to call a surrender and bow to his brother's—his _king's_ —wishes. But how could he when a knife could be plunged into Artafindë's back any moment? And how could his brother care so little for his own safety and reputation, for the reassurance that he would not be usurped from his own throne by the kinslaying traitors?

_Was that all Artafindë had to say? No fight for what rightfully belongs to him? Just surrender?_

"I know you and Turkafinwë were once friends, brother. I understand that much. But he has changed much, and to allow him to do as he has done to your good name—"

But before he could finish, Artafindë snapped, snarled out words with bared teeth and wild eyes. "You understand _nothing."_

Silence lingered heavy between them. A chill ran down Artaresto's back, for the look in those blue eyes was too uncontrollably resplendent, too undeniably reminiscent of other brilliant gazes filled with unorganized, illogical craziness bent on ripping their world apart. It was too like looking into the eyes of a man Artaresto feared would ravage and break him out of vindication and wrath.

Too much like Turkafinwë. Too much like Fëanáro.

But then the fey light vanished, and in its place was that ever-present calm. The endless patience pretending that it was not as a shattered mirror glued back together, pretending it was not riddled with cracks. "There is much underneath this situation you do not know or understand, little brother. Please, for your own sake—and safety—do not interfere."

"This is about those glowing rocks," he gasped out. "Is that not what it is that drives them mad with lust and thirst for spilled blood?"

But Artafindë shook his head. "Have you ever known Turkafinwë to care for gems of great wealth or beauty, or for his father's approval and pride?"

And when he looked into his brother's eyes, he saw those secrets. Secrets that whispered at the surface of his mind, but which were just beyond his hearing and sight, just out of reach of understanding. If there truly _was_ something more sinister bringing hatred and darkness to the hallowed halls of Nargothrond than Artaresto knew or suspected, Artafindë would not speak to him of ulterior motives and the twisted avenues of Turkafinwë's mind, not aloud. Not a word.

"All I wish to say to you, Artaresto, is that you should stay well out of their way and ignore their words. Let me handle this delicate situation."

Yet beneath those words were a lie and a plea. More.

He bowed his head. "If that is as my king wishes."

Much more. Those secrets whispered not only beyond fluttering curtains and closed doors, but in maddened silver eyes and equally dark blue. In his cousin's twisted mind. In his king's unknown heart.

He did not speak to Artafindë again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = son of Fëanáro


	121. Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandos can hear and see the fates lain out before him, but it is too late to change words and actions in the past. Even for the Valar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not at all a happy story. It's actually a rather strange, experimental _thing_. I need to write the Valar more. Anyway, connected up with a dozen or so other chapters of this work, so I'm not going to list them all. The characters may be evident, but they are according to my head-canon/story-canon and none of them are explicitly named.
> 
> References made to most of the Valar.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Elbereth = Varda  
> Melkor = Morgoth

Thousands of voices overlapped, weaving through the fabric of time into a tapestry, warm and heavy across the walls of his mind. But he heard all of them—every single insignificant syllable—felt as their minds brushed across his through space, a million butterfly wings made of whispered words in the dark.

And wished there was something he could do. To help.

 _"Please, keep my son safe. Let no war or terror befall him. Let this time of darkness pass over his head as a summer storm..."_ Of a child held in his mother's arms, rocked to sleep to the drumroll of thunder. _"Let his namesake prove false..."_

To protect an elfling whose death loomed on the horizon as a phantom of a night-terror. A strike of mace and a flash of light—a brilliant star—and a body falling to ashes after a lifetime of watching friends and family die and die and die...

And wondered if the others felt these words as lightning strikes. Wondered if they, too, wished there was something they could do to cease the suffering. Or if they felt justified.

 _"Please, make it end. Please, I do not want to kill anymore. I do not want to fight anymore. I just want to lie down and rest."_ Between sobs and hands shaken with primal terror and horror and grief. _"Please, I am sorry... So sorry..."_

Was it justification? Watching this soul cursed from the moment of birth, shy and wary and broken, plead for some way to end the terrible deeds an oath bound him to commit. Watching more and more of the innocent spirit crumble as hope faded, took away the last bit of heart and empathy worth preserving...

If the heavenly brethren felt _satisfied_ , hearing a million broken cries to fulfill the prophecy spoken from hasty lips. If in his hallowed halls of sapphire and airy finery, Manwë heard also these same entreaties and turned his back to the black shadow overtaking the lands to the east. Because it was punishment.

 _"Spare them the curse of sundering and death. Of separation by fate. Let their histories be better writ than those before them who shared a womb."_ In the dark, in the night, in the wake of sleeplessness and unbidden comfort. _"Would you even hear the pleas of a kinslayer?"_

Punishment to make the childless father watch the two fragile souls ripped asunder. Punishment, that one day the faithless whisperer might look up and see twins separated by mortality and tragedy, over and over and over, and feel heavily the weight of guilt.

If the others, too, heard all those souls crying out every night, pleading brokenly for help that could not be given through coldness of heart. That could not be sued for on pain of death.

 _"Please, Oromë, if any love you had for me in golden years long past, watch over them. Spare them."_ Blood spilling from pale lips and tears boiling from heartless eyes. A hand reaching for empty air. _"I did not mean for things to end this way... Just keep..."_

Not even for two children stripped of their home and left in the wilds to die. Not even when, without guiding hand, they would make their end in the far east, broken in mind and spirit, naught more than slaves without thought and without will, without even the ability to speak. Not even for innocents who had spilled no blood but carried sin in their own veins.

Not even that could move Manwë's frozen heart and empty stubbornness.

 _"Let her stay. Please, if you are there, if you are listening to the words of one who rejected your light, take her not from my sight or my arms."_ Fingers tracing over pale, soft skin in the twilight. _"For all the treachery of her kin, she is all I have left... and I do not want to be alone..."_

Could anything move the hearts of those who could not _see?_

See the woman torn between her home and her love and her son and her pride. Torn between two cages, one of gold and adamant, the other of iron and shadow. Lost. And her protectors and jailers each standing against the other. Each willing to die to keep her secure. But only one would win in the end, and cast the other down to the rocks below...

 _"Bring her back safe. Give me a sign. Anything to tell of her fate."_ Worried beyond rest and beyond pride, staring up at the rain pouring from the gray sky. _"Please, bring my baby sister home. I would never forgive myself if..."_

Feel the horror of ultimate betrayal. Betrayal of soul-deep love and devotion.

 _"Give me the strength to do what I must, to betray one whom I love."_ Shaken down to the foundations, ripping at the seams and crumbling to pieces. _"Let me resist temptation for just a little longer yet. Resist the comfort of lavender scent and the blaze of fire-eyes..."_

Or feel the terror of kin for kin. Of blood for blood.

 _"Keep them safe. Valar, move their blades swiftly and accurately. Give them the strength of twenty in defense of their brothers."_ The night before the battle. A father looking upon his sleeping sons. _"They have done nothing to deserve an unkind fate..."_

Even cursed blood. Even dispossessed blood. Even blood split by harsh words and screams in the night. By conflicting ideals and broken dreams and shattered idols. By flames eating away shredded bonds and fragile loyalty, reflecting off the water and up towards the stars. Reflecting in eyes lit with all the vehemence and passion of a vala. For better or for worse, sundered.

 _"Please give him rest and carry him back to his mother's arms."_ They all thought him the most heartless, the coldest and craziest. _"Many things for which I would neither ask nor desire forgiveness, but Valar forgive me for what I have done to my child..."_

And he wondered if any of his siblings laid awake, ceaselessly wandering their domains. If his sister wept bitter tears as she lamented their cruel, harsh fates. If his brother swept those lost souls into his arms and tried his best to soothe away acrid dreams rotting with the decay of reality.

 _"I know this is not him. Not my best friend. But he does what he does out of love and out of fear."_ Honor and bravery beyond measure—kindness and understanding without price. _"Have mercy on him, despite his traitorous actions. His heart is heavy with sorrow..."_

If the rain as it spilled upon the marred earth whispered a melody of healing and helped hide the tears of the prideful. Or if, perhaps, there was no healing to be found for the spirits of the unrequited. If their journeys were forever in vain. If they would be lead down a path of bloodshed, jealousy and vindication to a joyless and empty end. Bitter.

 _"I care not if I die here; let it not be in vain. Let my foolishness be only the downfall of my kingdom."_ Blade lowered, eyes closed, ready to stop shedding blood. _"Let my sacrifice have been enough for my daughter to escape capture..."_

If the earth cried and screamed and rumbled with horror at the stampede of a million enslaved feet bare to rock, marching slowly to death and mutilation with no chance and no hope of salvation from deities who looked the other direction. If the trees felt the heat of spilled blood as spears imbedded in their flesh, carrying the lifeless bodies of those who looked up at the sky and pleaded and pleaded but in the end heard no answer and received no quarter.

If the stars overhead spoke to their mistress of those who whispered her name.

 _"Ai Elbereth, strike me down! Let me not live to see another dawn!"_ Blood spilled over white skin, lifeless to the touch. Ravaged and destroyed. _"Please, please, I cannot bear to look anymore. To_ remember _anymore. What have I done? What have I_ done?"

If her sight was tainted by all those images recorded in the cold eyes of the painted lights, memories written in faith and despair. Of young beauty brought low, defiled and left to rot. Of those who lost more than their lives in the wake of destiny. Of spirits whose will to continue—bright as a star of her own make—suddenly began to wither away beneath depression or beneath torture or beneath the crushing will of darkness to suffocate all light.

 _"See them away gently and in peace. I do not regret, but if you never forgive me for all the horrible things I have done, at least grant me this much."_ Cradling a ragged, limp body in thin arms. Dead eyes staring upwards. _"For their sacrifice, grant them freedom from dark fate..."_

If her heart was stung by lovers who would never come together in bliss. If she, the Queen of the Valar, even cared for those insignificant little lights looking upon her glory. If she would look upon them and wish she had directed them away from the long, toxic years of separation and yearning, from the short and fiery end.

_"Please, let him—"_

_"Let her—"_

_"—find someone else—"_

_"—a farmer or a warrior. A good man—"_

_"—a beautiful elf maiden to live out all the long years—"_

_"—and a good father for a dozen children—"_

_"—so he won't be alone."_

_"—so she will be happy without me."_

Because _he_ cared. Cared more than he would like to admit. Felt their pain as if it were the pain of his own heart. And regretted. Regretted everything. Every. Word.

 _"Please, Mandos, take me now. I am ready and willing. Remove me from this mortal shell of pain."_ So much pain. Endlessly, on and on. And insidious whispers in his ears. _"Please, I don't know how much longer... How much longer I can..."_

Regretted that he was unable to answer. Knowing that that spirit, little more than a child, would break apart and give in to whispered promises and temptations. That would never come to fruition. That would prove nothing but lies. That would lead to the fall of a city and the destruction of a young heart that only wanted love, that had done no great wrong.

 _"Please, if there is any mercy in the world, if I cannot reach him, let him at least be dead. Please, do not make him suffer."_ Even after betrayal of friend to friend and kin to kin. _"And if he cannot be saved, let me grant him a fast death."_

Regretted that no such mercy could be offered. Regretted that a good spirit was tortured into a misshapen form, handless and childless and emotionless, molded into someone—some _thing_ —terrible and twisted. Regretted...

 _"I care not for what he has done. I care not for the hurts he has inflicted upon myself, upon my home and upon my people."_ Looking out at the sea, longing to reach across great distance but trapped on pearlescent, unforgiving sands. _"Just, please, keep him safe despite..."_

Regretted that she would receive her query in pieces, broken in body and mind. And receive shards of her dreams. And receive a shadow of memories.

 _"Let my daughter pull through. Please, do not put the sins of the mother upon her child. Do not take her away from me."_ The only child she would ever have. The only light in the world of death. _"She is much beloved, much needed, my sweet princess..."_

Regretted that there was no forgiveness. That there would be separation. That even thousands of years after the exiles were cursed away from their home, still it brought forth the payment in shed tears. Unnumbered tears.

 _"Please, keep them safe. My children (my siblings). My sons (my brothers) and my daughter (my sister). My people (my father's loyal servants)."_ A king looking over a blackened, barren land. But hoping for the best. _"Do not let me fail them. Not again."_

Regretted that there was no compassion. That families would be ripped apart without hesitation. By both sides. For thousands of multi-faceted reasons, backed by motivations veiled in a hundred diaphanous curtains of deceit. Too many to see through. Too many to unravel. And that in the end—

_"Bring him back—"_

_"Bring her back—"_

Sons. Daughters. Husbands. Wives. Mothers. Fathers. Brothers. Sisters. Who would never be coming home.

_"Please..."_

There would be no mercy either.

But mostly, he regretted that it need come to this—a million voices whispering prayers that would go forever unanswered—for him to finally understand the folly of his own actions. To understand the true extent of his own powers. And the true depth of the separation between guardian and child in this asymmetrical world laced with Melkor's theme. The true danger of flaunting one's knowledge in a reality where every scrap was worth its weight in diamonds.

And he wept alone. Because they were supposed to be guardians. They were supposed to protect and defend against the darkness and preserve the innocence and purity of the Flame Imperishable in every spirit. Yet, he had never felt more powerless or useless, more guilty or tainted. It was not _Melkor_ who rained down vengeful wrath upon his charges, but he himself. With selfish, hasty words.

_The Dispossessed for ever._

He wept and whispered his own prayer to the unseen powers beyond the edges of the earth. That, perhaps, the Children might be yet forgiven, might yet be saved.

And, unknowingly, he did not weep alone.


	122. Obvious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm is in love. Lúthien is not. At least, not with him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dysfunctional relationships and premarital sex. Slightly more than slight defection from canon. Connected most closely with Snore (Chapter 51) and Collide (Chapter 31).

Never before had she known such pain existed. Such agony. Such _torment._

Torment unmeasured that drove her to her knees without drawing blood or tearing muscle. Inside her chest, it was as if a clawed hand squeezed around her heart and then twisted mercilessly until she choked on wordless sobs of fright and despair. That so few words, such painfully reasonable logic, could bring her so low...

_A hand gripping harsh about her arm. Holding her back against a broad chest. Fighting against her feeble struggles. Keeping her prisoner as surely as her father had done._

_"There is no hope for your mortal now. Beren is beyond your help, or ours."_

_Yet she clawed at the fingers and shoved at the arms pinning her in place. Refused to listen to words of condemnation toward her beloved. She needed to escape. Time seeped slowly away around her, and she needed..._

_"Please, I have to go! He needs me!"_

_But her captor would not budge. And in her ears, his voice was more incisive than a blade, cutting deep through her mind._

_"You will only get yourself killed. By the time you reach him, he will be long dead, for the Lieutenant of Angband has little interest in mortal children, and less even in keeping alive one who plans to rob the crown of the Dark Lord his master."_

And she was held fast until her body gave out in exhaustion. Until she was left to weep in the grass on the edge of camp. Even were there a chance of her escaping and fleeing from the brothers—silver-haired Celegorm and his shadow Curufin—there was naught she could do to help her beloved now, but pray that he had long been beyond the edges of the world and his earthly torments at cruel, wicked hands were over and done.

But why? Why did it have to end _like this?_

"I wish that you would cease to cry, my lady."

Startled, red-rimmed about the eyes and blotchy in the face, she wiped at her nose and cheeks with a sleeve and looked upwards into eyes as liquid mithril in the moonlight. Celegorm's voice was no longer harsh, no longer as adamantine as the metal for which she named his gaze, but very soft, cool dew on the grass in the twilight.

And those eyes looked at her as though she had fallen from the Timeless Halls. As though she were something amazing to behold, something immeasurably divine to be worshipped and coveted. To be loved unconditionally. Looked at her the way Beren oft did when they sat together in the forest, hidden away from sight to enjoy each other's company.

Just remembering brown eyes filled with that same soulful longing and adoration made her ache three times worse. It burned down into her, left her hiccupping with grief. Left her with a tide of loneliness enough to rend her apart into jagged pieces, for she would never hold her love in her arms again until the End of All Things. Would never comb her fingers through his dark curls. Would never kiss him in the dark and pledge her undying love unto his ears. Would never hear her sentiments echoed fervently in return against her soft lips.

She was so _alone_. And so _cold._

"H-how can I not weep," she asked hoarsely, "when the man I love will die in the dark, as alone and hopeless as I? When I sit here and do nothing? _When I can do nothing to help him?"_

Rough fingers touched at her cheeks, dabbing away her tears. He was trying, this beautiful creature of light, to comfort her in her moment of greatest need. Because he loved her as plain as day, was enraptured by her beauty. And so easily offered were the warmth of his strong arms and the pillow of his powerful shoulder and the strong beat of his thundering heart beneath her ear.

And she just...

"You are not alone," he whispered, lifting her chin, meeting her eyes. And he would not have looked away to save his own life in that moment; she had seen before this glazed look of enchantment as her father gazed upon her mother. "Please, cry not."

He could not have been more obvious with his affections. Or more oblivious to her intentions.

But she did not care as she pulled herself against him and closed her eyes, breathed in the male musk of his skin and pretended it was not Celegorm, Prince of the Golodhrim, who held her fast and safe as her tears spilled in mourning for lost love. Pretended instead that it was her Beren, her rugged and handsome mortal prince. Pretended that her lover had never been discovered, had never agreed to her father's mad bride-price, had never been forced to risk his life so that they might share love that was _destined to be._

And, for his part, Celegorm crooned softly to her in the night and rocked her against him, holding her so gently—like a glass sculpture he was afraid he might break if he applied too much pressure, if he touched her skin with more than the flutter of a butterfly's breakable wings. It was nice, this way of being touched. This tenderness innately part of the graceful golodh that she had never beheld in Beren, rough and uncouth as he had been. The stroke of a hand over her spine, plucking at every bump, sent her to helpless shivers. And the feeling of fingers threading in her hair and combing tangles away with soft tugs nearly brought her to moaning.

And she should not have closed her eyes and pictured Beren doing these things in Celegorm's stead. Should not have stifled her tears in a soft tunic and felt heat bloom in her untried body with forbidden, intangible fantasies. Should not have _wanted_ , because it was wrong. Beren was dead, or soon to be dead. He was not coming back. And he was not _here._

It was betrayal in the worst way. But she was so, _so lonely_. So, so lost. If only she could feel _his_ touch for just a few _moments_ , perhaps she would be able to spend the rest of her long life without him at her side, and without weeping ceaselessly for his loss.

If she and _Beren_ could have this night together...

Her mouth rose from where breaths fluttered over his leaping pulse, and instead found their way to his jaw, to his cheeks, tracing kisses over flesh that should have been whiskered but was smooth against her petal lips. She moved then, hands on shoulders and thighs loose around hips, slender form wrapped around lithe muscle. Lips against lips in a chaste embrace.

"M-my lady? Lúthien?"

"Shhh..." And again. And if the taste was all wrong, she barely remembered to notice. Instead, there was the slide of heat flowing beneath her skin. The comfort of closeness and intimacy. Of _Beren_ embracing her in his powerful arms, a hand sliding down the curve of her waist and tugging the hem of her gown. Fingers curling at her nape and tilting her head so their mouths might clash in a fury of passion. Again and again through deep rumbling moans and flighty sighs of pleasure.

Her eyes flickered open as their flurry of kisses broke, as a hot mouth moved instead to her throat to lave attention into her creamy skin. And in the hazy darkness she saw other eyes, just as brilliant and molten, but as steel and filled with knowing disgust. Resting on her with accusation.

Curufin was standing in the shadows, watching them together. Blinking his eyes slowly. Meeting her gaze. Seeing right through her as though she were a pane of glass displaying her thoughts beneath, open and visible. Transparent.

Letting her know it was not _only_ Celegorm whose intentions were obvious.

But then she was pulled under again, gripping waves of moonlight-turned-hair, moaning beneath the hot tug of his mouth on her arched neck, beneath his warm fingers curling against her thighs and stroking upwards. And she forgot all about the shadow in the night, black eyes filled with hatred and ash. She forgot all about everything except ecstasy. Except _Beren._

And when she looked again, the shadow was gone. And the hair in her hands was dark as night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Golodhrim = Noldor  
> golodh = Noldorin elf


	123. Rhythm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel had to get inspiration and her free-spirited rebelliousness from _somewhere._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feminism and references to sexism. Assumptions about Noldorin culture. Spontaneous illegitimate children. None of the characters mentioned are OCs, even the random illegitimate children. Lalwendë is a character that has next to _no_ character development, so she's built from the ground up and this is my first time writing her. Based off a picture I found on deviantart.
> 
> Also, no intentional mother-bashing. As a daughter who got along perfectly well with her mother as a teen (and still does), I can tell you that even the best parent-child relationships do not come without snags.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë

Out of all the feminine influences in her life, Írissë loved her Aunt Lalwendë the best. The woman was like a breath of fresh air after a long imprisonment in a dank, gilded cell.

Not to say, of course, that she resented her other aunts. Aunt Nerdanel was fiery and no-nonsense, a true match for her hot-blooded husband, but also too busy wrangling her seven equally hot-blooded children to spend time with her own niece. Aunt Findis had good intentions at heart, but was too haughty, too concerned with rules and etiquette and propriety—things about which Írissë could not care less, which made her want to cut her hair and pretend she had been born a boy. And Aunt Eärwen was nice and sweet, but the last thing the only granddaughter of Finwë wanted to spend her afternoons learning was the undeniably useless and mind-numbing art of _ribbon embroidery._

Aunt Lalwendë was different.

She had the same beauty that ran through their line like a fork of black gold—a dark, rich beauty that turned heads wherever she went, that captured breaths and hearts with the ease of a candle enrapturing a moth—and the same natural poise and charisma that could raise up armies and smite them to dust. She was, after all, the daughter of the High King, and clearly knew her place in the world. She was Princess Lalwendë, and neither Manwë nor Varda nor Ilúvatar himself could stand in her path if her anger chose to rain down its malice and scorn upon your head.

But there was something else there beneath the outer layer of cheery-blossom sweetness and classic Noldorin fury, something that put her above and beyond a simple-minded and pretty maiden. Some deep glimmer in her eyes, a cutting edge at the corner of her smiles.

The first thing Írissë learned about her aunt was that Lalwendë took no shit from anyone. Whether or not they possessed male anatomy. Seeing Nolofinwë himself laid to waste at his own societal game of pride and intellect and veiled insults was heavenly, for her aunt's sharpened spear of a tongue ripped him apart from throat to groin and roasted him alive on a spit over a metaphorical campfire. And the rest of them laid back and toasted their marshmallows, enjoying the show.

And Aunt Lalwendë was unmarried—an anomaly of anti-marital bliss rising as a glowing flag of rebellion into the sky of conformity. She went where she wanted and did what she pleased, and no husband hung around peering over her shoulder, enquiring about knitting and asking demeaning questions about "Why would a woman need to read a book on weaponry?" or "Why would a woman want to learn how to ride a horse and shoot a bow?"

(By the Valar, Írissë was terrified by the thought of a pig-headed, sexist noble for a husband!)

But, best of all, she would take Írissë under her wing for months at a time, just the two of them living alone on the outskirts of the big city in a quaint little cottage. Then, Lalwendë did not even bother to don a full outfit, instead wearing a pair of britches and laced up boots, mismatched with a thin blouse and corset. Her hair would be braided simply down her back without the frilly feathers and gems favored by the ladies of the high court, without necklaces of precious metals and layer upon layer of thick rouge to redden her pale cheeks.

And she would dress her niece just the same. Would give her a pair of black britches to wear beneath whatever amount of white clothing she wanted. No _"but pink would suit you much better, foolish niece"_ or _"that color washes out your complexion, my dear"_ like the comments Írissë received oft enough from her aunt or her mother.

They would go out into the forest and ride. With one foot on each side of the horse. Aunt Lalwendë was the first to teach Írissë to shoot with a longbow whilst galloping at full speed through the trees and the first to show her how to skin and gut a deer so that she could go on long hunts with her half-cousins without seeming a foolish, inexperienced girl.

But she also taught Írissë to dance in the twilight and enjoy the music of silence and nature. To take off her shoes and walk with bare feet in the grass and mud and relish the squish between her toes. To forget about staining her clothes as they splashed in the creek or tangling her hair as they ran like wild creatures through the thicket.

Aunt Lalwendë had a rhythm as untamable as Yavanna's wild earth, a beat that could not falter and could not be changed, so thoroughly embedded was it down to the very roots of her being.

 _"Never let a man tell you who you should be, niece,"_ she advised. Instead of asking when Írissë was planning to finally settle down like a proper young woman. Because Aunt Lalwendë—with two grown sons—had never married or settled herself with a man. She was the family pariah yet held her head high in court and sneered down her nose at those frilly peacocks who thought themselves of superior value and virtue.

 _"Never let reputation consume your identity,"_ she added afterwards. Rather than telling her not to do _this_ or not to do _that_ because— _Valar forbid!_ —someone might think her _weird_ or _compromised_. Not like her mother, who constantly worried about what other's might say or think about her strange, rebellious daughter, who acted more like a common farmer's son than a princess. Aunt Lalwendë merely shook her head at Írissë's antics and laughed as rolling bells breaking over the fields.

After all, Lalwendë was layered in scandal. But somehow still respected. Somehow not silenced.

 _"And never, ever be anyone but_ you. _Follow your own path."_

If there was one thing that Írissë did not think she could ever forget, it was those words from the lips of her idol, the woman in whose footsteps she wished to follow yet at the same time from whose path she turned away to follow her own narrow way in the treacherous darkness.

To find her own center. To have her own beat. Steady as the breaths of the earth shifting beneath their feet, as unceasing as waves eternally crashing against the shore. As unchanging as the mountains towering over their heads, steady and founded with roots traveling deep into crags and cracks of the land, impervious to the wear of rainstorms breaking the glass dome of the heavens.

Those women at court could say whatever they pleased, but Írissë would not bend. Her mother could complain and comment and criticize all she pleased, but Írissë would not break.

Because, one day, she would be that woman her nieces looked up to, their breath of fresh air and freedom in a world dominated by the posturing and posing of conceited men and brainwashed women. One day, she would be the Aunt Lalwendë.

And one day, she would have her own rhythm by which to dance in the twilight. Would have her own freedom and life. Would have her own advice to share.


	124. Afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haleth did not expect the reality of afterlife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transcends the gaps between Transparent (Chapter 6), Addicted (Chapter 9), Ballad (Chapter 75) and Edge (Chapter 100). I make no claims of knowing about afterlife, just so no one hunts my ass down or anything. This is all just theorizing in Tolkienverse.
> 
> Reincarnation. Death and war. Suicidal tendencies. Unrequited love. God?

Beyond death lay the Timeless Halls. And, true to their name, they were beyond anything she had ever encountered before, outside the realm of time and touch.

Stretching on and on, a seemingly never-ending maze of perfection and beauty. And no matter how long she traversed the graceful archways and the airy, open rooms, there never seemed to be an end to their splendor or their mystery. Light and color bent to a different law of physics here, splashing in arrays that dazzled her eyes and left her stunned in speechlessness. Sound rang in her ears, more divine than any bard of the earth had ever raised his voice, the choir of the Ainur still echoing eternally against pale stone.

Yet for all the strange wonder—the glory beyond her human imagination's comprehension—Haleth always found herself yearning. Wandering back to the same room in this ancient labyrinth.

The room with the walls that were not opaque, that did not reflect and were not transparent. Her fingers would brush the still, flat surface expecting cool stone and feel an indescribable texture, something caught between a humid breeze and warm water. She had, in her time as a mortal woman, heard of magicians and sorcerers with the power to scry, to spy upon their enemies and allies on flat surfaces of still liquid, but never had she believed such trickery might, in fact, be truly possible.

Not until she had entered this room for the first time and, rather than beholding some work of art that could not be described in mortal tongues or tapestry woven by hands more skilled than the greatest broideress, she laid eyes upon the vast expanse of something familiar, something that made her heart ache heavily within her ribcage.

When she had lain down to die, Haleth had never dreamed of seeing again the wide open grasslands, the thick, lush forests and the towering, jagged mountains that had encompassed her home.

After all, this was death. The afterlife. Surely, she was meant to forget about the struggles and perils of the mortal world, with war and pestilence and enemies coming to rape and murder and reap blood with silent blades in the dark of night. She should have been content with enough rich wine to satiate her thirst and enough roasted meat to fill her belly. She should not have wanted more than anything—as below her in the window of sky lay the open wound of Arda Marred, of blackened lands besieged in flame and terror—to _return_. To go _back_.

But she did.

And no matter how long she walked—no matter how many hours she traversed, no matter the wonders she beheld with wide, childish eyes—always she came back to this place of familiarity.

And watched.

At first, her eyes followed the remnants of the Atani. They trailed after battles hard-fought and lost to fire and death. Dagor Bragollach came and went, and hundreds of men and women joined their ranks in the Halls, sent beyond by dragons scorching farmlands to dust and armies in the tens of thousands pillaging those who survived. 

But also, they strayed towards the gathering glimmer of hope in the dawn. The Union of Maedhros, the little grain of sand made of diamond amongst a sea of rotting blackness.

That was when she first beheld him.

Much unchanged. Still dark-haired and handsome beyond measure. Still with eyes like emeralds in heady candlelight, glimmering with a fire that seared soul-deep. Arrogance lay over his person as a veil that fooled all those who looked upon his smirking, dark face—but it was a shield and naught else. A thin layer of false confidence protecting against the fierce outside elements that threatened to tear apart something fragile and shivering beneath.

When she was human—indeed, when he had spoken down to her like a mighty lord to his servant, like a pig-headed, sexist man to a woman out of her place—she had thought him nothing more than a conceited creature not worthy of respect. And she had rejected him wholly and completely, left him in the wake of the rising dust of her people without remorse. Forced him to swear he would not follow her path. That he would never again appear before her gaze. That he would never again speak to her and never again suggest that she—Haleth daughter of Haldad, chief of the Haladin—needed _him_ for survival.

But it was never _she_ who needed _him_. And, slowly but surely, she came to realize the truth. Watched him curiously in moments alone, hiding in the shadows. Moments when he was not smirking and his hair lay in disarray. Days when he did nothing but lay on his mattress in the dim light and stare at the blank walls listlessly.

Days when he wept himself into exhaustion.

Days when he spoke to empty air, invoking her name as a prayer of salvation.

Days when he begged for all the suffering and the fighting and the bloodshed to end. For his pointless, tainted existence to end.

It was clear that Caranthir Fëanorion, Prince of the Noldor, the fierce warrior who had ridden to her aid and acknowledged her equality of strength and valor with his passionate worship, was unraveling slowly at the seams without support to strengthen the threads holding together his skin and spirit. And his brothers—absorbed in their own pain and their own suffering and their own problems—did not so much as _sense_ the change, the disintegration. Did not sense the madness creeping up beyond what seemed to be their grown and hardened brother.

Did not see the saccharine sweetness of his heart and his red flush fading away into wane, bloodless pallor. Day by day there was a little less of him. A little less of something important and uncorrupted. Fading slowly like color out of fabric left too long in the bright, unforgiving sun.

In a way, he was just as dead as she. Living the afterlife. Already having given up.

In the end, it was that which had killed him. More so than any blade or arrow. And Haleth should have been disgusted that a seasoned warrior would lie down and die without a fight. Should have scorned him and stomped away and never returned to the room of visions. But somehow she could not hold it against him, not after all those nights in which he held himself tightly in the cold and murmured her name to the open sky, asking her questions and giving her promises as though she might appear as a ghost and reply to his haunting words. Not when he spoke to her so earnestly...

_"Would that I could have been born mortal. Maybe then we would have been together."_

_"No Lúthien am I, and no sympathy will I garner in the Halls. But I do wish that I could have joined you beyond the edges of the world. Wish that we would meet again before the End."_

_"Every ounce of Eldar blood in my veins, I would have sacrificed for your happiness..."_

_"Every drop of my own wealth and power and happiness I would have thrown away, if only you would have been pleased to have me by your side..."_

Not when he loved her so dearly, even knowing he would never meet her again. Even knowing that she had never loved him back.

And Haleth, for her part, had never believed she would change after meeting her end. Yet here she was, dead and buried under the earth and with her family and kin in the Timeless Halls, falling in love with a man on the other side of the boundary of the corporeal and the beyond. Falling in love with a man dying of grief and past all comfort.

And still she watched.

Watched his awakening in the Halls. Watched his rebirth in Aman. Watched his return to the ragged, wild eastern lands.

Watched the ghostly half of a whole wander ceaselessly, restlessly. Hopelessly. Her hands lay often flat against the barrier, against the image of his downcast face, wishing to feel smooth skin instead of soft air and water. Wishing to stroke away tears that glossed over sculpted cheeks and painted the corners of forever down-turned lips.

_"I wish that you could have joined me here, as well. I wish that I had had the sense to see underneath your ridiculous facade when we still had a chance—a future. I wish that it could have been different."_

But she was dead, and there was no going back.

"Art thou quite certain of that?"

Whoever spoke, they were not familiar to her. Like a child caught in a naughty prank, she turned on her heel and hid the hands that had been pressed so intimately to Caranthir's image. Behind her was a stranger—an ainu whom she had never acquainted, whose face was too gorgeous to look upon for long. Instead, she gazed at her toes and flushed up to her hairline.

"I have never heard of a man—or woman—being reborn onto the earth. Not after having passed completely into the Timeless Halls."

Had she looked up, she would have seen the mischievous glimmer staring back at her from within clear blue orbs, gems that put the midday sky to shame for their endless brilliance and resplendent joy. "But if thou _couldst_ go back, live a second mortal life and once again die, wouldst thou not?"

Helplessly, she thought of _him_. Alone in the wide open world filled with empty-headed, single-minded drones of a human race, the newest generation well on their way to destruction. Thought of those nights that, even now, he spent speaking to her as though he _knew_ she could hear him from beyond the walls of reality. Thought of the tantalizing possibility of lying in his arms, of entwining with his lithe body and joining with his mind, of sharing between them the most sacred joining of soul-mates—the closeness and oneness she had before denied his broken heart.

Thought of ending not only her everlasting afterlife of golden succor in hallowed and gilded halls, but also of ending his perpetual afterlife of blistering sorrow and guilt without redemption and without salvation. For he was every bit as dead as she, and would that she could have brought him back to life. She saw, in her mind's eye, his vibrant and long-extinct smile, shy and sweeter than honey as he beheld her face.

Saw, as the world faded to gray, two phantom figures in the twilight with bright, clear eyes and rosy cheeks. With her nose and lips and hazel eyes, but his angular shape and dark coloring. And she ached worse than ever. For him. For herself. For dreams that would never reach fruition.

She looked up at the stranger, into eyes that transcended her understanding. But, despite their strange, daunting wisdom, she refused to look away like the child she must have seemed.

"I would. If I could."

And he smiled. Just that simple gesture filled her to the brim with something golden and startling. Something _hopeful._

"Think of it as a gift."

_But, surely, he was not serious... Surely, he must be mistaken..._

Yet the room she knew better than the back of her hand fell to dust around her feet. The image of Caranthir's weeping face faded into shadow beneath her fingertips. The warmth that had so cradled her for many hours beneath an invisible, never-dying flame now cooled to a subtle caress.

To red. And to the bright light of a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atani = Race of Men


	125. Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orodreth has been ordered to stay clear of his half-cousins. Naturally, the first thing the younger brother does after being ordered around by his older brother is exactly the opposite of obeying the chain of familial command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Treachery. Spying. Back-stabbing. Threatening. Clandestine relationships. Adultery and incest. The sex scene is not graphic.
> 
> Connected up with Whispered (Chapter 120).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Curufin = Curufinwë, Curvo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Artaresto did not know his half-cousins well enough to pick up on unspoken clues and hints of motivation or to see through facades of sick amusement and enjoyment into the darkness hiding underneath. They were, to him, a mystery in which he did not wish to enmesh himself, a chaotic force that he did not need to understand intimately to know that they were treacherous creatures to be avoided.

But he knew his own brother better than most—sans perhaps Amarië—and he could tell that Artafindë was keeping something hidden from his sight. Was keeping secrets and sneaking around in clandestine meetings like a thief or a traitor.

That the whispers of slander and sinfulness smearing the king's name did not spur his brother into a righteous displeasure was worrying. That Artafindë did not take up the invisible sword of rhetoric and slay those demons before they had a chance to possess any more faithful minds and poison any more unsuspecting thoughts against his rule left Artaresto itching for answers.

Because the only reason he could think that Artafindë's would not protest the lies abounding in the halls of Nargothrond would be... if they were true.

The murmurs about bringing death and doom upon the city. Of taking the atan under his wing and into his bed. Of throwing aside all morals and ideology and political weight in favor of taking on a mad quest from which none would return alive. For a boy he didn't even know.

Each day, the rumors became wilder, and Turkafinwë's smile broadened in silent glee—was toothy and satisfied, a cat settled in with its saucer of rich cream and plate of gourmet fish filet almost within its grasp.

And Artafindë was not even _fighting back._

Instead, he was sneaking around in the shadows and secret passages, constantly glancing over his shoulders. Artaresto had seen him do so many times before, but never had it been so pronounced as it was in these days of troubled bonds and whispered betrayal. Disappearing without a trace. Bolting his chambers shut at night and refusing to answer to knocks or calls. Telling Artaresto that the upheaval in the city was none of his concern and it would all be taken care of. That he should stay well out of the way lest he become an unintended fatality.

But Artaresto could not let this silent confrontation rest. Could not roll over and display his vulnerable belly in submission to his vile half-cousins who plotted so blatantly to displace his brother in shame and usurp the throne for themselves. They would have his brother dethroned so that they might have a powerful foothold again in Beleriand. So that they might have an army at their backs to serve their evil purposes. Their dark intentions, Artaresto did not doubt.

And he had to do something. Even if Artafindë did not want him involved.

And that was why he began to spy on his brother, the king.

At first, it was perfectly innocuous spying. He would quietly slink around in the shadows, evenly layering his footsteps with Artafindë's so they could be mistaken for an echo until the king either ended his journey in a completely unremarkable location or managed to lose the inexperienced stalker in the labyrinth of tunnels. Or he might slip into the king's unlocked, unattended study every now and again in order to rifle through papers—letters from Nelyafinwë and Findekáno detailing war efforts, documents on the food supply into the city or alliances dictating trading routes with the dwarves in Ered Luin and Thingol's people in Doriath.

Nothing incriminating appeared. At first. Not until afterwards.

After the spying moved to more private and dangerous fields of battle.

Like the bedchambers.

Artaresto could honestly say that he had not _meant_ to pry into his brother's personal life quite as thoroughly as he had. He had only planned to see if anything was being kept locked up in the king's private rooms, well away from slippery Fëanárion fingers and greedy, self-serving councilors. Perhaps his brother had a journal. Perhaps he was sneaking around with an unmarried lady.

If it had been that simple, Artaresto would not have minded. Indeed, he would have questioned why Artafindë bothered to keep such an affair secret. Originally he _had_ questioned his brother's motives when he had stumbled across the partially open door and heard the noises—blatant sounds of lovemaking rising as a subtle song into the candlelit night. As much as Artaresto admired his brother's loyalty to Amarië, she had stayed behind and refuted his suit, and Artafindë needed to move on and provide an heir for his kingdom—built from the foundation up by his own two hands—lest it fall into _unclean_ ownership. Or worse.

As he peeked in the crack between the wood and the frame, watching two forms writhing together beneath the sheets at the peak, half-hidden by shadows, he had almost rejoiced. If _this_ was all that Artafindë had been hiding, Artaresto felt he could sleep in peace.

Until he saw the other lover's face.

And it brought him to light-headedness. His cheeks must have gone milk-white as the blood drained out of his shocked features. Wide-eyed, he couldn't help but stare as the two elves laid together in the night, their voices mingling softly and their hair entwined, ink run through with veins of gold. The reasons for keeping this liaison hidden suddenly were all too evident.

Because it was none other than Curufinwë Fëanárion who graced the king's bed. Sweat-slicked and gleaming in the firelight, eyes shining blindingly, like twin stars in the shadows. A hand rose, stroking over pale, naked flesh until the rosy sheen lined beneath the skin faded. Until the panting aftermath of heat and passion died down to calm, deep breaths and languid, heated kisses of afterglow. The dark-haired elf looked glorious, mussed and with swollen lips, gaze half-hooded with fatigue and satiation. Artaresto would have been a liar had he not admitted—at least in the very darkest depths of his soul—that he felt himself stir at the image.

But for the life of him, he could not understand what his brother was thinking—bedding a _married man_. Not only that, but bedding _their married half-cousin_. It was wrong. So wrong that Artaresto's stomach twisted into knots of nausea and his mind recoiled. Especially when Curufinwë's hands stroked his brother's equally naked body.

"Are you feeling better, _my king?"_ And didn't that kinslayer just sound so pleased with himself? The disrespectful tone of those words made the younger brother's blood boil.

"There is no need for mockery, Curvo," Artafindë chastised, barely loud enough for Artaresto to hear. "I know what you have been up to—you _and_ Turkafinwë. But you should both know that I will not change my mind."

"This is madness, cousin." Artaresto shuddered—after doing that together, Curufinwë could still call Artafindë _cousin?_ "This suicidal mission that the whelp wants to trick you into undertaking will lead to nothing but misery."

"For whom?" Artafindë sounded enquiring, but as Artaresto backed away, he could sense the underlying annoyance, the hard bite of a politician prodding and pinching his opponent into submission. "For you? For Turkafinwë?"

_I do not understand. Would they not benefit from this crazy undertaking, by having Artafindë out of the city and beyond reach of the people?_

"For everyone involved!" Curufinwë countered in a low voice.

"Except the two _most_ involved," the king then corrected.

In apparent frustration, Curufinwë let out something between a groan and a hiss of anger. "You cannot be serious, Artafindë..."

Now, his brother was sitting up, and as much as Artaresto wished to flee at the sight of his brother's nakedness completely revealed, he hungered for the rest of the argument. "You are frightened that we shall succeed in our quest. Admit it."

"I said no such thing," Curufinwë countered, now also arising from the curling waves of damp silk. "You _will_ fail."

"Will I?"

They stared one another down. And Artaresto gritted his teeth. Because even in this most secret of meetings, more hidden truths and motives passed unseen and unheard in the undertones of riled words and venomous bantering. And it was clear that, whilst the two might be sharing bed and body, they did not share anything that even remotely resembled love.

Curufinwë's face, reflected into harsh angles by golden light, was akin to Fëanáro's terrifying visage, a threat and a promise sharper than the edge of a diamond and more unyielding than mithril rested in the pits of those eyes, swallowing whole any attempts at cordiality and amiable negotiation. It was like looking at a ghost more daunting even than the original creation of flesh and blood, for it was clear that Curufinwë made no idle threats _or_ promises. He meant what he said. And there was no insanity to excuse his madness, for those eyes were clear and conscienceless.

He would make sure Artafindë failed. Through stealth. Through betrayal. Through violence. Just like his hot-blooded sire before him, Curufinwë would do whatever it took to arrive at the end which he desired, damn the means and the consequences.

"You can count on it," the snake-tongued, dark beauty hissed as he pulled Artafindë close again, as their mouths clashed violently.

When he pulled away, Artafindë laid a backhanded slap to those porcelain features. A strike that did not even serve to wipe away the satisfied leer twisting upwards those lips. Curufinwë the Crafty was not a title earned lightly, nor one undeserved.

"Get out."

"Oh, are we playing that game now?" Curufinwë licked his lips as though his narrowed eyes beheld something deliciously tantalizing as they slithered up and down Artafindë's body. "Are you worried someone might find us together, my king?"

The voice was too knowing. The smirk was damning. And the white-hot feel of eyes piercing his flesh and soul sent the spy into shudders. Artaresto felt cold sweat break out over his skin, dripping down his spine as terror burned a hot brand into every inch of his body. _Curufinwë knew..._

The starlit eyes were staring straight into him over Artafindë's shoulder. And the smile that bloomed over his half-cousin's lips was not meant for the king, who merely scoffed out a "do not be melodramatic, Curvo" and turned to the side, picking up his nightshirt from the marble floor. No, it was meant for the king's successor, peering inside the hidden depths of scandal and sin, watching the unfolding of wickedness.

Warning him. Promising him.

Curufinwë licked his lips again—eyes focused on the intruder—and his smile widened. Artaresto did not stay to see the pure white gleam of teeth bared in an animalistic display of posturing. He fled back the way he had come, shaking from head-to-toe in visceral sensation even once he had reached his own chambers and bolted the door in his wake. The prince pressed his back to the wood and breathed in deeply, trying to dispel the images branded unto the backs of his eyelids.

Of his brother and cousin naked and entwined. Of the red handprint swelling on that pale, perfect cheek. Of the grin that spoke only of impending vengeance and destruction.

Of all the things he had expected, he had not expected this. And the shattering revelation did not even scratch the surface of the secrets hidden deep in the shadows that lay heavy over Nargothrond. Secrets Artaresto knew he should never have dared try to uncover.

It was a dangerous game that they played. And Artaresto feared it was not one he—or Artafindë—could hope to win. Not against the pure ruthlessness and zealous determination of the House of Fëanáro.

But it was not a game they could afford to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> atan = man (of the race of Men)  
> Fëanárion = son of Fëanáro


	126. Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angrod does not believe he will ever escape the prison of Angband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings. Slavery. Implied rape. Child murder. Torture. Borderline cannibalism. Sadism. Mercy killing.
> 
> Directly related to Defiant (Chapter 101) and Powder (Chapter 102).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

Never would Angaráto forget his first sight of the three-peaked Thangorodrim piercing the gray sky far in the distance, its dark and ominous needles rising from the haze of ashy smoke and the dust of a million feet on the field of lost battle and death. A specter of ill-fortune and doomed fate if ever one had existed.

There were precious few souls who ever saw this sight and did not pass beyond their fleshy mortal cage in the torture chambers or sunless mines of Angband.

And, truly, Angaráto did not expect to be amongst those few. Not even an ounce of hope did he allow to linger in his heart. He would die as a nameless prisoner of the enemy just like thousands had before him. He did not plan to seek special treatment or attention because of his status—indeed, any special treatment here was likely to be of the unpleasant variety—but nor would he hunt a quick death.

He had to be there for his people. And he thought, on top of crushing defeat and great loss, the death of their strong-willed and determined prince might be the fatal blow to an already-faltering collective spirit.

Men, women and children alike, the elves and men of Dorthonion, brought low in fire and death, their will and strength sputtering out as a dying flame in their breasts. Angaráto hated seeing their heads bowed beneath the weight of their suffering, an endless procession of defeat stretching on and on until they were no longer within his sight in either direction. So many who had survived, only to be plunged into a hell that made the savage destruction of their homes seem merciful.

They marched, the prisoners of war and plundering, numbering into the thousands. For once, it didn't matter that he was a prince or a commander. Before him and behind him in one great show of evil's domination over righteousness, they traversed Anfauglith's vast expanse, their feet scalded to blistering on scorched dust and cut open on sharp stones, their bodies lined with the marks of whips and hunched in submission and fatigue. No food, no water, no rest. And those who fell from lack of necessities were tormented or left to bake in the sun. Their screams still echoed in the wake of the resilient.

And as they approached the gates to the iron fortress inside which was hidden the most foul and wicked creature to ever stain the face of Arda, the prince found himself wishing that he could have done something to spare these people. What kind of a lord was he, that all he could do was sit by and watch helplessly—the jewel in the crown of his people's ultimate humiliation?

But it was only the beginning. He knew but a little of the tortures that his half-cousin Nelyafinwë dared to speak of after his sojourn in this pit of filth, but hearing about such atrocities and seeing them in the flesh were very different concepts.

Never again would he scorn his half-cousin for wanting to lie down and die after being subjected to this place, to these horrors.

And it was worse still, because he refused to speak. Refused to betray the information of his people—those who, he hoped, still remained on the outside, whole and hale and ready to rip the enemy to shreds. Refused to be the last ember of the dying flame, a pitiful representation of the last slivers of hope in this dark hell to be squashed out under Morgoth's boot when his people needed him to be as strong as his prophetic father-name. 

His defiance had earned him unwanted attention. It was that intrinsic spark which had sealed his fate in this carnival of horror and death by catching the eye of the Lieutenant of Angband himself.

The Lieutenant who took the greatest pleasure in finding ways to make Angaráto suffer that would neither mar his body nor break his mind—a game that sickened the elf to the bone, but one in which he gambled recklessly for survival and sanity.

There was at first an array of unlucky survivors deemed unfit for the mines, brought in and ravaged and tortured closer and closer to the brink of insanity each day—incentive for him to part his lips and become a traitor worse than any kinslayer. But Angaráto would not break. And he would rather slay his people painlessly and mercifully and send these poor souls on to the Halls than let them linger for the twisted amusement of his diabolical opponent. This, it seemed, only amused his captor further and sent him to greater lengths.

_"Thou art full of surprises, art thou not, slave? Thou dost intrigue me with thy resilience."_

Children were brought from the dungeons as far below the reach of the sunlight as could be kept, pale and wane and starving to death, their eyes dulled. Exhibited before him like crude animals on chains as they were led to slaughter for tender meat and a few hours of shrill shrieks and maniacal laughter. And Angaráto could do nothing to help them but sit still in his cell and pray to Mandos to end it quickly. At least their torment was finished when the wails cut into eerie silence.

With mockery, the Lieutenant always offered him a taste of young elven flesh afterwards. Angaráto did not think he could ever despise anyone—not even the Dark Lord himself—as much as he hated this sick freak who smiled blissfully in the wake of dismembering defenseless elflings and cooking the little meat on their bones as though they were cattle or deer hunted and strung up to be gutted. 

_"They taste so wonderful—juicy and tender. Dost thou not want a taste, my lovely slave?"_

Never had he wanted to enact bloody and vicious wrath upon anyone as much as that golden-haired beauty when he purred out a feigned thanksgiving in Morgoth's name and devoured neatly cut squares of roasted flesh, licking blackened lips in anticipation. It was a sacrilegious distortion of the sacrificing of animals so that they might sustain the thankful hunter, and it enflamed Angaráto until he thought he might die for the hatred squeezing his innards like boiling, grasping hands.

But that the children died quickly, he could at least be grateful (in a horrifying way that made guilt twist his intestines into noxious, painful knots). He did not even want to know what became of the women brought into this place, but he suspected it was somehow worse than even the most horrendous fates his shadowed mind could imagine. He could not bear to think about it for long lest his stomach revolt against its iron-hearted master.

The worst of the Lieutenant's games was undoubtedly the one where he was made to behold the punishment of a fellow thrall. To stand chained to the wall and watch bodies being dismembered and mutilated, taken apart and somehow kept alive. Broken and battered and drained of gallons of blood—or so it seemed—but still clawing and crawling for survival. Still left whole enough to be dragged back into the dark pits of the earth and made to slave away until their wretched shells gave out.

_"I will even let thee choose the punishment for today, my beautiful slave. But choose wisely."_

Sweet Eru Almighty, he _hated_ Sauron.

Hated the endless line of sickening atrocities that never before would he have imagined even in the darkest nightmare, beginning with chains and shackles and a trek across the barren, scorching sands of the desert and ending in backbreaking labor until bodies faltered from neglect and mutilation or were ripped to pieces by torture and rape and murder for the sick amusement of the demons haunting this fortress. 

This was his personal torture, and it would never end so long as the Valar refused to smite down their wayward brethren upon his dark throne. He could not even be granted the death of a common laborer, death by dirt-clogged lungs hacking up bloody phlegm, a slow suffocation from the toxic air and a lack of Arien's caresses soaking into coarse, scar-broken skin. No, he would linger in physical perfection and rosy health, kept as a pet for the amusement of the Lieutenant forever, not allowed to die and not allowed to live. Not allowed to leave his cage of grimy stone walls and his own iron stubbornness.

And part of him hated the Valar. Part of him wanted to curse their names in the Black Tongue, call them cowards and avengers seeking punishment of his people as wrathful deities full of arrogance and egocentricity. For though his people had rebelled, had killed and had left in disgraced exile, it was because of _them_ —because of their _edicts_ and their _morals_ and their _punishment_ —that he would never again see his wife. Never again embrace his brothers. Never again kiss his sister's cheek.

Never again have any future but the endless parade of death. Stretching so far back into the horizon that he could not see the beginning and so far forward into the foggy distance that he could not make out the final destination.

But until his people were delivered from their suffering, Angaráto would suffer beside them, their lord and prince to the end. This, he swore.


	127. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eöl had never intended to _marry_ Aredhel. And he _certainly_ had never intended to _fall in love_ with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much Sweeten (Chapter 115) from Eöl's POV. Thus, it is also related to Wrong (Chapter 114) and Hands (Chapter 116).
> 
> Fluffy romantic stuff. But it doesn't start out that way at all.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aredhel = Íreth

It had not been about love.

After all, they had not known each other. Not by face. Not by name. Not even by reputation. It was pure animalistic lust and just the right amount of vindictive bitterness that had resulted in the seduction and subsequent "kidnapping" of Íreth Aredhel.

She was nothing. Nothing but an unlucky, naïve Noldorin woman who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong man. Beautiful though she might be, Eöl had had no intention of taking her as his wife or keeping her in his home.

Maybe they could have a short liaison for a few weeks—she was a rare, exotic commodity that even he, the reclusive and prickly Avarin smith, would not waste—but he had not planned to have anything else to do with her. Certainly not a lasting, meaningful relationship. He would break off their bouts of intense coitus, and then he would send her properly on her way and never hear of her again. For all he cared, she could get lost in the damn forest crisscrossed with his dark labyrinth of enchantments and starve to death and he would not shed a tear over her loss.

It had been about his own personal satisfaction and nothing more. He did not and never would care a lick for a _golodh_. In his personal opinion, the murderous, insane, kinslaying _trespassers_ deserved every misfortune heaped upon them for bringing the Black Enemy to the far shores, to the doorsteps of the innocent. In the back of his mind, Eöl _wanted_ Íreth to suffer some terrible, unnamable fate in the depths of these wild lands, for it was _her_ family that had brought down death and destruction upon the heads of _his_ people.

Perhaps it had been unfair to use her as an instrument of vengeance (no matter how petty) against her family when she was so obviously lust-stricken and starry-eyed. At the time, he hadn't cared.

But, inexorably, things had begun to change.

Starting with his foolish decision to allow her to sleep in his bed after they finished their strenuous bedroom activities. Allowing her to press her sweat-slicked, soft white body against the full length of his hardened muscles and scarred skin, their legs entwining until they seemed to merge into a single creature. Allowing her to stroke her hands through his hair as they drifted into Lórien's embrace, the soothing brush of nails to his scalp rocking him to sleep.

Allowing her to _touch_ him.

Apparently, allowing such intimacy once had been an invitation for her hands and lips and body to make regular contact with his person whenever she wished to share her strange brand of physical interaction and affection.

Because he could remember well the first time she had _hugged_ him—arms around his neck, eyelashes fluttering across his pounding pulse—after he arrived home from one of his trading trips into the mountains. And, for the life of him, Eöl could not remember the last time someone had pressed their body against his in such a platonic and meaningful manner—as a greeting filled with relief.

_"Welcome home."_

He could remember the first time she had grabbed his hand whilst they walked through the forest in the night. The grouchy dark elf had whined and muttered about how such romantic, fairytale ventures as moonlit walks were a complete and utter waste of his time, but somehow feeling her fingers entwining with his and squeezing—a reassuring "I'm here" to quiet his restless fidgeting—left the unshakable smith with a lump the size of a frog in his throat, squirming fitfully until he hadn't the power or coherency to voice any more complaints.

_"It's something lovers do back home in Tirion. Do you mind terribly?"_

Whenever she entered a room and found him there, she would stand on her tiptoes and press a tiny, chaste kiss against his closed lips. Never had he seen a woman do as such, for the dignified ladies of Thingol's court would not have been caught dead kissing their spouse (let alone a lover) _in public_ , not even in front of their servants or minstrels. But Íreth even kissed him in front of _guests._

Whenever she came upon him in the forge, sweaty and sooty, her arms would wrap themselves around his waist, her hands washing over his flat abdomen and her head resting against his rippling shoulders. And even though she always wore white and silver to his dreary black, she never seemed to care that her clothing always came out of such an embrace smudged and streaked in ash or oil.

And whenever he did her a favor, even something as tiny as fetching a quill from the other room or holding open the door for her passage or even tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she bustled past him carrying on with her own busy schedule, she _always_ stopped her endeavors and rewarded him with a little peck on the cheek.

And those tiny kisses _always_ made him blush to the roots of his hair.

Because no woman he had ever met before would ever have shown him such genuine, innocent adoration. The Sindarin women of court were haughty and sneered down their noses at his foreign strangeness, as though he were a disease they might catch if they were seen near him before the eyes of their peers. Never would one of them even _dream_ of actually hugging or kissing the sweaty, dirty barbarian elven _blacksmith_ from the far east. They were hypocrites, the lot of them, for they had no such trouble appreciating his foreign looks when they were tumbling around in his bed, crying out his name in ecstasy.

Íreth was nothing like them. She was like no woman he had ever encountered.

Soon, she had become a _fixture_. She had touched something inside of him that no other woman of the dozens he had had affairs with had ever so much as brushed. In fact, it was worse, because she was under his skin and in his routine and imprinting herself willy-nilly all over his life!

He would turn a corner and smell warm pastries baking and smile while thinking of her—the golodh he was supposed to despise. He would walk into their shared bedchambers and see her brushing her sleek hair, would catch her eyes in the mirror and feel a wave of _warmth_ suffuse every inch of his body, sinking down through tense muscle and turning even his bones to mush.

He would even wake up on the road and blink his eyes and wonder why her fingers were not drifting in soothing waves through his mussed hair. And then he would think of how _wrong_ it felt and how much he _missed_ the feeling of tender, unconditional caresses before he was awake enough to scold himself for such childish infatuation.

But in the end, Eöl was no fool. In the end, her blood was insignificant, for she was no nameless Noldorin harlot. In the end, he knew that he could not simply uproot her from his household, because things would not go back to the way they had been before. 

They never _could_ go back to the way they had been before, because the damnable (wonderful) woman had wriggled her way beneath his shell of poisoned spines and curled herself up around the most hidden part of his spirit, the part that no one else had ever managed to uncover.

As much as his inner reclusive tendencies demanded he reject all forms of companionship, he knew that he desperately needed her. More and more with every minute she imposed herself upon his home and his heart. More and more with every sweet good-morning kiss and flighty, feather-light caress to his cheek.

And Eöl was not about to let her go. To lose a part of himself so deeply entangled with the fragile depths of his spirit would be devastating. Would shatter him beyond repair.

And he was frightened. Frightened of being alone. Frightened of doing something wrong and driving her away. Frightened of being left behind by the woman who had—without even trying—somehow managed to touch his blackened and rotten heart and bring back the light.

He was frightened because he knew he was deeply in love with her—with the Noldorin princess Íreth Aredhel, whom he should hate more than anyone else for her ignorance and lighthearted glory—and he could not even remember when this charade had stopped being about vengeance for his scattered and tormented people.

Could not remember when it had started to be about love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> golodh = Noldorin elf


	128. Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgoth is gone, and Sauron is dancing for joy. Inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I changed Sauron's canon characterization. Oh well. Connected up with Kneel (Chapter 34).
> 
> Blatant sadism and schadenfreude. Lots of death and blood (it is war, after all). Trickery and psychopathy.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

It was over. The war was over. The vast expanses of his master's armies were finished.

As far as the eye could see, the earth was scarred, deep lacerations opening to reveal the fire of its blood running beneath its thick, cracked skin. Even hundreds of leagues away from the ocean, salt water spilled into deep trenches and formed newborn rivers flowing over to turn scorched dust to molten mud. Mairon could barely recognize the land, for the desert had been uprooted and the mountains thrown down around their heads. Chaos reigned everywhere, screams cutting against his ears like breaking glass as everything his master had ever worked for crumbled into utter ruin.

And Mairon smiled.

Even as the enemy blasted down the great walls of Angband and began the final slaughter, tore through the forces of darkness until black blood spilled like an ocean of death over the land, Mairon still smiled. His lips drew wide over his face, curling back to reveal the sharpened points of pure white teeth beneath. A diabolical grin of the greatest, most potent amusement he could ever remembering feeling. 

So great was the euphoria—the sublime sensation of laughter fighting and clawing to escape from his straining throat and suffocated lungs—that he began to bubble over with joy and light as he stood firmly in his place beside the dark throne—purged of its cowardly master—and waited.

Waited for the iron crown to fall.

Waited and watched. Watched the herald of Manwë tear the remaining fire demons to shreds, his ears languishing in the beautiful symphony of their unheard pleas and deathly shrieks. Watched golden armor glint in the light as it rained down through the destroyed eaves, touching for the first time this world of torment and misery and setting the shadows aflame.

Watched—as a hungry wolf watches a lamed sheep—as his _master_ was dragged forth, kicking and screaming and writhing towards hopeless escape, chained like a common animal, a beast to be led forth by the neck. The supposed king of all the universe thrown down and brought low on his knees, red eyes wide in terror and hatred as he beheld the forces of his kin destroying his world.

And oh! what Mairon wouldn't have given to reach out and claw those eyes into shreds, to see his tormenter crawl blindly across the floor like an infant! What he wouldn't have given for the chance to _spit_ on that _filth_ and jeer wicked names in the Black Tongue whilst his master was powerless to retaliate! The mere fantasy of what he could do to his _master_ left Mairon shivering in nauseating glee, his beautiful face a mask of demonic intent.

But he did not think he could have come up with a more humiliatingly wonderful punishment than had Eönwë when the crown upon his master's brow was taken and melted down—hammered by the skilled hands of the very thralls whom he kept enslaved and tortured—into a twisted, barbed collar that wrapped around the Dark Lord's throat like an armored fist. Rivulets of blood shimmied down grayed, withered flesh and painted the ground with defeat.

And then the Silmarilli were plucked from the iron, their lights as stars, glaring hatefully down upon their former captor, as vindictive as any Power of the world. For they were their father's children, of that Mairon had no doubt. He daren't touch them, for he could see the light of Fëanáro's eyes within—the light of the Flame Imperishable hungering to devour his sin and turn him to ash.

Beneath their light, his master's hideous form jerked in pain. Flesh smoked and bubbled. And Mairon could not look away for the beauty of divine wrath.

They took him away, and it was all the golden-haired maia could do not to dance about the vast, broken hall and piss on the great black throne. Because this moment—for all the defeat and humiliation suffered at the hands of the enemy—was a moment he had been waiting for since the very beginning, since the day he foolishly bound himself to his master's side as a beast to its keeper.

The Dark Lord was unseated. And his Lieutenant—the murderous, cunning and bloodthirsty torturer and spy—was finally _free._

Free to reap his rewards. Free to hide away in the underworld and shadows, to grow and build his power until none would be able to stand in his way. Free to take the place of the repulsive coward who had formerly occupied his chosen profession as ruler of Arda.

Free to carry out plans that had been in the works since before years had been numbered and elves had first beheld the stars.

\---

And no amount of words and promises would change his mind.

_"While I would not wish to doubt thy sincerity of regret, my brother, thou knowest it is not in my power to pardon thee."_

Eönwë had not changed in the least. Still irritatingly arrogant and still disgustingly loyal. A dog that could not function without his master dictating his every word and action. It sickened Mairon to even be near the other maia, the weak and will-less waste of time and space.

But he had put on a tearful, frightened face and let his renowned beauty do the rest. It was hard to call him a liar and claim he had no heart and no sorrow and no remorse when he knelt in the dirt and pleaded for mercy like heartbroken, sniveling vermin—as if he hadn't been forced to do _worse_ to trick or placate his old master. Compared to the Dark Lord, Eönwë was about as daunting as a wet, mewling kitten. They could lock him up and drag him in chains, but no self-righteous servant of the Valar would ever commit the atrocities on his person that his master had so relished.

Part of him was grateful. The rest of him sneered at the pitiful creature before him, who thought himself so powerful but in truth might as well be the lowest of thralls.

 _"Please, Lord Eönwë, my brother, thou needest to understand! Thou dost not know what he is capable of! I was frightened! I was_ coerced!"

The tears came ridiculously easy. And Mairon almost lost control over his simpering façade at the pity shining in pale blue eyes as they looked upon his quivering form. It was a bite to his pride that the aspiring Dark Lord could _barely_ tolerate. Would that he could have ripped those eyes out of their sockets—that would teach Eönwë to forget about compassion and worthless sympathy in a heartbeat.

But that would be counterproductive. The Lieutenant bit his tongue.

 _"I understand. I cannot imagine how thou couldst fight against a Power such as he. But nevertheless, I cannot help thee. Only my liege and his brethren may give thee thy sentence, my brother."_ A hand then touched his shoulder, squeezed in what was meant to be a reassuring manner, and it took every ounce of control and patience Mairon possessed to keep in check his natural irascibility and avoid pulling out his knife in order to dismember this fool for daring to touch his body without leave. _"Believe me, my liege is generous. Thou wilt be granted clemency if, in fact, thou dost feel remorse for thy actions. Thou hast nothing to fear."_

The problem with that plan, of course, was that he _didn't_ feel remorse. For anything. And he couldn't hide that fact from Manwë any more than he had been able to hide his dark inner demons and fantasies from his old master. Returning to Aman in chains would lead to nothing but further imprisonment, a long sentence in a cold, gray cell or waiting hand-and-foot like a slave on some elf or maia. Serving the _community_. Proving his worth as a _good man._

It made the maia want to roll his eyes in disdain.

_"V-very well... I shall return with thee. To Aman."_

Let that tide over Manwë's dog for the time being. Mairon had absolutely no intention of returning to a life of servitude and ruin, not when so much power was finally within his grasp and his greatest obstacle had been removed from his path without him so much as lifting a finger. Eönwë was even bidding the Eldalië to leave the eastern shores, and that would leave behind easily-corrupted men and greedy, prideful dwarves. Undefended, sacrificial pawns.

Susceptible victims.

Mairon was already licking his lips at the thought, even as he watched his fellow maia walk away. If Eönwë had turned at that moment, he would have seen the hot glimmer in incandescent eyes, writhing wickedly with glee and lust for world domination. Finally unbound.

Finally free.

And no one would stand in his way. Not this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril  
> maia = lesser ainu (holy one)


	129. Enjoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon is not a cheerful ray of sunshine. Maedhros is well aware of this, even if no one else is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dysfunctional families and a _lot_ of pressure put on children. I don't mean to be a parent-basher, and Fëanor and Fingolfin probably love their kids. They just hate each other quite a bit.
> 
> Intoxication. Premarital sex. Vomiting and hangovers and crying.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno, Káno  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Russandol, Russa  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno

Once again, Findekáno had managed to "mysteriously disappear" from his father's estate.

And once again, it was Maitimo who was tasked with tracking down his wayward young half-cousin.

It was a fairly usual occurrence. In fact, it happened so often that the servants did not even consult the master of the house anymore, instead sending a missive immediately to the doorstep of the second in line to the throne. Everyone knew that Maitimo was the only one who could track down the young prince when he ran off in one of his "moods". It was a (very badly kept) secret that—despite the discord and borderline hatred between their fathers—the two heirs were best friends and most days could be found napping or roughhousing together somewhere on the estate.

The days that they weren't together were the days that worried Maitimo the most.

People looked at him and his cheery, bright-eyed half-cousin and cooed at how _supportive_ and _sweet_ Findekáno was, the younger cousin clinging to the figurative skirts of his older cousin, somehow always managing to bring a smile to the heir's dour features no matter how bad Maitimo's day had gone or how temperamental his father was that morning. Truly, Findekáno's smile and laughter were godsend—blessings that Maitimo thanked Ilúvatar for every day.

But those same people did not know the entirety of the matter—of their friendship. They looked at the cousins and saw the goofball joking and laughing with his arm cast over his frowning cousin's broad shoulders, a brilliant light that never failed to dim shining down on a fading spark.

They knew nothing about Findekáno. Not like Maitimo did.

After all, it was their _similarities_ that had brought them together.

The oldest children—the heirs—of two feuding fathers. Supposedly the best of the best of the best. They were required to perform to the very peak of excellence at the academy and become scholars of note as well as politicians and craftsmen of renown. It was expected of the most prominent and anticipated grandchildren of Finwë. The problem was, of course, that neither of them were the perfect poster child their fathers wanted.

Maitimo was not a prodigy. He was hardworking and intelligent, but his skills lay in rhetoric and cooking, not in metallurgy or invention or scholarly endeavors. And even if they did, would it ever be enough? The son could never surpass his sire, whose reputation a genius grew taller and broader by the hour, plated in gold and riddled in diamond.

But people forgot so often that sweet Findekáno was the son of a prince as well—a prince who was the firstborn son of Finwë and his second (and current) queen. A prince who was battling tooth and nail, pulling hair and clawing eyes, for a chance at the throne.

And Findekáno was no politician. He wasn't even a scholar or an author. He was cheerful but flighty, loved pulling pranks and could lift anyone out of a funk, but could not arrange an afternoon tea party to save his life. The first son of Nolofinwë simply did not have the pure brainpower, responsibility or common sense necessary with which to mold an iron-fisted, decisive ruler. And no amount of veiled verbal abuse would ever change that.

Not that it stopped Nolofinwë from trying. Maitimo knew his uncle meant well, but...

He understood Findekáno's perspective, too.

And, had others understood as well, they would have known better where to look for the prince when he vanished in the night after a day spent in the company of his overbearing, stern father. They would have known not to search high-end inns with silk sheets or at the homes of "close friends" from court for the stubborn and willful young creature.

They would never have looked for him in a tavern.

But that was where Maitimo found him—in a seedy and rather disreputable place with dirty counters and rickety barstools. Findekáno was sloshed, his hair in disarray and his voice booming without inhibition throughout the room. Already, he was halfway through another mug of bitter ale with a swaying, drunken woman giggling on each arm. Maitimo winced as he beheld their fluttering lashes, painted faces and particularly low-cut bodices.

It could have been worse. At least they weren't upstairs in bed yet. Like last time.

Sighing, Maitimo wondered what on earth Ilúvatar had been thinking when he had created this brave, kind-hearted, reckless little boy and plopped him down at the center of vicious, bloodthirsty political intrigue. It was like throwing an infant into the ocean and expecting it to know how to swim.

"Excuse me, ladies," he interrupted. "Might I retrieve my cousin from your grasp?"

The two women—hardly more than girls—gave him confused looks. But they recognized him immediately, if the pallor that washed over their porcelain faces beneath layers of powder and rouge was any indicator. Immediately, they stepped back, thankfully still enough in their right minds not to attempt a molestation of his person. It had certainly happened to Maitimo before in places like this one, and though he never overreacted at the wicked touching and slurred flirting, it was still very discomfiting. Disturbing.

At the sound of his voice, Findekáno spun around and very nearly took a dive off his barstool. "R-Ru— Russandol!" he stuttered, grinning as though seeing his redheaded, stoic-faced cousin standing with hands upon his hips and narrowed eyes was the most joyous occasion in the world. "Come an... an' sit wif me!"

Definitely sloshed.

"I think not." His calculating, silvered gaze was enough to keep the barkeep well on the other end of the long counter. The man looked a smidge guilty as he glanced in their direction—the older cousin was sure he had dragged Findekáno out of this dump before—but Maitimo knew these types well. They were here to make money, and it wasn't _their_ problem if some overeager whelp went and had too much as long as he paid in coin for every ounce.

Maitimo found he disliked such people. Especially when they took advantage of his drunken cousin.

"Aw, c'mon... 't'll be f-fun!"

"I think you've had quite enough of that." The mug clicked on the counter as Maitimo set it down and smacked away the greedy, grabby hands that tried to pick it right back up. Instead, he took the fingers tightly in his own and dragged Findekáno to his feet. Of course, the younger elf staggered dangerously, and it was only Maitimo's grasp around his waist that kept him from taking a tumble right down onto the dusty, chipped wooden floorboards. "Let's get you home."

"Don' wanna. Russa..." Findekáno whined and pouted the entire way across the room and out the door, his lack of coordination and balance making it particularly difficult for the older of the pair to actually get the door far enough open to shove his charge out.

The streets were cloaked in a silver haze, buildings cutting shadows across the streets. Wrapping Findekáno's limp arm around his shoulders, Maitimo heaved his young (and surprisingly heavy) cousin's weight onto his left side, hips and torso bent at an awkward and slightly painful angle trying to recover his balance without toppling them both over as a tower of twigs and reeds in the wind.

As usual, by the time they reached home, Findekáno was in tears.

And Maitimo hated when his cousin cried.

He hated that, as he pushed his cousin—his self-proclaimed younger brother—into bed, Findekáno spilled out all the words whispering in his ears, the venomous little prods and pokes and nails prying at the edges of his sanity. Told him that Nolofinwë was disappointed about _this_ or _that_ and how Turukáno was so much more suited to be the heir and why oh _why_ had Ilúvatar created _him_ first when it was his younger brother that his parents _needed_ and _wanted?_

And Maitimo never quite knew what to say or do, other than whisper meaningless promises and reassurances against soft skin and raven hair until the sobs dispersed into hiccups, until Findekáno's shaking had ceased and the earthquake of bottled emotions being freed had ended.

He was never quite sure how to clean up the rubble and debris left in the wake of disaster.

But he stayed. All night, watching Findekáno sleep off the liquid poison, making sure that the younger prince did not vomit whilst unconscious and choke. Stayed well into the next day, fixing up an herbal cure for the nauseating hangover that followed. He knew to keep the curtains drawn so Laurelin's golden glow could not punch into the dark sanctuary. He knew to lock out the loud, inconsiderate house staff who felt the need to bang incessantly on the door at hideously early hours of the morning and announce themselves in disgustingly happy voices as they barged straight in.

And as his cousin—his little brother in all but blood—nursed his medicinal tea, Maitimo swallowed thickly and worked up the nerve to ask a question that had been on his mind since the beginning of these nighttime escapades. "Why do you keep doing this, Káno?" _When all it ever seems to do is make things worse?_

Bloodshot eyes blinked open and looked up at him. But instead of the simmering anger or petulant offense he expected, there was only downcast depression. "You know how it is at home when... when you aren't around." The tea swirled in its cup, just a little spilling over the edges onto Findekáno's sheets, but the prince didn't seem to even notice as he watched the liquid spinning and lapping at the china lips. "I just... I just want to have fun. To enjoy myself. Just for a little while."

It was as Maitimo had expected. And that, perhaps, made the confession all the more painful. _What am I to do with you, Káno?_

What _could_ he do, as the son of the crown prince, as the second in line to the throne that Findekáno's father yearned for and coveted? He shouldn't even _be_ here, just in case Nolofinwë decided to greet his scion in the morn and came upon them sitting together on the bed. He _certainly_ couldn't _talk_ to his half-uncle (what did the oldest brother of seven know about _parenting_ after all?), so what _could_ he do—?

Except bring Findekáno home each rough night and fix him tea the following morning.

"I understand."

And he did. More, perhaps, than anyone would ever realize. Even Findekáno.

After all, no one had been there to drag _him_ home on rough nights.

And, truly, he didn't have the heart to tell Findekáno to stop, to get over his weak resolve and flimsy responsibility and work on his studies instead of getting intoxicated and having affairs with random, nameless women in desolate, downtrodden taverns all across Tirion, if only to make himself feel better and forget about home. Because that would have made Maitimo a hypocrite.

And, without this catharsis, he was worried what might become of his young cousin under all the pressure and fury and scorn—what would become of the smiles that were his saving grace and the laughter that drained away the blackened, foul smoke that cast itself as a shadow over his life. This madness was enough to make senile even the sanest of men.

Findekáno _needed_ to enjoy his life, or he would fade into nothingness. Even if it was only a life in the shadows. Even if that enjoyment was false. Even if it was a cracked, cheap imitation of true happiness.

Even if it was empty.

It had to be enough.


	130. Shining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond contemplates the star Eärendil, his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look into Elrond's view of his parentage. Let's face it, Maglor did all the hard work raising the kids. But that doesn't mean Elrond doesn't have a different sort of love for his birth father, ne?
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aragorn = Estel

Elrond did not remember the make of his father's visage. He had seen paintings and tapestries, but no amount of gazing upon sun-kissed planes would remind him of a person he knew or remembered.

Like many other figures in Elrond's life, Eärendil had not been a permanent fixture. At the most, the younger twin could recall waves of golden hair caught between his tiny, pudgy fingers and an odd feeling of warmth and safety cradled against a broad chest with a heartbeat beneath his cheek. The scent of the sea lingered heavily in those cloudy memories, mist and salt grappling for dominance on the back of his tongue.

But if one had asked whether he looked more as his father's son or his mother's in appearance or temperament, he could not have said truthfully one way or the other. He could not even have said what had been the color of his father's eyes.

And, truly, he could barely name Eärendil his father at all, not in the sense that was meant when he was asked of his parentage. It was, after all, not the mariner who had sung him lullabies as a child, who had tucked him in with hugs and kisses or comforted him after brutal nightmares of the slayings in Arvarnien. Perhaps Eärendil the Blessed had planted the seed that had sprouted into an intelligent young elfling, bright-eyed with insatiable curiosity, but it had been Maglor Fëanorion who had cultivated the promising child into a proud, honorable adult worthy of the respect and admiration doted upon him by his subjects.

Whenever he was asked about his father, it was always silver eyes and dark hair that first came to his mind, eyes and hair so like to his own that he had before been mistaken for actual blood kin of his adoptive father. And it did not feel like betrayal to look upon Maglor as such. To be delighted when he was mistaken as a son of his adoptive father's House, rather than his blood father's. Eärendil had put his place in the Song—his loyalty to his suffering people as a prince of the Noldor—before his love for his wife and the safety and wellbeing of his children. Part of Elrond resented as such, but part of him held no blame or anger towards the man, though he could never have sacrificed his family, even for the wellbeing of all his people.

No, when asked about Eärendil, it was not the feelings of a son that surged forth in adoration for his sire and idol.

And he wondered, as he looked up at the darkened sky, whether those around him realized that—to Elrond Eärendilion—the legendary figure upon his shining ship flying off to war and victory and timeless glory was just that: a legend. There was reverence and awe in his breast when he beheld that Silmaril set as a gem in its crown of the sky.

And more.

Because, when the darkness began to close in, at least that one light in the West never faded. That little ray of hope which whispered that perhaps the Valar still cared for those exiles still lingering in the twilight world of Men. That perhaps there was something bright on the horizon of this world as it was consumed by gloom and wickedness, for even the darkest storms of Beleriand had broken up to reveal sunlight pouring down from beyond the thick curtains of despair.

If Elrond had to characterize his feelings for his birth father, it would have been a mixture of hope and gratefulness. Little sorrow clung to his memories. Only security and stability.

Even as he looked now far into the West, a quiet little smile parted his lips. How many times had he invoked the name Gil-Estel in times of need?

Sat and stared at the star and pleaded with whatever Power of the world would listen to watch over Maglor and Maedhros, the only parents he had ever known. He and his twin had been sent away to the havens in the south, far away from the war and far away from the cursed Fëanárioni. Far away from the only parents they had ever known—parents Elrond missed so powerfully it had felt as a stab to the chest with a chilled blade.

Looked to that star in the days after Elros had made his devastating choice to sunder himself from their kin and join the Secondborn. Elrond had pleaded with the unfamiliar spirit hanging so brightly in the sky to watch over his older twin until the day he passed beyond the edges of the world. To help him keep happy and content even in the midst of strife. Because he knew he would never see his brother again.

Even in the aftermath of the War of the Ring, in the aftermath of seeing his childhood best friend being burned to ash like an insignificant ant beneath the boot of a Power of the world, and of watching friends he had known for centuries perish beneath rusted, jagged blades, that star still hung over his head and soothed away the tears that never seemed to cease falling with cool brushes.

Watched over him when he met the love of his life and stood enchanted with her loveliness. Graced their first kiss with its rays as they stood together in the golden light of Lothlórien. And burned like the only light in the darkness that swamped him when she had been brutally ripped away and he was left behind to wither in despair and loneliness.

And now, he stood on his balcony and arched his head upwards, eyes piercingly settled to the West, needing that comfort more than ever before. In the distance, to the east, fire and ash clouded the sky, writhing and shuddering, a demonic glow in the blackness.

Worry as he had never felt before churned in his gut, nearly bringing bile to the back of his throat. For he was here, so far away, and those most precious to him were _there._ With that evil fire.

_"Watch over Estel. Keep him safe, the last descendent of Elros's line. My son in all but blood. He needs your guidance and guardianship more now than ever._

_"And my daughter, my sweet little Arwen, the Evenstar. Keep her strong in these dark times as you have always kept me. Let her love never falter._

_"And watch over my sons as they ride into battle. As they make their choices. Keep them together and watch over them after I am gone from these shores, by death or by choice._

_"Watch all of them after I have left them behind."_

And, somehow, that shining star seemed to glow even brighter at his bidding, casting its own soft celestial light down from the heavens to rival Ithil's full glory in the night sky. And, somehow, that sight alone brought the ancient elf reassurance. Even knowing that his children were riding into battle and could be felled by a lucky blade or arrow. Even knowing that, should Men fail and the world fall to evil and corruption, his daughter would fade into death long before Sauron's forces would reach the Hidden Valley and destroy all he had worked to build.

Even with those twisting thoughts in the back of his mind as an insidious voice of doubt, there was still that hope.

Perhaps he did not view Eärendil as a father in the same way he did Maglor. But, perhaps, he loved the father of his birth in a completely unique manner that had naught to do with familial devotion. And yet this love was no less powerful than the bond which he had woven with his parent by adoption.

Thinking of that untouchable legend smiling down on him gave Elrond strength. And he could have asked for no greater gift in his time of need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárioni = Sons of Fëanáro


	131. Overflow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kinslayings and the war and the insanity are all too much. Amrod has a mental breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a fluffy chapter. Non-con. Murder. Sadism. Unhealthy mental states. Death. Second Kinslaying piece.
> 
> This is related to Cheat (Chapter 5) and Catatonic (Chapter 101) and all related pieces.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Amrod = Ambarussa, Pityo  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë

They marched on Menegroth in the morning with Arien glaring down upon their backs.

And Ambarussa was terrified.

He could not claim or pretend to understand why Nelyafinwë was so steadfastly, fanatically committed to this assault. Could not understand why Turkafinwë licked his lips in anticipation of delight at the thought of spilling innocent blood. Could not understand why Morifinwë looked so horribly _relieved_. Not when all he could think about was _before._

Hardly more than children had he and his twin been when the Noldor had ravaged Alqualondë. When he had been blooded with the deaths of elven kin on those docks. His first kill had lain limply in a crimson puddle, unmoving and pale with a terror-stricken visage, and he had been unable to do more than stare blankly upon his deathly masterpiece. _"I am proud of you,"_ his father had said, but Ambarussa just felt disgusted with himself.

He remembered being sickened to the core. Remembered seeing the horrifying glow of his twin's eyes as they filled with the urge to flee, to betray, to return home to their mother's soothing embrace and days of ignorance in bliss. Remembered lying down to sleep on the far shores with whimpers and sobs ringing in his ears and awakening to screams and flames in the night.

No good came of such endeavors.

And he was _sick_. Sick of war and sick of destruction and sick of violence. Too many times had his blade seen and brought death down upon the heads of his foes—evil and innocent alike—and with each stroke that ended blessed life, it destroyed a bit more of its wielder. Left the nauseating feeling in Ambarussa's gut more unbearable and the clenching of his lungs more suffocating. Until he thought perhaps _he_ was dying.

Yet here he was, following Nelyafinwë into battle. Into slaughter. Without hesitation or defiance.

And it was all he could do not to turn tail and run like a coward. To scream and shout and scorn his kin for their foolishness and greed. Because no matter how much his older brothers wanted the Silmaril back in their possession, it meant nothing to Ambarussa. It didn't mean more than their ideals and it didn't mean more than their lives. It was a worthless rock that did nothing but get people killed everywhere it went. Like a curse disguised in great beauty and purity but tainted by the touch of shadow.

He just wanted to go home and leave these people in peace.

But he would not. Not with Turkafinwë's calculating gaze settled between his shoulders and Nelyafinwë's tall form leading the way. He was trapped between them, two walls of iron will and determination to carry out this atrocity.

"Are you prepared?" Nelyafinwë asked him.

He lied and replied "yes".

When they plunged inside and first blood was drawn, Ambarussa gagged. Before him, Nelyafinwë killed without hesitation, but swiftly and with as little effort as possible. A quick decapitation. A slit throat. A stab to the heart. But Turkafinwë took his time, Curufinwë at his side, nicking opponents until they stumbled and fell to the floor like animals, crawling through their blood and the blood of their families to escape their tormentors. And there was laughter from the silver-haired demon that had possessed the man Ambarussa had once loved, mirrored by the sadistic amusement in the eyes of the dark-haired man Ambarussa had once finger-painted with in their father's study.

It was all wrong. So wrong. Yet when an enemy stepped before him, blade raised in assault, Ambarussa did not even blink. He simply cut the man down. And the woman and child he protected.

Red, red, red, everywhere he looked, overflowing with fear. Inside and out. And black at the corners of his vision. Screams became muted, ringing as distant bells heralding doom and misfortune. Until even that faded, and there was naught but sensation and a blur of color.

Until he couldn't even have remembered his own name. Until he remembered nothing at all.

Reflex and instinct. And numbness. And blackness.

And relief.

\---

He couldn't have said how much time had passed. Only that he blinked and before him there was no longer a flood of screaming and fleeing people with terrified eyes scrambling over prone, mutilated bodies. Beneath his knees there was cushioning softness and his body hummed with bubbling warmth instead of the cold, dull ache he associated with the after-battle fatigue.

Groaning, he pushed himself upwards on trembling arms, found his clothing rumpled and his hair in disarray. Blinking, he beheld at first only white and stone—the wall and the sheets... on a bed...

And bare skin. Bare skin streaked in blood. Red instead of black. And he remembered.

And he stared. Bile rose in the back of his throat as he looked into the most beautiful face he had ever seen, eyes of chipped turquoise and hair woven from the most delicate silk, spread across the bed in waves. An ethereal creature to be worshipped. A phantom lingering in daydreams come to life and flesh.

But the body wasn't moving.

As his vision blurred and his body shot backwards, hitting the floor hard and leaving behind heavy, deep bruises, it didn't even twitch in acknowledgement. It was dead. Dead. Splayed wide open, ravished and _dead._ A corpse. Painted like a grotesque work of art on a formerly pristine sheet of parchment.

And Ambarussa knew—even though he could not remember the screams or the fighting or the horrendous actions that must have come afterwards—knew that _he_ was the artist. His hands, which had been tangled in that veil of shimmering hair, were also sticky with drying blood. It was everywhere. On his skin and his clothes and in his hair.

He couldn't look anymore. The cold wall bit at his shoulders as he rocked. His hands covered his eyes, but could not chase away the image of that pretty young elf still as stone.

_What have I— What have I done?_

Horror and illness building and building, and he couldn't move and he couldn't _breathe._

Couldn't do anything but retch until his stomach ached and his throat burned and his eyes blurred with tears against his palms. In the distance, he could still hear the screams, the cries and pleas for mercy that he had wanted so much to vanish. The shrieks of death throes brought by blade or arrow or perhaps something worse. And he wondered what Nelyafinwë would think if he saw _this_. If he would be _proud._

Wondered if it made him a weak-willed child that he looked at what his hands had wrought and hadn't the strength to pull himself upwards. Hadn't the strength to do any more than shudder and wish he had never departed his mother's bosom. Like a child. Like a coward.

"Pityo?"

The call was far away at first. Distant and echoing on stone. He did not even turn to look. Not when footsteps approached and the door flew open, hitting the wall with a thud. Not even when Kanafinwë appeared before him, face streaked with scarlet and eyes wide with despair. Cold hands clasped his trembling digits, holding his hands away from his face. Exposing him to the light and the shame and the crushing guilt flecked with falling rubies. It took too long for him to register pain. To register the bloody trenches cut deep into his cheeks and brows and the corresponding red buried deep beneath his own fingernails.

"Pityo. Pityo, look at me." He did, but he wasn't seeing. There was a streak of red on his brother's cheek, dripping down to his throat. So very red. "Pityo!"

Overflowing red everywhere. On white skin. In silvered hair. Pooling between soft thighs. All over his hands and all over his naked skin. On his sword and beneath his nails and soaked through his boots. Rivers and rivers with nowhere to go, washing over him in a hot wave of rotten iron stench. The odor of death and sin.

And the terror was still there, no longer held back by the blackness. Kanafinwë pulled him upwards but his legs refused to work, his muscles as inconsistent as water. His eyes refused to open lest he _see_ and his hands covered his ears so he needn't _hear._

It didn't matter that his brother blocked the red-on-white canvas with his body. It didn't matter that he held forth his hands as a flimsy shield against reality. He could still see it. Would never be rid of it.

Long since had his childhood innocence been destroyed. But this had taken away the rest. No solace could there be in life or in death for someone—some _thing_ —like him. Dead upon the floors and dead upon the stairs and dead upon soft white beds with pale faces twisted in terror and agony. And rivers and rivers of blood and pain.

And he couldn't do it anymore. Hadn't the strength to swim. The tidal wave went over his head and he was drowning.

And the turquoise eyes that he saw his dreams—that kept him afloat in the fearful darkness of hopeless war and beneath his brother's insane gaze promising suffering—were now dull and lifeless. By his hands. By his failure and his wickedness.

"Please, Pityo, speak to me..."

But his mouth would not work. His lips would not part. And no words came to his mind that could explain or could comfort or could rationalize. Just the same images again and again. And the touch of death creeping as a stalker at his heels. But he hadn't the strength to care. Hadn't the strength to stand up and fight.

He hadn't even the strength to weep. Just sank further and further beneath the glowing crimson surface, watching the light overhead slowly going out.


	132. Lively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elros and Elrond join Ereinion at the havens and contribute to Círdan's uprooted life. Perhaps for the better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically just twisting of canon for fun and to explain random relationships. Grouchy old elves complaining and such. It's not technical canon that Círdan was amongst the elves to wake up at Cuiviénen, but it's possible and thus became my head-canon.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Gil-Galad = Ereinion

_"You could use a little young blood in your life."_

That was what Fingon had said when Círdan had, at first (and sanely, he might add!), refused to house the young crown prince, Ereinion, in his home as the High King rode off to war in the north. It was absolute nonsense after all! What did an ancient elf like _him_ —a craftsman and a scholar so concerned and entrenched in his trade that he had never even felt the need to marry and procreate—need the company of a _child_ for? 

When he brought it up—expecting sympathy—his housemaid had reiterated the same train of flawed logic, much to his disconcertion. And then she had the nerve to smile at his back after he had muttered about wild young blood and stupid ideas from stupid, reckless young kings. Insubordinate woman!

The Valar had forsaken him to the whims of a young king and his even younger heir.

Ereinion had arrived a month later to uproot his existence.

And Ereinion _had_ been a handful. Even thinking about those early days trailing after a toddling child with sticky fingers and an eager mouth gave him shudders of revulsion and horror. Who knew young boys were so much _work?_

(You wouldn't hear _him_ admit to enjoying cuddle-sessions by the fire. Absolutely not! And he did _not_ find those huge gray eyes utterly enchanting. Not at all!)

Older boys, it seemed, were even worse.

(Because they finally realized that women were not synonymous to poisonous plants. He had to find other ways of scaring the lust out of his hormonal, adolescent male charge.)

And now, the Valar had forsaken him a second time. It seemed that Alqualondë, Menegroth and Arvernien were not the only victims of the cursed Fëanárioni.

 _"I understand if you do not want to associate with_ us, _but Elros and Elrond have_ nothing _to do with our bloody deeds. They are innocent victims. But more so, they are my_ children _in all but blood. And I want them as far away from the ensuing bloodshed as they can possibly be kept. I want... I want them happy and without worry in these dark days."_

And how could he say no to _that?_ Even to a Kinslayer. Círdan _had_ honor. Even if those men whom he helped had little in return.

_"Besides, I hear your current ward is lonely. Perhaps he could use some companionship. I think it would soothe my brother's heart to know Findekáno's son is well and not lonely."_

_Ridiculous._ Círdan rolled his eyes toward the heavens, wondering if Lord Ossë was going to dump a storm over his head and laugh as he was soaked to the bone and left shivering like a wet weasel on the beach. It would be just like that maia to compound upon his suffering! He could imagine the ragged-haired creature watching him from the clouds and laughing like a maniac at how the fates had ravaged his life.

 _Ereinion does not need more help causing trouble. And_ I _do not need two more natural disasters to trail after, picking up the wreckage. I am too old to be watching after elflings. Bad enough when there was only_ one _brat. Now there are_ three.

Elros and Elrond were, indeed, bundles of trouble wrapped up into devilishly handsome, smirking packages that left all the ladies blushing and twittering in the wake of their confident swaggers. Worse still, the boys never seemed to run out of energy even as they aged into young men. No mellowing. No slowing down. It didn't matter if he got them up at the crack of dawn and made them swim up and down the beach in the freezing tide. It didn't matter if he dragged them out to the docks and set them to work lifting and hammering all afternoon in the hot son. It didn't matter if he brought them in and forced them to study well into the evening.

No, they never ran out of energy.

(And, no matter how hard they worked or how well-formed their craft, it was _still_ annoying. There was absolutely nothing about this situation in which to be _proud_. As if those two needed a boost to their egos.)

Add that to Ereinion, who already pestered his guardian—incessantly poking fun at the ancient elf for childish enjoyment—and the resultant mess made the mariner want to pull out his beard in frustration.

And Círdan was _old_. By the time he finished his work on the docks, all he wanted was a pleasant cup of steaming tea and an evening of quiet relaxation without the sound of shattered china or of running from the above levels, a rumbling thunder spreading over his head and sending dust spinning downwards from the ceiling to land in his beverage.

Groaning at the thought and wondering how much trouble those three had gotten into while he was away at work, he turned and walked his way up the beach towards the house as gray clouds gathered overhead and Ossë's deep laughter rolled over him from the distant waves. Hopefully the entire house would not be a pile of rubble when he returned.

He wouldn't have put it past those three.

(Well, they had never _actually_ reduced the house to rubble before. Perhaps just a single wing. All right, so perhaps even that was a touch of an exaggeration, but just a _touch_...)

Simply put, he could not keep up with them. They were lively little sprites of mischief and destruction. If only tying them down would keep them in place for even _five minutes!_ But he had learned the hard way with Ereinion that such a plan was futile.

Sea salt on the wind blasted back his tangled gray mane as he ascended the cliffs and approached the house, standing guard as a citadel over the broad expanse of open water. His boots echoed as he stepped onto the wooden patio and pushed open the glass doors. Inside, the dining room welcomed him, and his housekeeper appeared promptly around the corner with a broad smile and a steaming cup of tea. Thank Eru, someone is this household was still sane!

"Had a long day, milord?" she asked as she set the cup and saucer before him.

"Indeed." He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off a migraine. "And the boys, how was their day?"

"They did not destroy the house, milord."

_Lovely._

She must have seen his face. "Be gentle with them, milord. They are only boys. Boys who are away from their homes and miss their families. Forgive them for being a touch attention-seeking and unsettled."

"Troublemakers, that is what they are," he muttered beneath his breath. He took a sip of his tea and reveled in the slight burn against his tongue and in the back of his throat. Best gulp it down before it could be subjected to impending doom by accidental exposure to wood-dust.

"That might be, but they are sweethearts nonetheless." She put a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "They have done you good. They have done _all of us_ good in these hard times."

_Senile woman didn't know what she was talking about..._

Her heels clicked away over the hardwood floor, leaving him in peace.

Until the inevitable thunder of footsteps overhead.

 _Just boys, indeed. Was_ I _ever this troublesome and uncontrollable?_ He couldn't help but wonder as he stared out the window. The rain had begun pelting down on his heels, and now it was pouring. The panes rattled with millions of tiny impacts to the glass.

"Lord Círdan!"

 _Must they be so_ loud?

(He would have bet his favorite ship that Morgoth heard that shout in the deepest pits of Angband!)

And now his head was throbbing.

They tumbled down the stairs, the three of them, and appeared in the doorway somehow not sprawled all over one another in a heap on the floor. Elros and Elrond were shorter than his first ward by several inches, but all of them sported broad, eager grins, their eyes wide and bright with intrinsic curiosity and a thirst for knowledge. And, inevitably, they spread their smiling disease throughout the room without effort.

(He would _not_ admit that the infectious disease had his lips twitching up at the corners.)

"What do you need, boys?"

"You promised you would tell us about Cuiviénen today!" Elrond, as usual, was the most excited at the prospect of learning firsthand from someone who actually could _remember_ the Awakening of the Eldar and the pure, untouched shores beneath the stars in days long forgotten. A million questions would spill out of that elfling in a rush of ebullient anticipation of answered wonderings, so many that they ran together in a flood that could only be quenched with a dam of lore and anecdotes.

And Elrond _devoured_ tales like a hungry wolf devoured sheep.

"Did I?"

"You did. Remember, I asked about it yesterday! Certainly, you must have many stories of the lands east of Ered Luin. Is it like to Beleriand? I heard there were giant deserts in the east and—"

"Sit down, child, before you _fall_ down." And—thanks to those seemingly innocuous, thrice-be-damned younglings!—Círdan felt a chuckle rise up the back of his throat at their antics. Chairs screeched against the floor (he winced inwardly as he imagined the marks on his wooden floorboards that would need re-polishing) and the three boys were perched at the edge of their seats and waiting attentively for him to begin.

"Well?"

"Impatient," he grumbled.

But really, he couldn't summon the spite to say it even half-seriously. There was an annoying and unwanted bubble of _something_ in his chest that he refused to think was anything but passing gas.

(Except that it was mockingly warm and fuzzy. Stupid Fingon. Stupid children. Stupid housekeeper and her stupid wisdom.)

So maybe she wasn't _completely_ senile in her diagnosis. Much as he hated to say it, perhaps the lively young lads _were_ doing him _some_ good _occasionally._ When they weren't destroying his house and antiques and the surrounding havens. And maybe he _hadn't_ been snapping and snarling like a territorial tomcat _as much_ lately. But only when they weren't running in the house and spilling ink or painting the walls or wrecking his schematics. And perhaps he was a _touch_ more social—with all that running around to and fro cleaning up his wards' messes—and felt a little more alive. A little more vibrant. His blood rushing as a swift creek rather than a lazy brook.

And perhaps they _were_ a touch endearing. Sometimes. When they were quiet and still and polite like proper young adults. With proper manners and clean boots.

(But he would never admit it out loud.)

"Well, in the beginning I beheld the stars, and then the water..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuiviénen is the Water of Awakening where the elves first awoke (and where they were discovered by Oromë).
> 
> Quenya:  
> Fëanárioni = Sons of Fëanáro  
> maia = lesser ainu (holy one)


	133. Remorseful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth of the accidental filicide of Amras Fëanorion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arguments about morals and family and such. Dysfunctional familial relationships. Murder.
> 
> Goes with the canon in which Amras dies at Losgar (not Silmarillion canon)
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Amras = Telufinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Amrod = Pityafinwë

He would have expected actions such as these from Kanafinwë or Nelyafinwë—perhaps even from independent Turkafinwë—but never would he have predicted this sight now standing before his gaze.

Little Telufinwë with wide, infuriated jadeite eyes.

So like to his mother, with the same fiery hair and the same blazing cheeks. Never had Fëanáro seen any one of his son’s look _more_ like to her, in fact, for he could see her stubbornness burning brightly beneath this child’s boyish façade. Potential, pure and untapped. Wisdom, yet to be tempered with experience.

But also compassion and righteousness, neither of which lacked cultivation.

Oh yes, he had expected argument, but he had not been prepared for this field of battle. For the ghost of Nerdanel to come down upon his head like a vision from the past. Or for his youngest child to have inherited such admirable daring as to question _his_ orders when even Turkafinwë balked at rebellion or dissent in the face of the High King.

“Why, Atar?” the little one hissed between clenched teeth. “They are our cousins. Our _allies_. To leave them behind over some petty feud that no longer matters is sheer _madness!”_

The boy did not know of what he spoke.

“It is not out of choice that I have done my brother this disservice. I—”

“I do not believe you!”

And to _cut him off_ —even Nerdanel never dared.

“Be quiet and know your place,” he snarled, brows furrowing downwards into a frightening expression, one which he saw reflected in those beautiful eyes. Eyes filled with horrified fury. And with underlying fear. “Return to your tent at once and sleep, _child_. We _will not_ speak of this again. Do you _understand?”_

“Do I understand?” Panting breaths huffed between parted lips. “No, I do not understand. You told us you were going to tell Uncle Nolofinwë and our cousins. You told us not to worry. You _lied_ to us. And now we sit on these far shores safe and secure, and our family and friends upon the other banks are waiting to die by starvation or by the elements!”

Fëanáro could not help but find the childish argument somehow both endearing and treacherous. Too much pity churned through this boy, a naivety that made the seasoned, ruthless politician deep within the prince cringe.

And he remembered his wife’s words before departing. _“They are boys, husband. Just boys—just children. They know not what you are undertaking—do not understand. But they will, and when they do…”_

“Are you not remorseful at all for what you have done? To your _brother?_ To your _nephews?”_

_“They will fear you. And they will hate you.”_

“I did what had to be done. Traitors and liabilities cannot be allowed to flourish.”

There was a pause, and their gazes held, red-rimmed verdant to wild starlight, and Fëanáro could see it, the resentment bubbling hot and thick under the surface. He had created this child, turned him into a murderer and a warrior too young, before the mind had grown to match the mature, wiry body. 

Telufinwë would not be able to understand. Could not be made to. Perhaps none of them could.

“What kind of monster are you?” the little one whispered, voice but a breath in the dark, filled with fright and disgust. “What kind of a man feels no guilt for slaughtering his own people—and his own kin?”

And Fëanáro hated that that sentence stung sharply in his chest. Hated that a handful of words could ignite a throbbing ache that painfully resembled the very remorse the boy accused him of lacking.

The prince knew he was not much of a father—too busy with creation, too politically involved and too focused on career and endeavors—but despite all of that he _did_ love his children. And he knew that they must have loved him back, for they would crawl through mud and filth pleading and begging if it would win them his affection and approval, not knowing that they already had exactly that for which they yearned.

He did not know how to show them, or how to tell them. That he loved them all.

And Telufinwë—his last son, so tiny as a babe in his arms so long ago, with darkened bronze hair and a mischievous heart and adoring eyes—hated him. Over a single dark decision in a long list of difficult decisions that would come as they settled upon these shores, as they marched into war with the enemy.

Over a decision he would have made the same given the chance to face its two wrong answers once more.

It was not _that_ decision he regretted. All he regretted was that it had come to this.

He loved Telufinwë. Truly, he did.

But as he watched the boy spin around and run from his tent, he knew the child was going to do something foolish and drastic. Something that Fëanáro absolutely could not allow: treason. And it did not take him long to ascertain the reality of his suspicions. To face the next frightening, difficult choice in a long list of difficult choices that rested on the High King’s mind and conscience as he strove to keep his people alive and his revenge within sight.

Truly, Telufinwë had no idea. He was just a boy. A boy who was frightened of his father and yearned for his mother. A chick that had left the nest too soon and taken to the hostile skies without preparation and forethought on shaky, underdeveloped wings.

And such chicks were the first to fall prey to circling predators with sharp eyes and insatiable hunger.

\---

There was no hesitation in his voice when he ordered the ships burned in their makeshift harbor.

He hoped that the pitch of his deep, rolling tones had not wavered tremulously, and that the look in his eyes remained bright and hard as steel to match the vicious, incisive smile cutting its way across his handsome face. If not, at least they might have been shadowed by the thick, loose hair blowing in silken waves over white skin.

And he watched, walking out to stand above the harbor, looking down upon the graceful white ships that had ferried his family and followers across Belegaer. It truly was a shame that they were to be destroyed—at least, that's what he would have said had anyone bothered to ask. In reality, he was not seeing those arched necks, white against black, but seeing something far in the distance. Some _one_ , with her disappointed, beloved eyes and suffocating sadness as her fingers slipped through his grasp. 

As she watched her youngest sons walk away.

Fëanáro gulped.

After this, there would be no going back. But at least Telufinwë would no longer need to suffer the destruction of his innocence and his ideals. Bad enough that his idealistic image of his proud father had been sullied beyond recognition or salvation.

The first sparks were startling—blinding enough to seep through his fluttering eyelids. Red streaks haloed in gold flashing in a display of grotesque artwork. As they spread over white feathers, eating away that beauty molded by loving hands, his mind drew an image of blood. Of the pools of sticky, drying liquid that soaked into his boots as he slaughtered the craftsmen who had poured their hearts and souls into these ships.

Now, the last of their soul's work was dying as they had died—beneath his hand.

And then the screams began. Fëanáro was eternally grateful that, as he stood upon the rocky shore and watched the devastation spreading, he was as alone as a soul could be, surrounded by a curtain of blackness. For he did not think he could have stood the shame had his sons seen him waver so pathetically, seen his knees weaken and his hands tremble.

Had anyone been watching in that moment, they would have seen his body shudder as shrieks broke the night and the campsite came to life in shock and panic below. They would have seen how his head bowed, how his eyes locked on the toes of his boots and his bangs blocked out all sight of the glowing death in the night. They might even have seen how he held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to block out the light.

But it could not be extinguished. And he daren't cover his ears.

His sons, watching him shake in distress, would have known that he was tormented. That he felt pain at the sound and sight, jerking him helplessly almost to his knees.

Many things he had done for which he would never feel sorry. Held a blade to his back-stabbing half-brother's throat. Created the Silmarilli and flaunted their glory in Aman before jealous eyes. Turned his back on the Valar and the cowards who could not bear to remove themselves from under falsely divine thumbs. Even what he had done to Nolofinwë and his nephews and nieces did not inspire the form of guilt that watching the fires below incited.

Because he regretted taking his youngest sons away from their home and their mother—regretted ignoring his wife's wisdom in that matter when she had never been wrong before. Because he regretted that there was no way to correct this error—to protect his sons—and no way to turn back now that the world was ablaze. He could only move forward.

In the distance, the wailing sound of his son burning to death cut off, and Fëanáro felt his throat close in the horror of it.

He was remorseful. But difficult decisions had to be made.

Foolish Telufinwë had put himself between Fëanáro and his sworn vengeance. And that was unacceptable.

Now, the situation had been rectified. But at a terribly high cost.

And Fëanáro would not ask forgiveness. And he did not desire it. He hid himself away in the dark, and no one was there to see him weep. Let them believe he was heartless. Let them believe he was remorseless. The truth need never be unveiled.

\---

There was a knowing look in Pityafinwë's eyes—eyes that shocked him with the ghost of their twins. Hatred, fear and dread swirled, staring up at him, and Fëanáro felt himself sickened to the core by the knowledge that it had been no accident that took away the youngest of their family. He was lying to them. Blatantly and seemingly without care or guilt or sorrow.

And the redheaded child _knew._

Accusation burned brighter than even had the ships in the purest night.

But Pityafinwë never spoke. He never questioned. He never accused. Unlike his twin, he was less his mother's son and more his father's. Subtle, silent and cold. Watching. Torturing. Blaming.

 _"I know you murdered him,"_ hateful eyes spoke. _"And you do not feel remorseful in the least—monster."_

Let his young child ever realize how wrong he was.

Let him believe that Fëanáro was remorseless.


	134. Dismiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Amroth's first meeting with the infamous Lady Nimrodel. Our dear prince has much work to do if he wants this lady's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing this pairing. Sorry that this relationship starts out completely one-sided, but I don't see Nimrodel collapsing into the arms of any sinda like a lovesick wallflower. She hates his guts.

_She_ was standing in the corner—as far away from the twirling, dancing figures and mingling elven diplomats as physically possible—as though interaction with strange folk might pass to her some horrid, foreign disease involving violent rashes and inevitable fatality. But even half-hidden by the thick curtain of shadow, her beauty shimmered beneath the distant white lantern's tentative reach. Eye-catching moonlight refracting into his gaze and blinding him to all else in the room.

The other ladies simply could not compare, for beside her they were dulled, scratched stones to a flawless diamond. Even with two such dull stones twittering on each of his arms, the entirety of his attention was drawn towards _her_. After all, what interest to him were these fawning female leeches, interested only in his position as prince and his nonexistent search for a wife to rule as the next queen?

"Who is the woman hiding back there in the corner?" he asked one of them, not even deigning to look towards the nameless, faceless chit as he spoke.

Dark eyes flashed and narrowed with almost tangible displeasure. The girl wasn't even subtle about her dislike for the more beautiful woman, jealousy burning toxic green around her pupils. "Lady Nimrodel," she replied, her voice pitched low in disdain. "She lives by herself near the river. Because she does not approve of—well—your father's regime. Or you. Or your people. Or anyone who _does_ approve of your position and power in our beloved home."

"Does not approve, hm?" Most of the people of Lothlórien were friendly and all too eager to take up his father, Amdír, as their king, if only so that his marchwardens served as their guardians from the dispersed forces of darkness scattered across the scarred eastern lands. Though they were of different cultures and different lifestyles, the protection offered by the western-dwelling Sindar was a temptation too great to reject in favor of their own fragmented, chaotic tribal organization.

But Amroth supposed that not _all_ of the Silvan elves could have been open and accepting of stranger usurping their territory and their rule. If he were in their place, even he would have had reservations.

Though... perhaps not to _that_ extent...

Mind racing, he followed her with his eyes. Perhaps if he spoke to her...

"If you would excuse me, ladies..."

"She will not speak with you." It was rude and set Amroth on edge, his teeth clamping harshly in a half-bared scowl. He did not know if it was the woman's dislike of Nimrodel that caused her to behave in such an unladylike manner, or if she was just wrapping up the truth in a very unflattering package, but still it did not endear her to him. Certainly, it said little for her "civilization". The prince sent her a cool smile and disconnected their arms.

"I think I shall take my chances," he told her, voice soft but layered in iron. Bowing stiffly, he held the incline of his torso just short of "respectful" and on the blatant side of "you are beneath my acknowledgement and respect" before setting off in the direction of the _angel_ that had captured him with such ease.

The angel who looked up with disdainful eyes of the most vibrant, gloriously clear blue that Amroth had ever beheld. No expanse of the sky could compare.

"My lady," he purred, bowing low with an innately graceful flourish that usually had the women of Thingol's court swooning in the direction of his welcoming embrace, almost begging to slip their arms into the crook of his elbow and spend a night drinking and flirting in the hopes of luring home an eye-catching nobleman husband. "Would you do me the honor of a dance?"

The woman before him was about as far from swooning as a woman could get. Not even a batted eyelash for his troubles. And it had his heart pumping wildly in the cage of his ribs. A nonplused glance in his direction was about all he received. "If I must, Prince Amroth."

She laid her hand upon his arm the way an elf lays hand upon a poisonous serpent poised to strike.

"Of course, you would already know my name, my lady."

"Your _reputation_ precedes you, _my prince."_

And the venom was just _dripping_ from her fangs. _He_ was most certainly not playing the poisonous serpent in this charade. Had it not been for her remarkably civilized, aloof behavior, he might have worried that she would leap forth and bite for the sheer amount of hatred oozing from her gorgeous eyes and the cant of her full, tender lips. The dimples barely hidden by the downturned corners of her mouth did nothing to slow his racing heart.

"Might I enquire as to _your_ name, my lady?" He swung her around and placed his hand upon the curve of her perfect waist. Against his fingers, her silvered hair slid liquid and soft, tickling and caressing until shivers broke across his skin. Her hand rested upon his tense shoulder, and then they began to move.

For an uncivilized wood-elf, she was a remarkably capable dancer, her posture impeccable and her feet flowing without thought into position, as though she had been waltzing through the high courts of royalty for eons. They twirled for a few moments in silence.

"I am Nimrodel, but I am quite certain you already knew that, _my prince."_ Her ice-cold gaze settled upon the women he had been escorting before, the women who were now watching him spin the frigid wallflower herself across the floor with a mixture of pure envy and contempt. Clearly the insidious hatred between the females was mutual.

"Nonetheless, it is a pleasure to make you acquaintance, Lady Nimrodel." He offered her his most charming smile and squeezed the hand still grasped gently between his fingers.

"A pleasure, indeed," she replied. With a voice like the Helcaraxë.

They paused, bodies poised in perfect harmony, staring straight into one another's faces. And his only coherent thought was that she was an angel with eyes that put the skies to shame, something delicate to be revered and cherished. But despite her deceptive fragility, she was no helpless, wilting flower.

Bowing, he kissed her hand. And never once did he glance away. For she outshone every woman in the room with painful ease. And he, the Prince of Lothlórien, knew that she was _the One._

Especially when her hand jerked free of his grasp as though he had stung rather than kissed her smooth skin. Discreetly, she wiped her tiny, delicate knuckles on the fluttering white skirts of her simple silk gown. "If that is all you came for, _my prince_ , I do believe I shall return to my corner in peace. You may show yourself back to your... _ladies."_

She turned her back. And, against his will, Amroth smiled as she walked away, head held high with pride and scorn.

She had completely dismissed him. _Him._ A nobleman's son. A _king's_ son.

And even when he returned to the frittering, flippant _ladies_ awaiting their prized positions as his trophy escorts, the entire evening was absorbed by her brilliance. If asked to recall the next day what he had done at the gathering the night before, he would have said that he gazed at an ainu in the flesh and fell under her spell. And if asked to recall with how many women he danced in the twilight, he would have said _one._

For his eyes never left her haughty form. Not even once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> ainu = holy one


	135. Heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amrod knows what happened to his brother. But he will never tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not-so-accidental filicide. Dysfunctional family. Self-hatred. Companion piece to Remorseful (Chapter 133).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Amrod = Pityafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Amras = Telufinwë, Telvo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro, Curufinwë

He wondered if anyone else could see the guilty glint of satisfaction in those eyes, or if they were all willfully blind.

Brilliant silver, fey and filled with triumph as they looked down over the devastation spread throughout the smoky water below. As the darkness had fallen the night before—lanterns extinguished as sleep spread its blanket over their camp—the swans had settled themselves calmly on the still ocean waters, their necks startling white fading to gray against the starless blackness of the sky. But now there was nothing left. No peaceful rest and reassurance.

Charred remains floated innocently across the surface, as though they did not mark death and destruction. Long since, the flames had gone out and the panic caused by the agonized screams had died down into eerie silence. Pityafinwë remembered with startling clarity all the yelling and stumbling in the blackness, the running and the attempts at first to put out the fires that ate away swan feathers with voracious hunger.

And he could remember hands pulling his away. Voices silencing the chaos. Telling them to cease their useless efforts.

_"The ships are burning on the orders of the High King."_

_"Someone is_ dying _out there!"_ Nelyafinwë, ever the stalwart and righteous, wanting to save the person whose cries had long since cut short. If only he had been successful.

_"It is far too late, my prince. Please, let the ships burn."_

It was not to be.

"It was a tragedy, an _accident_. Had I known that Telufinwë had re-boarded one of the ships, I would never have ordered them burned." Their High King stood before them, his face solemn and his voice filled with magnetic gravitas. "I believe he may have gotten cold feet—may have wanted to... to return back to his mother."

Their father and brothers did not know the youngest son. Not at all. But Pityafinwë _did_.

And yes, Telvo had been frightened. Who _wouldn't_ have been? They had left behind everything they had ever known, had turned their backs on the Valar and sworn an Oath of eternal vengeance against the most powerful and wicked Power to walk the tangible world. And then they had become murderers in the cold blood on the same night in the name of that Oath. But more so than that, their father had then betrayed his loyal family, and Telvo had been disgusted with the actions of the High King, the man who they had trusted with their very lives.

 _"Who does that—to their own brother?" Telvo gasped out. "I wouldn't do that to my worst enemy, let alone to my own half-brother. And for what? Petty revenge over an argument for a crown that doesn't even_ exist _anymore?"_

In their tent, his younger twin had wept, had worked himself up into such a rage and terror that he had been sobbing and pulling his soft curls, scratching his scalp until his fingers came away slick with blood. And Pityafinwë had not known what to do to calm the violent frenzy of emotion. He had not known what to say to make his brother _breathe_ and _think_. Because he had the same doubts and suspicions, felt the same horror. Yet his first murder had not traumatized him the way it had his little brother.

And Telufinwë just hadn't been able to pull himself together, hadn't been able to wash away the blood on his trembling hands.

_"Please, please just lie down. Have some wine. Sleep for a while. Please, little brother," he begged, wrapping his arms about the hiccupping, shaking form. "Forget all about what father has done. Please, do not do anything foolish."_

_"But_ how? _How can I just_ let this lie? _How can I_ respect _a king who has done something so_ heinous _to his own_ family? _To Uncle Nolofinwë? To our cousins? To_ us?"

Watery green eyes had looked upwards, and Pityafinwë would never forget the fury and the determination staring back at him from those depths. At that moment, he had _known_ that he couldn't convince Telvo to change his mind, to drop the blame and forget the crimes.

 _"He has made murderers of us all, brother. Taken us away from our homes and our families. Our brothers from their wives. Our nephews from their mothers. And now he has sentenced men who followed him with unthinking loyalty and devotion to_ death _over a trivial spat!"_

And hadn't he? 

Telufinwë had been something special, a wild creature full of spontaneity and passion without a droplet of cowardice in his heart. Truly their father's son. A man of his own words and opinions, who would not lay back and say nothing at such a slight.

Pityafinwë knew he should have tried harder to make his own arguments heard. Because then maybe... maybe Telvo wouldn't have...

But, fool that he had been, Pityafinwë had heard his brother creep out in the darkness without a word, knowing that the youngest brother sought out their sire with violent words and pure compassion boiling over in the vaults of his heart. Knew that it was a foolish, dangerous path upon which his twin embarked alone. And he had done _nothing._

Now, his brother was dead. And he knew who was guilty. Could feel the weight of his foolish lack of action resting on one shoulder and the weight of the truth of his brother's _murder_ on the other. Father and son—both were to blame, and both knew it.

"Ai Ilúvatar!" Nelyafinwë's voice trembled with sincere horror and disbelief at the loss of a child he had rocked to sleep at night, a child he had kissed and hugged and _loved_ more than their father _ever had done._ "Please, Atar... Atto, tell me it's not... not true..."

Distraught, their oldest brother went forth with wet cheeks and widespread arms, searching for comfort that none of them could offer. And in the pit of his belly, hatred burned for their sire as Fëanáro let the eldest son sob against his shoulder. But despite the contortion of handsome features, those eyes did not change. Not a bit. Not a shimmer of tears. Not a glimmer of remorse. And for all the disgust Pityafinwë might have felt for himself, it couldn't have compared to what he felt for this man _lying_ to his brothers about the death of his own son and for it feeling no regret or sorrow.

Yet, in the end, it seemed Pityafinwë was more his father's son than not as well. Because—though his lips parted to snarl out the truth in all its wicked, heinous glory and watch his father's self-righteous façade of an upset, overwrought father dissolve—no words would depart. No confession of his own stupidity and no admittance of knowledge of their father's undeniable guilt. Nothing but the undeniable truth that Fëanáro _had known_ that his youngest son was aboard one of those ships—he would never had set them afire without warning his followers otherwise—weighing down and down...

It seemed that their uncle had been the first victim. Their brother was the second.

And Pityafinwë couldn't help but wonder _who would be next._

That sickening truth rested heavy upon his shoulders as he watched his older brother mourn. His sightless eyes did not see the pitying faces cast in his direction and his deafened ears did not hear the consolatory comments of shared grief.

He saw only his younger brother's turned back and heard the wild, shouted words between caught gasps and sobs. A phantom he couldn't touch no matter how he reached and grasped. A ghost whose ears would never hear his words or pleas no matter how loud he screamed.

And he never told anyone. Not when his father had died. Not after Nelyafinwë was abducted and held at ransom. And _certainly_ not in the dark days that followed.

He would carry the backbreaking weight of that knowledge to his grave. Further, even. And he couldn't help but wonder if his father—his _king_ —felt that weight at all. If any guilt or self-hatred dragged down the ruthless, nonchalant Fëanáro Curufinwë. Or if the flat reflection of arrogant satisfaction he had seen that day, deep in those starlit eyes, really was the reality, the emptiness and remorselessness lying beneath the infamous genius's impenetrable outer shell.

But he would never get a chance to ask. 

Perhaps, in the end, it was for the better. Had he known the truth, he wondered if he would have had the strength to bear the weight of the disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father  
> Atto = Daddy/Papa


	136. Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Halls of the Waiting offer no comfort for the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connected up with Ballad (Chapter 75) and Afterlife (Chapter 124).
> 
> Depression. Suicidal thoughts/actions implied. Unrequited love. Death. Etc.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Caranthir = Carnistir

Death was supposed to bring peace.

That was what Carnistir had expected when he closed his eyes and waited to meet his end. There had been horrible pain biting between his eyes, but afterwards he had floated on a cloud of pure relief—the greatest relief that he had ever felt—because it was all over. The killing and death were done. The waiting and suffering were done. He would be taken to the Halls of the Waiting, and he would _forget_.

Forget about his brothers and their insanity and their personal tragedies. Forget about his only love and that she was beyond his reach for eternity. Forget about how many men and women had painted his hands with their blood and branded his mind with their dying cries and horrified faces.

All he had wanted was to forget.

But the Halls of the Waiting had not offered him that catharsis.

Days and days of wandering, one sunrise blending into the next through the tiny windows. He could feel neither heat on his flesh nor cold seeping into his bones. No physical pain from the open wound gaping on his intangible body. No soft sensations on bare flesh. Curtains did not flutter at the brush of his fingers. The pads of long digits could not feel the touch of tapestry threads against their calluses.

There was no reality—nothing but what he remembered in his thoughts and dreams.

The torn and aching wound settled in the cavity of his chest to match the hole bored between his eyes. It had been there for longer than he could bear—the wound of his other half throwing away his love and devotion. For centuries, throbbing and burning more violently with each passing day, never dulling, dragging on and on, until all he wanted was to lie down and make it all end.

And he had.

He had hoped—had _prayed_ —that the gray walls would dull the emotional pain, too. But it seemed that the lack of stimulus, the days and days of wandering around looking at moving images of the past woven into the records of time, had done nothing more than acerbate his suffering and intensify his memories. There was no forgetfulness. Only clarity—horrible, agonizing clarity.

Every day, he walked past their story. The Kinslayings staring him back in the face, streaked in blood, twined with the designs of his grandmother's sorrowful, delicate fingers. The battles riddled with defeat and hopelessness, dragging on until there was no choice but to retreat and flee.

But more so than that, there were the stories that no one knew.

Stories of Nelyafinwë’s torture, mutilation and insanity dragging him down into the abyss. Of Kanafinwë’s broken, despairing spirit wandering ceaselessly in the wake of war and death. Of forbidden and unrequited love strangling Turkafinwë until even bonds of friendship and loyalty were shattered in its wake. Of lonely Curufinwë struggling to hold his crumbling family together. Of Pityafinwë’s mind breaking apart under the weight of self-loathing and fear. Even of Telufinwë’s untimely death—of his untimely _murder_ —to prevent his inevitable defection.

But it was still his own story that paralyzed the middle son, left him frozen and trembling with shame and with sorrow. Left him standing still in the twilight, staring into swirling, ever-changing colors, and wondering if he could have done things differently. If he could have changed _something_. If he could have been what his Haleth needed or if they were doomed to failure and sundering from the very start.

And he wondered also at the cruelty of the Powers of the world, to allow their lives to intersect only for them to be torn apart. Or, perhaps, if that collision had been his _punishment_ for sins on the docks of Alqualondë. If, perhaps, Haleth's rejection was just the result of a spiteful or righteous cosmic deity compounding upon the suffering of a House of fools and murderers.

Perhaps, there had been _nothing_ he could have done to change his fate.

But in the end, it didn't matter.

In the end, he knew that all he had done was for nothing. That nothing could change the past written in these tapestries. That nothing could change the fact that Haleth was never coming back. And he was going to be alone. Forever.

And there were two options.

_"Thou canst stay here. I cannot make thee leave."_

Either he would stay here and watch painted pictures revolving in their depiction of history again and again for the rest of eternity, remembering his mistakes and failures, reliving the days of watching his love from the shade of the forest in her waning days of gray, thinking of all the people he had murdered and all the suffering still building to breaking point in his chest, or...

_"But there is another course of action thou couldst take, child."_

Or he could arise from his ashes and move forward.

 _"It is_ thy _choice."_

Sitting around, wallowing in his pain wasn't going to fix anything. He wouldn't heal. He wouldn't forget. And he would be even more alone than alone, with only the comfort of memories to accompany his traversing.

Eventually, there would be nothing left at all, but an empty shell consumed by need for relief.

In the end, there really had only ever _been_ one option. Gulping, Carnistir stared up at his most beloved and hated tapestry. _His_ tapestry. And _hers._ With her face woven eternally into its strands in all its lined, aged glory. The last image—the last _remnant_ —he had _proving_ her existence. That she had even been made flesh and blood, wasn't a mirage that his mind had conjured to soothe his restless, lonely spirit in days of darkness.

The feelings had never dulled, and the certainty never faded, but he was afraid he would forget her face. When he had passed, it had been nothing but a fuzzy afterimage of a dream dripping down the walls of his mind to inevitable destruction.

She was _never coming back._

But he couldn't _let her go._

He could only keep going. Keep walking. Keep dreaming and hoping and praying. The first time, he had given up, and look where that had taken him. No catharsis rested in death and eternal imprisonment in the Halls. There would be no rest no matter which path he took. No soothing or numbing the pain of separation. No salve that could heal the torn edges of the metaphorical hole blowing wide open his heart.

It was going to be hard. It was going to be painful.

"I have made my choice, my lord."

But he couldn't remain stationary. Vital movement was his only chance at...

_"I am so pleased, child."_

At another chance. Even without _her_. Even alone.

He had to keep moving forward.

And at that thought, a helpless smirk curved his lips, bittersweet and curled in loathing. Maybe there was more of his father's blood running through his veins than he had ever suspected. Because he couldn't just lie down here and die from the inside out. Couldn't fade into the background and burn out. The pure Noldorin stubbornness and will to survive would not allow him to give up a second time.

Would not allow him to turn back and spend the rest of his days regretting. The past was over, and it was time for the future again.


	137. Prowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgoth is looking for maiar to seduce to his side. And he's found something special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Origins of Sauron sort of story. Talks about sins and such. Also, Morgoth being Morgoth.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Sauron = Mairon

For the longest time, his brethren remained blind.

Sightless to all that did not please their gazes, within and without, they became vulnerable. Easy prey. Settled into their green little paradise with their perfectly shaped and cut land masses and perfectly measured deep oceans, nesting beneath resplendent brilliance without care or heed to the darkness growing beyond the light of their pitiful Lamps.

Melkor looked down upon their island of symmetrical beauty and scoffed.

They called it perfection.

It was anything but.

For everywhere he looked, there was shadow. They—those conceited, self-righteous dogs of Ilúvatar—could not pierce through any darkness with their sight, nor could they lift the veil of light they had cast over the flaws in their plans and designs. For, though they sought to hide it from themselves, there was no denying Melkor's influence in all that they wrought.

In the creeping, acidic swamps breeding flesh-eating insects and vermin and the dark, twisted creatures clawing their way through the pits of filth beyond sight of naked eyes. In the sickness of all things green and plentiful that slowly spread its way down through their golden fields of barley and their seedling forests now bitter with rotting fruits. In the dread that sent chills down unwary spines and left the faint of heart peering nervously over their quivering shoulders into those lands outside the protection of their blinding creations.

They were more foolish still, though, for they saw neither the physical imperfections tainting their supposed purity (And whose purity was it, truly, when it was the work of mindless slaves scrounging at their master's feet?), nor the black stain of their own hearts entwined with the melody of his theme.

But Melkor _saw._

All those creeping little secrets and thoughts twining through the heads of these supposedly holy, untouchable beings. He prowled through those tangled webs, scenting out the truth beneath façades and lies and treachery. Perhaps he was unwelcome amongst them—for they took _His_ side in the days before corporeality—but they could not hide their true selves from his gaze. Melkor might be disowned and cast aside, but he was still the most powerful of the Ainur.

And all malice lingered within his domain. Calling to him. Fruits ripening so that he might harvest them, steal them away from his maker's armies and bring them into his shadows. Under his command.

Envy and jealousy. Green and burning on the flesh as corrosive acid. Glowing eyes following the forms of others, narrowed with foul emotion. Coveting the talents of others that they themselves did not possess. Coveting the mates of others whose love they had not earned. Coveting the trinkets of others which they could neither duplicate nor take for their own.

_"Look at them. Better than thee. More intelligent than thee. More desirable than thee. More talented than thee. And what did they do to earn their prize? Naught more than thou didst—"_

Greed, also, drew him to its voracious glory. Those who sought more riches and things of beauty because gems and gold and sexual appetites held them captivated. Those who would feast until they sickened and drink until they passed out in the grass, awakening only to desire _more, more, more._ Those who would not settle to be told that they should cease and be content with what they possessed, because the animal within had already become lusty and insatiable.

_"If only thou wouldst do this little thing for me... I have what thou dost need and desire. Just say the word..."_

Fear, too, he likened to some sweet, delicious delicacy surpassing almost any other form of shadow. So easy to manipulate and control—those who feared could be coerced and convinced. They could be made to doubt even the most steadfast bonds of loyalty and friendship. They could be driven to desperation without effort, if only the correct motivation was dangled before their eyes.

_"She does not want thee. I heard that she said thou wert undesirable. I heard that she would prefer another. I heard..."_

And then there was hatred. A little slight here. A little comment there. A slip of the tongue. A meaningless insult taken to heart. And its seeds were planted and growing in the back of the mind, a poisonous tree that branched outwards and consumed everything—thoughts, feelings and lives. All one needed to do was whisper of vengeance and wrath, and a soul filled with the putrid fire and ash of hatred would crawl on hands and knees if only to taste the rich, heady wine of the tantalizing gift he offered on a silver platter.

 _"Thou canst do whatever thou dost wish under my reign. I would not hold thee back, because is it not thy_ right _to take from them what_ they _took from_ thee?"

Followers came to him, some with eagerness and wickedness that he had foreseen in their actions and read as written tongue in their hearts. Some reluctantly under duress, fearing for their lives or fearing the rejection of others. Some to satisfy their own desires, to become more or better or stronger beneath his tutelage and touch.

But they were thralls. Pawns to serve Melkor as the weak-willed Valar served _Him._

It was a special brand of hidden shadow he searched for in the beloved and glorious realm of Almaren beneath the Valar's _watchful_ gaze. Hunting from just beyond the touch of searing gold and silver. Spying through the eyes of his servants. Sifting through the chaotic tangle of thoughts weaving in and out of reality.

Until, at last, he found it.

More than those other things. There was already talent. There was already confidence. There were no solid bonds of loyalty through devotion. No fear could be unearthed within that heart of iron. No emotional attachments to taint the perfection lying before his eyes. This was a diamond in the rough merely _waiting_ for his hand to pluck it from this dull land lacking inspiration, waiting to be shaped and polished and cut it into something amazing, surpassing all other servants and thralls. This was something utterly unique—a discovery beyond imagining and beyond value. Priceless.

For such perfection could not be _created._ It had to be _discovered._

Not hatred, but a detached desire to crush the spirits of others. The sadistic delight in the suffering and punishment of innocents and criminals alike. The pure and untested talent and genius turning the clogs of mind-boggling machinery behind innocent fire-opal eyes and sultry golden curls. A face of absolute wonder and beauty hiding something even more breathtaking.

But it was more even than that.

There was determination to succeed at any cost, and a will to dominate that would crush anyone and anything that got in his way, stifled only by hegemony—by the indoctrinated morals and principles force-fed to all simpering divine underlings. 

Hegemony all too easily shattered. And beneath the wreckage of broken lies and false ideology would be—

Mairon. Beautiful Mairon. His lovely diamond. His unwary prey. Restless in supposed contentment. Eyes straying from his work to daydream about something greater. No fear to manipulate. No greed to bribe. No envy to prod. No hatred to stoke. Only a spirit akin in brotherhood to his own, awaiting wisdom and guidance to free it from the golden cage of laxity and boredom in which the Valar kept it entrapped.

So much potential stared back at him. And he knew from that moment on that he had found what he had been searching for. A right hand. A kindred soul. A black diamond unearthed from the sea of unworthy pebbles.

A spirit hidden away in the peaceful perfection of Almaren, emerald green meadows and golden fields burning in the lamplight, pretending to be another selfless, compassionate and kind-hearted servant of the One. Masquerading before the sightless eyes of the Valar, who did not want to see taint encroach upon their Spring. Who did not want to see the blight in each of their traitorous hearts.

But Melkor, for all his knowledge, had not foresight.

And Melkor did not look into Mairon's eyes twined in vivid scarlet and veins of molten gold and see the terrible harbinger of betrayal. A reflection that should have urged him to turn the young maia to wilting ashes rather than destructive flames. That should have warned of the _uncontrollable_ wildfire raging without halt or obstruction through the cage of his insidious whispers and blackened fingers.

A kindred soul too like to the master's. Too fierce. Too hot. Too determined.

Too selfish and treacherous. A spirit that would serve no power but that which he could call his own.

And Melkor's hunt was too successful, for the prey would become the predator, and eyes created of the earth's blood would prowl through _his_ mind in search of faults to which _he_ was blind. In search of weaknesses to be exploited and traitorous whispers of greed and envy to manipulate. In search of _opportunities_ that could not be allowed to slink past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = Holy Ones  
> maia = lesser ainu


	138. Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin is not motivated by self-interest. And he does everything for a reason—a reason that is rarely pure malicious intent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dysfunctional family. Back-stabbing and betrayal. Extramarital relations mentioned. War and insanity. Unrequited love. Language.
> 
> Connected to Dust (Chapter 93), Whispered (Chapter 120), Obvious (Chapter 122) and Hidden (125).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

There were few things Curufinwë would hesitate to do if it meant keeping safe his family.

And he considered Turkafinwë family—perhaps more so than any of his other brothers. It may have been by chance that they fled south together amidst the ruin of Beleriand and the aftermath of fire and terror—by the whims of fate that their final destinations had become so closely entwined that they could no longer be separated—but he could, at the very least, honestly claim that he would never leave his older brother's side willingly whilst either of them still drew breath. And no force in all of Arda would be able to pull him away without a fight.

He didn't think anyone would understand the connection they shared. Would understand the centuries-younger brother standing guard over his older sibling with unceasing vigilance.

But none of them _knew_ Turkafinwë. Not the way Curufinwë knew.

They saw something uncontrollable and frightening and filled with shadow. They looked into those silver eyes and saw the reflection of a monstrous phantom, a nightmare created to simplify complicated truths and complex webs of lies and rumors. They looked at his brother and saw the return of Fëanáro in all his insane, terrifying glory.

That image couldn't have been farther from the reality of his older brother.

They didn't see the love-struck, hopeful man left shattered in the wake of betrayal, used by that Sindarin whore and thrown aside like trash. They didn't see the distant, wistful longing in despairing eyes as he waited for _her_ even knowing she would never return. They didn't see rows and rows of cuts bleeding out—both tangible and untouchable—carved into vulnerable flesh and soul.

They didn't see the soft underbelly of Turkafinwë, the broken child crying in the corner, missing the vast green fields so beloved to his heart and the towering treetops and forests in which he made his home in the days of peace and innocence. They didn't hear the vivid memories coming back to haunt in the night—the screaming and the begging and the cursing—leaving the awakened older brother shuddering and sweating in the dark.

 _They_ didn't come home to find blood everywhere and blank, flat eyes staring at the walls, thoughtless and numb to the outside world. In the morning, Turkafinwë never remembered harming himself, never remembered crying or wailing.

But Curufinwë _did._

And he would do anything and everything to help. The hurts on the outside, he could bandage and heal. The others...

Well, they were more complicated to bandage. And he didn't think it was possible for the festering wounds to heal fully, not when the poison flooded through darkened, sickened veins could not be withdrawn.

He was called Curufinwë the Crafty for a reason, though. Ingenuity ran through his blood.

And he found other ways of keeping Turkafinwë balanced on the edge of madness and coherence. Found other ways of stitching up open lacerations and soothing deep bruises. And he didn't care how many others were injured in the process, because nothing mattered more than keeping hold of the last tenuous strands of his brother's hope and sanity.

Because, while others worried about his brother exploding into a murderous rampage and killing innocent bystanders, Curufinwë worried about coming back to their chambers one day to find his brother with slit wrists and empty eyes.

Much better that he whispered little black lies into his brother's ears and sent the problem-infested man off to uproot some stuck-up noblewoman's reputation and expose her for the prostitute she was. Better that he slandered the king's favorite councilors in his brother's hearing and left Turkafinwë's sadistic tendencies to spread those words to every available ear within two hundred leagues of Nargothrond.

Better that he took his brother out into the wilds every two weeks and let him slaughter animals and enemies alike to his heart's content—until there were no more bodies to bleed and no more innards to spill. If ending lives and dancing around in oceans of blood made Turkafinwë smile and laugh instead of scream and rave, Curufinwë would line up hundreds of leagues worth of sacrifices to be cut down beneath his brother's blade the same way his brother had been cut down beneath the selfish lusts and desires of the object of his fascination and infatuation.

And if he had to go behind his brother's back, he would do that, too. 

He lied. He coerced. He had even threatened Artafindë for the sake of his brother, tried to break his cousin's unbreakable honor if it meant that there would be no foolish quest to solidify the love of that horrid Sindarin princess and her sleazy human toy. That there would be no chance of consummation of the relationship tearing his brother's mind apart. That there would be not even a miniscule chance of a Silmaril being uncovered from the iron crown.

And he would make the king—his king and lover and foe and friend—into his next sacrifice if Artafindë dared to stand in his way.

Anything to staunch the bleeding cuts rent through the man that had once been his brother. Anything to keep the remaining sense of self from spilling out like sand between his fingers.

Looking into the blue gem-eyes of the king, he knew that Artafindë understood, even though the king did not agree—did not want to forswear his own oath in favor of his former friend and current lover. Not only did the king understand that Curufinwë would do _anything_ to keep safe those who he held close to his heart, but the king knew that by stepping in the way of Turkafinwë's reckless and destruction love, he risked his reputation, kingship and mortal life.

Knew that Curufinwë would remove the obstacle he presented in the path to salvation if he dared make himself into the enemy, if he _helped_ Beren further destroy the little hope left that kept Turkafinwë from completely losing himself in the flames and shadows.

Knew who Curufinwë would choose. Every time.

No one could be allowed to harm that which he held most dear. And if all those around him viewed him as a two-faced, backstabbing traitor, he could not have cared less. Artaresto could continue to hiss slimy insults at his back and spy on his "secret" liaisons with the king, calling him a whore and a murderer just within hearing. Telperinquar could continue to look the other way as his father ripped apart the king's bonds of loyalty with his subjects, could continue rejecting his family members with blatant disgust under the false banner of morality. And Turkafinwë could continue to remain oblivious to the stark manipulation rampantly weaving in and out of his life—oblivious to the fact that his own brother was the puppet-master forcing Nargothrond's political atmosphere to dance to a new tune of chaos.

Curufinwë did not care what anyone thought. For they could not hate his shadowy image of malice and betrayal half as much as he would hate himself if he laid back and did nothing whilst his brother slipped away like water through cracked glass. If he became the one man he despised with toxic passion. If he became his _father_ , who would throw away family without hesitation or remorse.

If there was one way in which he could never compare himself to ruthless, impassive Fëanáro, it was in that his family came before anything and anyone else—above oaths, promises and revenge. And that was _his_ pride and salvation, his damnation and sacrifice.

He would never stand down and never give in. He would be as an iron and adamant shield. No one would shatter the fragile glass heart hiding beneath a shell of wrathful wildfire and icy amusement. Not whilst he still drew breath. Not whilst he still had the power to staunch the blood-flow and stitch shut the gaping wounds.

Not whilst he still had the strength to protect. And to heal.


	139. Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else think that the deal Amroth makes with Nimrodel seems a little unfair? Because I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, yeah, there went the perfect romance. Sorry that I seem to hate on female characters so much.
> 
> Basically more doomed romance. Still haven't made up my mind about Amroth, but being the sap that I am, I'm really, _really_ tempted to make him live. We'll have to see.

She loved him. Truly, she did. More than she had ever loved anyone before or ever would love anyone again. And she did not enjoy seeing him in such agony—his glorious blue eyes that looked upon her with such tender adoration suddenly darkening with pain, shadowed beneath furrowed brows. He looked as though she had pronounced his execution rather than...

"I cannot marry you."

And she couldn't. 

His hands embraced hers, squeezing with reassuring, tantalizing warmth and safety. Ever would she feel protected within the circle of his arms, but no deceptive veil could shield the truth from her eyes, and no amount of affection would make her blind to reality.

"I love you," he whispered against her lips. His brow pressed against hers, his loose hair falling about them as a curtain, a false defense. "I know not what else to say or do to prove myself and my devotion to you. And I do not understand what I have done to push you away. Have I made a mistake? Or... or is it that you _do not_ feel the same way, Lady Nimrodel?"

"I love you in return, my prince," she replied softly, her voice low, hardly more than a breath. "Never doubt my love for you, my light in the darkness."

But he was the _king._ The king of a realm that she had once loved, which was being corrupted from all sides by evil and by war. Brought low with taint and shadow. By _his people_. To become the queen of these golden eaves and evergreen trees would be little more than a lie, a slow-acting poison that would drag her down into gray death and destruction. As queen, she would have maintain a united front with her spouse—would have to _agree_ with her spouse. And to agree with her spouse, she would have to let go of all the ideals and all the dreams that had ever defined her person.

She would have to become another woman. And Nimrodel could not throw away everything important to her—all the pieces of ideology and belief that, put together, _created_ her—for the sake of a man. Not even Amroth, whom she loved with all her soul despite their disagreements and differences.

She could not subject herself to the inevitable hatred and suffering that wound follow if she allowed herself to be immersed in the life of a caged queen. Would not allow herself to fall into the trap that led to despair. For she never wished to look upon Amroth's face with anything but the purest love, and though he loved her in return and would do anything to make her happy, she knew that eventually blame and resentment would seep between the cracks of their relationship. No amount of affection could remove the whispered words and the leery, foreign eyes. Eventually, it would become too much to bear.

Thus, if there was one undeniable fact, it was that she could not coexist with these strangers from the west. And, no matter how much she loved Amroth, she needed to leave this place, to go east and find somewhere untouched by the growing darkness and strife that seemed to overtake the world wherever "civilized" folk roamed.

"Then... then why? What can I do...?" Hoarse and desperate, he held her against him, his arms bands of warmth over her back and his fingers sending shivers down her spine as they stroked tenderly through her hair. "What can I do to make you agree to stay with me?"

How very much she wished that she could reply "nothing" and not feel her conscience shredding beneath the claws of guilt.

Why did he have to be so heart-rending? Why did he have to be so _honest?_

Why did he have to love so _much_ and so _deeply?_

It should have been easy to throw this relationship away, to turn her back on his devotion, because she had been prepared from the very start for their failure. He was a sinda and a prince, a self-absorbed, conceited, "civilized" man who scoffed down his nose at her people.

Except... except he didn't scoff. And he wasn't the conceited nobleman she imagined when she pictured the high courts of the Sindar flaunting their "wealth" and "intelligence" over the peoples of the forest. He was everything she had ever contemplated in a mate.

And she wanted to stay with him. But not at the cost of herself and all she else loved. And that gave her the fortitude to part her lips.

"There is nothing you can say or do." And she hated the blackness of betrayal and disappointment that seeped into his eyes with her harsh words, hated the way he drew back as if she had slapped him with all the scorn and hatred she carried for his people. "I cannot marry the King of Lothlórien."

She hated how expressive his wonderfully gorgeous, handsome face could be, how that little crease formed between his brows and his teeth nibbled at his lower lip. How clearly and utterly destroyed he looked as he stood before her, eyes downcast and glowing with tears that he would never allow to fall.

Why were the Valar testing her in this way?

"But if I were not the king, would you marry me then?"

Shocked, she looked up into his eyes, those determined and bright orbs filled with sudden hopeful flame, burning away cobwebs of sorrow.

"I would... I would never think to ask you to surrender your birthright for me." Could she really expect him to throw away all that he loved and cared about, all he had worked for, just because of the woman he loved—especially when she could not do the same? "I would never think to ask you to give up what you believe in and what you worked hard to achieve in order to make me happy, Amroth."

"But I would." His breath was hot over her cheek, his eyelashes a flutter against her skin. "If I abdicated, I could live with you by the river. Just the two of us. No politics. No power struggles."

And _how she longed_ to say _yes_. But this offer would change nothing.

"I cannot... Amroth, I cannot stay here. Please, make this no more painful than it needs to be. We were not... we were not meant for one another..."

"We _were_ meant for one another." Their bodies pressed together, his hard muscle to her soft curves, and they fit together so perfectly, as one creature entwined. "I will give up the throne. My cousin Celeborn and his lady wife can have ruler-ship of Lothlórien. I never asked to become king, and I never wanted to become king. If you ask me, I will give up _everything_... Just stay with me..."

And Nimrodel hated herself for the idea that writhed its way into the back of her mind at his unthinking words of utter devotion. At the word _"everything."_ Hated that her heart was so selfish and greedy as to take advantage of his willingness to sacrifice.

But it was the only compromise her mind would accept, though her heart longed to be generous.

"Come away with me," she whispered, reaching up to frame his sun-kissed face in her palms, to trace her thumbs over the rise of his cheekbones and to rake her fingers through his silken hair. "Come away with me—to somewhere peaceful where there is no war and no violence—and then I will marry you, my prince."

"Away with you?" And the hope—no longer a mere ember, but a blazing fire—in those words stung her like a toxic dart. Because she knew she didn't deserve this man. She hated his ideals, his morals and his people, and still he loved her enough to give up everything he knew so that she would be content. Would that she could pay him back in full for his love, but Nimrodel did not think she ever could give him a gift as precious as that which he had offered her when he spoke...

"I will, if that is what it takes to make you happy." His hands came away from her, but only to remove the band of his House and place it instead upon her slender finger. "I will abdicate, and we can go wherever you wish, just please...

"Please, marry me?"

Traitorous tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Gulping heavily, she tried to rid herself of the throbbing lump in the back of her throat, the one that left her voice wobbly and caught with horrible joy and shame. "Yes," she gasped. "If you keep your word, yes, I shall marry you. My prince."

And he laughed in such pure _relief_ that her heart sank. "I will not be a prince." His smile could have lit Anor a thousand times over.

"You will always be my prince," she replied, wrapping her arms about his neck and clinging tightly. For she was a greedy creature, and she never wished to allow him to leave. And now, she would have both her prince and her peace. The epiphany of her own selfish love left her trembling and sobbing even as his devotion touched her to her very core and shook apart the foundations of her prejudice. 

And if her face was hidden from his sight—her escaping tears from his pure joy—it was for the better. She would not allow herself to spoil this wondrous moment for this indescribably perfect man.

Because, for all her mind called it a compromise, she knew the true manner of this transaction—of this forbidden love affair between two individuals living in opposite spheres of reality. And she knew that he was doing more than conceding a little to her whims and demands.

He was sacrificing.

And she could not sacrifice in return. She could only take and take.

And hope that one day she could find a way to pay back this immeasurable debt. To give.


	140. Impulse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wondered why Gelmir was blinded? Has it ever occurred to you that Sauron never makes an appearance in the Fifth Battle? Both happened to me. And this is the result. Blame the prompt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just about all the nasty shit in the warning tags appears somewhere in here. Thou wert warned.
> 
> Connected to Defiant (Chapter 102) and Powder (Chapter 103).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto

He hadn't meant for it to happen.

But no one in these conditions could be blamed for spontaneous breaks. Months of starvation, of shadow, of torture. Everyone had a breaking point. And the former prince had just reached his—had completely snapped and taken leave of his senses and rationality for just that briefest moment in time.

Luckily—or unluckily, depending on one's point of view—the Lieutenant of Angband himself had been just a little too close to the elf in the midst of a psychotic episode.

Apparently, said Lieutenant had overestimated Angaráto's abilities of toleration. Or perhaps he had just chosen the wrong lever to pull. Child murder, brutal rape and sadistic torture had yet to push him back the point of no return—why then should talking of his niece make any difference?

As said Lieutenant's face was currently sans his iridescent, wickedly flaming eyes. The mangled remains of the orbs, orbs which had been driving Angaráto absolutely senile with their constant mocking observation since the beginning of his permanent incarceration, now lay on the filthy floor of his cell, trampled and squashed and smeared with blood and unknown fluids. It was, apparently, all he had managed to grab of his tormentor other than the handful of golden hair still clenched tightly in his fist, bits of scalp and blood clinging to the roots.

_"We will find her, thou shouldst know, the Princess of Nargothrond. Thy niece, no?"_

That piece of filth just _could not_ cease speaking and taunting. For days and days. When he was not torturing an innocent bystander in his favorite prisoner's stead, he was standing just beyond the jagged, rusting bars, smiling that broad, gleeful grin of a sadist whose hands were covered in blood and whose ears were filled with screams—whose lust was satiated to their heart's content.

_"Maybe I should have a taste of her myself," the Lieutenant added, coming within arm's distance of the bars, sultry features contorted in feigned ecstasy, "before I hand her over to my servants for fun. Or for breeding."_

And who could blame him for feeling rage curl like a knife's icy tip in his gut? For shuddering and boiling from the inside out with pure hatred and revulsion?

For feeling the cracks in the walls of his iron will suddenly widening beneath the earthquake of his visceral emotions—a shattered dam releasing thousands of tons of blocked and boarded impulses. All the times he had curled his fists at his sides. All the times he had bitten his tongue and lips until he tasted copper. All the times his nails dug so deep into flesh that crescents of blood were born upon white skin.

All the times he thought of what he would do if ever that swanlike throat formed of sculpted alabaster and draped with ringlets of molten gold came _too close—_

 _"I can almost taste her now, my slave." Fingers reached inside, curled in Angaráto's hair and fisted, pulling him face-to-face with the monstrous creature of deceptive beauty. A tongue, burning flesh as acid, swept over his cheek and lips. "Mayhap she would taste like_ thee, _little prince, so_ sweet..."

It was a shame that tongue has escaped his malice. But even so, Angaráto doubted his foe would be sliding the slimy appendage between the bars again any time in the near future. Not if he wanted it to remain attached.

The eyes were compensation enough, though Angaráto would personally have preferred the vocal chords. Then, at least, he would not have to listen to that slippery, seductive voice imparting its parables and threats and promises as sweet dripping honey laced in venom.

And now, he stood strong and unyielding before the gates to his hell, awaiting his sentence.

"I certainly did not expect _that,"_ came those same dulcet tones rolling from the tongue that had just defiled his face. "Thou art even more defiant than I had expected, slave."

Angaráto said nothing. He would not speak to that _abomination_. Would not give that monster the _satisfaction_ of knowing how he had slipped beneath the prince's thick skin like a bloodthirsty parasite.

"Now, now, do not be like that." For someone whose eyes had just been ripped brutally from their skull, the Lieutenant was still rather talkative and cheerful. He now had a strip of leather tied about his head, covering the empty, gory sockets, though blood still dribbled down his porcelain cheeks and stained his velveteen finery. "I see I need to work harder to instill obedience upon thee, yes?"

As if he would _ever_ obediently roll over and play dead for that _thing._

"Why not bring me another thrall, my servants. I think punishment is in order."

_Another thrall?_

He did not regret what he had done to the Lieutenant. Not in the least. Even now, his blood slithered and spat within his veins, throbbing violently under his skin.

But this was a new game. One that left a sinking feeling settling into the pit of his stomach, dragging him down until his knees wobbled and nearly collapsed. And, before he thought to protest such heinous cruelty or offer himself up to the psychotic Lieutenant of Angband as payment, already there was before them a skinny, malnourished thrall with wispy pale hair and an ashy look in his eyes. Hatred and fear and the dreadful dullness of hopelessness stared back at him.

A worker from the mines. He could tell by the bend of the spine and the calluses of the splayed, dirtied feet.

"This is Gelmir of Nargothrond," the Lieutenant introduced, as though he could actually _see_ the newcomer. "Thou shouldst see, my lovely slave, what happens when thou dost act out without thought. Because it will not be _thee_ who suffers my wrath, but thy whipping boy."

Confirmed. The dread was worth its weight in iron, settled deep in his stomach. Angaráto felt _sick_.

"An eye for an eye—that is the saying, no?" Laughing, the golden-haired beauty turned towards the shuddering, cowering thrall. "Or, in this case, two for two."

"You are a sick bast—"

"Now, now..." Fingers caught his face again, nails running with false tenderness over the curve of his cheek. "Sit back and enjoy the show, my dear... After all, it is _thy_ punishment."

He could only watch in horror as the other slave was dragged forth. As manicured fingers tipped with long crescent nails descended upon that terrified face.

And then there came the screams.


	141. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angrod knew the Dagor Bragollach was coming. How could he not? But still, he did nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions war. Alternate take on motivations once more. Obviously not quite canon-compliant.
> 
> Probably connected with Defiant (Chapter 102) but not directly. Also connected to Older (Chapter 40).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Edhellos = Eldalótë

It settled over the world, a disquieting stillness. The land stretching across the north and south seemed to hold its breath. The birds ceased their twittering. The wind seemed frozen in mid-flight. And the people felt nervous and uncertain, their eyes tracing the darkening skies, waiting for something to break over their upturned faces.

Smoke rose from the mountains to the north, acrid and black.

It set Angaráto's teeth on edge.

Any experienced warrior could feel the change of atmosphere, the heavy tension sinking down into his bones and settling into fidgety discomfort and agitation crawling across his skin on a spider's spindly legs.

After so many years of wary rest, that feeling was creeping back up his spine. And the prince _did not_ like it. Much as he desired to destroy the Black Enemy, he more so desired the long, watchful peace that was cracking and shifting. That shield would not hold for much longer. The hush would burst into storm and downpour upon their heads.

"You can feel it, too, can you not, brother?"

Aikanáro stood beside him, gold-spun hair fluttering about his stone-carved features. Out of anyone who desired to hold war at bay, it was his brother, though the youngest son of Arafinwë was a warrior of great reputation and renown.

Most only knew him upon the battlefield. From afar, he seemed a resplendent flame all his own, and enemies floundered and cowered before his oncoming charge with terror. Fell Fire, their mother had named his younger brother, and it was as prophetic as any name christening his cousins in beauty or temperament. The filth of Angband may as well have burned to ash just by brushing against that spirit for all the fury and power coiled within its confines.

But the people knew him naught elsewise. Knew not the frightening man clawing at this stillness, trying desperately to hold down the diaphanous veil and keep panic from spreading beyond the window into reality that it kept hidden. Keep knowledge of coming violence and death from disrupting the lives of their people.

And Angaráto understood. Truly, he did. His brother loved like he fought, with all his heart and spirit and determination.

And he wanted to protect Andreth in their last days of companionship. Old and white was she, and her bent, willowy body was slowly falling to pieces. It would not be long now—she would pass beyond the edges of the world, and Aikanáro would _throw_ himself back into the war, would rend their foes apart with newfound passion and need to erase the pain of losing his One.

Angaráto could not claim to understand fully, but sundering from one's love was already taxing enough. The hope that he would one day again behold his beloved Eldalótë's face kept him from giving in, from falling on the field of battle or to the following days of depression, but also kept at bay his innate recklessness. 

His brother would have none of that. Nothing to hope for. Nothing to wait for. Nothing to return to.

And nothing to lose.

That, more than anything, made Angaráto's bones _ache_. If only there were words to speak. If only he knew what to say.

But what _was_ there to say? These were the last days his younger brother would _ever have_ with his One—the only woman of whom he would ever fully and completely give all his being into the keeping—and that they might be shattered too early by the cruel design of the enemy only made worse that thicker-than-butter tension settled as a blanket over his dominion.

He should have broken the peace. Should have alerted the High King. Should have his warriors at full attention, training their days away in preparation. But they would not rise to the occasion without the call of their prince. And their allies would not stir their own armies without word of need.

And Angaráto was confined to silence. Beside him, his brother waited, eyes watching...

"Yes," he whispered in response. "I can feel it."

They did not look at one another. That would have required further speaking—further knowledge of understanding.

That would have required that they break the silence.

Instead, he grasped his brother's elbow, squeezing in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, and turned away from the open skies and the valley of their kingdom stretching beyond sight into the distance, towards that smoke tainting the horizon. Towards the harbinger of chaos and death.

And even as he walked away, Angaráto could not help but feel that something terrible was about to happen. Deep, deep down in the very core of his being, it itched and writhed and twisted until his fingers clenched into fists and trembled with the tense cords of muscle. He could feel it in the stillness, that quiet that laid itself over the land—that slipped its fingers over every man's lips and dragged cold fingers down every warrior's spine.

He could not help but think that, when the shield of feigned peace broke and released the floodgate of war, he would lose all that was dear to his heart in the resulting destruction. He would lose his brother and his kingdom and his people. Maybe even his pride and hope. Maybe even his life.

And he knew that Angband was stirring once again. 

But, even so, he would not call an end to the peace. Not yet. Not without trustworthy, undoubted knowledge of the Enemy's awakening.

Because, if he did, Aikanáro would never forgive him.

It should not have mattered. Such bias should not have played motive in the decisions of the prince. Such selfish feelings should not have been allowed to jeopardize the safety of his people. But Angaráto understood—at least a little—and had their places been exchanged, he did not know that he would have been able to forgive _his_ brother either, should peace be broken before the time had come. Not when days were numbered and the end was neigh.

Not when these last days were the only days Aikanáro would ever have to remember. The only days he would ever have to cling to when that hush was overrun with cacophony and the land was laced with fire and ash.


	142. Morals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The realizations of a son of the House of Fëanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, focused entirely on an OMC named Ilession who appears only in Villain (Chapter 23) and Worst Day (Chapter 24). Technically he's Manafinwë Makalaurion, and, like Celebrimbor, he disowned his family. He is also completely a figment of my imagination, but he was spontaneously created and refused to go away. Erestor is a canon character who is non-canonically also a Makalaurion.
> 
> In case it's confusing, this is in the Second Age shortly before the Battle of the Last Alliance and is very experimental. All characters need characterization, after all.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

The world of morals was a gray and confusing tessellation. It could not be defined with straight, organized lines and shapes and ideals. There was a miasma of color, confusing to behold and impossible to follow, one that led into a dizzying spiral of senility if left to its own devices.

That much, at least, Ilession had learned over his many long years of service to his king and his people. In service of the only family he had left to protect.

He had done many things his younger self would once have sneered upon in utter disdain and disgust. Tortured. Mutilated. Murdered. Things that were _wrong_ , his young image screamed in the back of his mind, no matter the context or the situation. Things that should bring shame down upon him in great waves and leave behind a broken and battered aftermath full of guilt.

But thus was the life of a spy. And the fortress of Barad-dûr was an unforgiving prison.

Beneath the watchful eyes spitting fire and brimstone, Ilession dared not even for a moment hesitate or cower in fear and uncertainty, for any weakness could be exploited and any second thoughts could be questioned. Wholly and completely, he needed to belong to his master's service. No questions. No hesitation. No remorse.

No compassion.

And, on a lucky day, Sauron would not even glance twice in his direction. His master and teacher would merely give him simple instructions and send him on his way without care or concern.

On an unlucky day, there would be interrogation.

And Sauron enjoyed the pain of his servants every bit as much as he enjoyed the suffering of his enemies.

Cuts, bruises, burns and welts—there was nothing much short of permanent crippling and mutilation that Ilession had not experienced by now. His body was riddled through with scars, six fingernails were slowly re-growing and two of his slender digits were well and truly missing altogether, no doubt having been thoroughly digested by whatever pet werewolf which they had been fed to for easy disposal.

But none of that mattered.

It didn't matter that he sat through hours of agonizing torment for his master's enjoyment and amusement. It didn't matter that he met familiar faces of friends in the dungeons and turned away from their cries and pleas for help. It didn't matter that it was _his_ job to break those poor souls into a million shards that could no longer be pieced together into a sane person. It didn't matter that, when finally came the moment that he severed apart their minds, they looked upon him with such terror and betrayal, as though he were a true traitor to the cause. He refused to feel pity or sorrow or guilt.

It didn't matter, because everything he did, he did for family—for Gil-Galad and for Elrond and for Erestor.

His definition of right and wrong had changed.

Once upon a time, he had scoffed at his father's insistence that war was a necessity. Scoffed at his uncle's insistence that their Oath _must_ be kept. Scoffed at his brother's wholehearted agreement thinking it naivety and foolishness.

Scoffed when he was told that there was _no other way_ to keep safe and secure his father's broken family but to slaughter the innocents of Doriath and destroy the Havens of Sirion. Because how _could_ there be no other way? How could his father and uncles revel in such death and destruction and _sin?_ How could they believe it was _right?_

Yet, standing where he was—one of the most loyal and faithful servants of Gil-Galad—deeply entrenched in the territory of the Dark Lord, a student of torture who smiled gleefully at drawn blood and screeches of agony, he thought perhaps he understood. Understood that morality wasn't as simple as black and white right and wrong. That, in the end, perhaps there really _wasn't_ a perfectly flawless answer untainted by wickedness—that pure white was a fantastic, unrealistic dream.

Understood that, when Makalaurë begged him to listen and follow, it was protection and salvation of Nelyafinwë and his children that he sought to secure. Understood that, when Nelyafinwë would not throw away their quest to save innocent lives, it was because the redemption and fulfillment of his younger brothers lay on the line—prisoners of doomed fate—as well as his own sanity.

He understood why they had not been able to surrender—to give up and let go of those ridiculous stones. That same blood flowing with wrathful flame and vigor ran frenetically through his own veins.

And no matter the cost, he would not cease his work here in the darkest hell still within the mortal realm. Would not cease from stripping flesh of his allies from their bones, from whipping skin into raw and bloody chunks or from standing by and watching rape destroy light and hope in wild eyes. This was for his king and his friends and his brother and his cousins. This was for his family.

And family came before all else—oaths, promises and idealistic morals.

Or perhaps that was the moral which defined his existence.

Because the thought of seeing Gil-Galad's dead and broken body spread across the ground in a bloody mire as had been his father's—a vivid display of disrespect and mockery at the enemy's armored feet—gave him the strength to ignore screams and torture until bodies gave out in terror and pain. Because the image of his little brother—his beautiful, snarky Erestor with his huge, dark eyes and shy little smile—pinned beneath these monstrous servants of Sauron because of _his own failure_ and ravished to death made him cold to his bones. Left his blood rushing with enough potent rage and fear to slit throats without second thought and watch crimson splatter across his face, clothes and boots, soaking into the black ground, and not feel a single droplet of remorse.

Thinking of his family losing the long and bloody war—of his master gaining complete and tyrannical dictatorship over all the free peoples of Middle-earth and parading them in chains—gave him the vehemence and courage to do whatever was necessary to gain information and pass it through enemy lines. Even if his actions were _wrong_.

Terrible things he might have done. More still he was certain he would be tasked to complete before the end of this tenure in Mordor beneath the hot breath of Orodruin and the stinging gaze of those glowing, volcanic eyes. But it was worth it in the end.

Morals be damned and shattered. And redefined.


	143. Engage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor discovers his calling (with a little bit of pushing in the right direction).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive Fëanor for his childish disrespect towards most forms of artwork and craftsmanship. He's just being bitchy and melodramatic. I happen to rather like watercolors, actually.
> 
> The imagery for Aulë's Mansions came from somewhere in the _Book of Lost Tales_ , and even then I left stuff out and changed a couple of things. It _is_ fanfiction, after all.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Boredom. Pure, mind-numbing boredom.

That was what occupied the days of the Crown Prince of the Noldor.

There was only so much he could do within the confines of his father's spacious, unchanging palace. Long since had the library and its not-so-endless supply of literature lost its appeal. There were, of course, courtiers to speak with, but their minds were consumed with political hum-drum and gossip and naught else of interest. And there was always artistic and scholarly work left half-completed and scattered about. Mathematical timetables and calculations, architectural schematics, the bare-bone structure of written linguistics and a _truly_ endless supply of white canvasses in need of watercolor decoration.

After the first hundred times, few of those things interested him. Painting was his least favorite exercise, as it took no concentration or thought and did not release any of the intuitive jitters of creative inspiration writhing like parasites beneath his flesh. Following that were the mathematics at which he was extremely talented but about which he found himself unenthusiastic in the application towards building projects or clothing measurements.

As for written language, he had _created_ it and left the fine-tuning to those who had reason to use it. For what did the Crown Prince have to write but anecdotes outlining the true horror of being born into the single-parent family of the sole ruler of his people? And, he had been reliably informed, others liked to imagine his life was glamorous and wonderful and did not wish to have their thoughts tainted by the slanderous pondering of a petulant, spoiled young prince with too much time on his hands.

Fëanáro was rather inclined to believe this. Thus, if no one wanted to listen, what was the point in sharing?

No, he wanted to create something worthy of admiration and respect. Something _real_ , not a splatter of meaningless squiggles and graceful curls across a flat expanse of white. The problem was that he did not know _what_ he could possibly _do_ other than sit around and wait for something to come along and engage his inner genius. It was turning into a very long wait indeed.

But today, at least, his father was not keeping him cooped up like a pet parakeet in a gilded cage.

A knock on the door drew the dreary young prince from his morose thoughts. Rousing himself from the recesses of his hideously soft down mattress, Fëanáro paused only to throw on a coat over his simple and unadorned clothing before heading out.

Of course, the servants looked scandalized at his manner of under-dressing. His father, dressed in his jewels and finery and standing patiently before him, looked only exhausted and resigned. At least he knew better than to demand his son return to his quarters to change—knew that Fëanáro had no intention of listening to orders given by anyone short of Eru himself unless it sat well with his temperament that day. A rare occurrence if ever there was one.

"Are you ready, yondonya?" A hand was laid upon his shoulder, a supposedly friendly and reassuring gesture. Fëanáro just wished his father felt not the need to touch him in such a familiar manner, as if they were close friends or confidents.

"Quite," he spat out, bordering on pure malicious disrespect. "Where is it that we are going _precisely_ , Atar?"

"The Mansions of Aulë," the King replied, as if they went there every day. "I have some business that I would like to take care of personally, and I thought, since you expressed your desire to leave the palace grounds last night at dinner..."

Well, at least he was _trying_ to help. More than could be said for the majority of the servants and scholars frolicking about with those patronizing eyes and oversimplified words of empty praise. By the grace of the Valar! he was no longer a fifty-year-old _stripling!_

"Very well." He turned and walked away, hearing the trailing layers of heavy fabric sifting across the floor from behind. Beneath even that faint sound of the King sweeping elegantly through his home, Fëanáro could hear the whispers of the servants—could feel their hot, disapproving eyes between his shoulder-blades—and it was only the very basic good breeding and etiquette of his childhood that kept him from throwing the nearest vase in their direction. How he wished to hear the shatter of porcelain upon bone! Maybe give someone a bloody nose! It would serve the two-faced ninnies right!

But he did nothing. Nothing more than move through his life with distant eyes, wondering when next something would grab his attention away from idleness and emptiness. And wondering how long that next something would last.

\---

From a distance, the Mansions of Aulë looked not like much more than a dull hillside in which had been delved and tunneled. The Crown Prince pursed his lips and squinted until he beheld the simply-colored buildings without ornate decoration, carrying no sign of that aura of urbanity that so defined the marvels of court life. No, from a distance, they did not look very impressive.

And then the light of the Trees shifted ever so slightly. And everywhere there was gleam and brilliance.

Fëanáro froze in shock and stared, wondering why _no one had said anything in warning._

Overhead, intricate lace of silvered gold spun about them as they walked through the courtyard into the depths of secrecy, its glow casting vibrant patterns down over the marble clicking beneath the elven heels. Seemingly thousands of colors joined, little refractions off burnished copper or the purest bronze somehow burning into vibrant greens and searing reds and deep, soulful blues. The urge to reach out and touch the vibrating strands near overcame the young prince as he passed through their gentle clinging touch, for they pulsed and sang as a soft rising whisper rushing over his mind, something ancient beyond even his innate understanding, outlining the stars with their own mesh blanket of light.

And then the noise mixed, the soft, angelic tones overcome with the harsh clang and bustle of feet on stone floors. The doors were pushed wide for the King, voices ringing down into the rocky depths of the Mansions. And Fëanáro hardly dared to blink as he left behind the world of soft, celestial elven beauty.

Inside was even more entrancing beneath that ethereal sheen weaving in the eaves above.

It was not lavishly decorated in the same way as the palace, with all the airy finery and sleek grace. This place was carved of agate and mineral, pure and towering grandeur, and from all directions Fëanáro could hear _movement_ and _action_. No silence met his wide-eyed surveillance, but rather the ring of metal and hiss of fire came from all around, surrounding and blending into a unique melody all its own.

A song of creation. And beneath his skin, the parasitic _need_ clawed and screamed, vibrating with each hammer-strike echoing into the prince's ears.

His attention was captured. His mind was completely _engaged._

There was the sight, as they walked over ornately etched pathways, of jewels being carved and shaped in all manner of translucent perfection, of measurements draw and edited and redrawn, the schematics of creations far more beautiful and meaningful than the mere foundation of a building or the shape of an archway. Flickering color met his gaze from every direction, as well as the iridescent burn of molten metal and the showers of sparks raining as waterfalls of fire within earthy darkness.

In his mind's eye, he could _see_. Could _picture_.

And it was something whole and tangible that his hands sought to mold, rather than some two-dimensional, impersonal splash of color splattered across a canvass, a work of copied brilliance after the greater works of the Valar. Within his gut curled a _want_ to make something _of his own_. Something _resplendent._

Something that no other had created before. Be it through metal, stone or jewel, it would be something he could touch and hold, something no eyes yet had laid their scorn or judgment upon, because it was not a flower to be plucked from a meadow planted and nurtured by Yavanna's soothing voice or a curl of ocean foam sung into being by Ulmo's deep baritone.

These men in their leather and gloves with sweat upon their brows and smudges upon their cheeks, they were _creators_. And this was true artwork.

Artwork just barely within brushing distance of Fëanáro's outstretched fingers.

But before he could so much as part his lips, they were approached by an unfamiliar man.

The stranger was clearly an elf, but his cheeks and chin were filled out with a russet beard and he towered higher than any mortal creature Fëanáro had ever met. Evergreen eyes shadowed by thick red brows beheld the King and his heir. Huge hands, covered in taut gloves of thick black leather, rose in greeting. There was a bow, rather shallow and inelegant, but all the more sincere. And then those eyes bored into _Fëanáro_ expectantly, delving and measuring and weighing as a precious stone still encased in its rocky outer shell.

"I see you have arrived with my newest pupil."

_Newest pupil?_

With shocked eyes, he turned to face his father, but Finwë looked not the least chagrined at his son's somewhat accusatory gaze. If anything, he looked nothing short of far too pleased with himself, judging by the satisfied smirk devilishly curling the monarch's usually down-turned lips. "Ah, yes, my son, I believe, would flourish in a new atmosphere. The palace can only entertain a young man of such overwhelming intellect for so long..."

 _They are speaking about_ me...

"I do hope you _asked_ the boy before bringing him here. I will not tolerate anything short of complete devotion to my teachings, even from a prince."

"And thus you shall receive!"

All eyes were upon him, but Fëanáro did not flinch or blush at the attentive eyes and raised brows. "Doubt not my devotion to this undertaking," he continued. "I _want to learn..._ Master."

The lips half-hidden beneath the beard twitched upwards at the corners. And within those eyes, he could see the first sparks of approval. Such signs boded well for apprenticeship, and the Crown Prince eagerly stoked those good graces with a low bow, waiting to be _told_ to rise.

In the pit of his belly, anticipation boiled. In his mind's eye, the future was unfolding itself. For the first time in a very long time, boredom was not eating away at the corners of his mind, but pure excitement. His body practically vibrated with it, that little melody harmonized with the sounds of heavy labor, panting breaths, and steam and sparks beating its way into his blood.

Fëanáro knew that this was what he had been waiting for. This was where he was _meant to be._

"Very well, boy, let us get started."

And the Crown Prince smiled a smile that in years to come would evolve into the cornerstone of his charismatic fire. Calculation and frightening foresight singed the corners of star-eyes.

"Yes, let us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> yondonya = the non-shortened version of "my son"  
> Atar = Father


	144. Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tar-Míriel contemplates Sauron in all his otherworldly glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly sexual themes. Political stuff.
> 
> First time I've ever written anything remotely Akallabêth related. Kindly scary, ne~
> 
> Slight detour from Silmarillion canon. But not technical canon.

It was sickening. Sickeningly beautiful. An enchanted nightmare from which she could not awaken.

She heard the women of court speak about _him_ often enough. About his handsome face that put even the elves to shame with its perfect symmetry and elegant curves of cheeks and nose. About his hair spun of pure gold spilling down his shoulders and gleaming as a halo about his sun-kissed face. About his unique eyes set as fire-opals in burnished ivory, how they glowed in the dim twilight as a fire in the dark, full of sultry mystique.

About how pleasurable he was to draw into bed. Though to that she could not herself personally attest, for the King would not allow even his closest counselor into his wife's chambers. But even if he had, she would not have allowed that monstrous, two-faced harbinger of destruction and chaos into _her_ bed and between _her_ sheets.

She hated him.

She hated his glorious face with his full, enticing lips and his rose-tinted cheeks and his mouth full of ever-so-slightly sharpened teeth so white they burned the eyes. She hated his golden curls, wanted to wrap her hands within those soft tendrils and pull them out at the root and throw them in the fire if only to watch them burn. She hated also his lava-eyes with veins of fire running through molten scarlet, wished she could blind them so they could never look upon her through half-hooded lids as a man looks upon a woman after whom he lusts and hungers.

But most of all, she hated his voice. Wished she could strangle the sound out of him so that he might never again taint her ears with its filthy tenor. Wished that she had the strength and the claws and the pure vicious ill intent to come upon that _creature_ as he slept and rip out his vocal chords, to shred them and burn them upon the altar of her Lord, the One, so that this monster might not corrupt any more minds with honeyed, tender words as sweetness disguising the poison eating away at pure thoughts and ideals.

_"Have you not heard it? So beautiful and soothing..."_

It was all a lie, a stalking predator with a pleasing façade created to drag in its prey without the wildness of the chase and the blooded capture. She watched him stroke maidens' delicate cheeks and brush his tainted lips across pale, throbbing wrists and had to turn away in disgust.

Yet when she heard those dulcet tones, their gentle rise and fall, hardly but a whisper upon the world, she was no more immune to their spell than the rest of her pathetic mortal companions—her handmaidens and her chambermaids and her courtiers' wives. When his voice washed across her ears—

_"How lovely thou art this eve, my Queen."_

—hot blood still rushed under her skin. And, within the recesses of her mind, she felt the glare that refused to form upon her face and the sneer that refused to curl her pursed, painted lips direct themselves towards the sultry little smile at the corners of his mouth and the knowing look in his fiery gaze. On the outside, she was as a puppet, helpless to his whims. Under his enchantment.

An enchantment all who heard him fell into, as one falls off a cliff into the tides of the sea. She, her friends and loved ones, her husband and King. 

He was dangerous.

_"Full of wisdom and offering great knowledge with graciousness."_

And that any fool thought he was kind and wise baffled her. That her husband whom she had once perhaps loved a very long time ago—well before the death and darkness shadowing her beloved home—could so easily fall into the trap of complimentary words on a feigned sincere breath, it left her reeling. For even _she_ could see that Sauron desired only the devastation of her people in his jealousy and will to control and conquer. He cared nothing for their troubles or problems or inevitable deaths.

He wanted only power.

And it was on his voice. In the slippery tones, the bubbling muck of acid and noxious filth hidden beneath what appeared as untainted, clear waters. To the ears of her husband and King, advice was imparted genuinely, but she knew it was all a farce. Even though it was undeniably—

_"Golden and hot, like amber and fire..."_

—low and seductive, such that he could bend anyone and anything to his will when they were trapped beneath the web of words. It slid over her skin like bare hands, writhing under her dress and curling about her thighs and belly until she was hot and anxious with its rise and fall. It _was_ beautiful, the sleek, glistening sight of candlelight on bared flesh. But she would never give in to false sincerity and blatant lust for sexual satiation and will to dominate.

Nor would she _ever_ believe that he held her people's best interests at heart.

She would fight until she hadn't strength left to crawl.

_"Worship the Ancient Darkness. It is the only path to freedom."_

She would _never_ believe that Eru Ilúvatar—the One and only creator of the universe who watched over all of them as His own children—would sanction the atrocities that rained down upon her people and sullied their temples. Spilled blood and sacrifices—children torn from their parents to be burned at the stake, maidens with their throats slit for the sake of virginal crimson splatters on the marble floors and those few who were still loyal driven from their homes and hunted like animals for sport.

At _his_ bidding. Because, with a few whispered words in the King's ear, greased in obsequious loyalty and layered in pure sugared _toxin_ , Ar-Pharazôn was bending over backwards to please the stranger—the prisoner incarcerated in a palace of golden influence.

Sickening.

Slowly, that voice was _destroying her people_. More than his looks. More than his eyes. More even than his armies.

_"When I hear him speak, I simply cannot look away."_

And part of her admired him in a horrible way. Part of her still was enamored with him as a maiden and as a politician. Helplessly enraptured. Only that tiny murmur in the back of her mind kept her sane—kept her pure and rational when out of his overwhelming presence. Kept her looking up at the stars and praying that the Lady Varda would hear her words of remorse and pleas for forgiveness. That perhaps there would be some mercy for those few of her people truly still within their right minds and with faithful hearts.

And she hoped, in the end, that that voice would be silenced. So that it might never again rip apart nations and destroy lives. So that no poor soul beyond her own would ever have to know that—even as they stared in hopeless fascination, addicted to the elegant flourishes and courtly tones and melodic twirls of vibrations—that they were being betrayed and twisted. That all they loved and worked for crumbled before their gaze and they could do naught but languish beneath that melody of disaster and watch.

That those very sounds with which but a few syllables could turn the tides of the world itself were the tones of wickedness and sin. That, in the end, they would be the downfall. And everything would unravel to pieces and burn.


	145. Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by one paragraph in the Silmarillion. Maedhros forges a new bond between two feuding Houses. And hopes he didn't break any in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dysfunctional family much? Lots of hating and self-hating and depression-ish sort of stuff. And POV interpretation! Yay!
> 
> *this one line in here is almost word-for-word the same as a line Maedhros speaks in _Of the Return of the Noldor_ in the _Quenta Silmarillion_ , just to make note of that so no one sues my ass.
> 
> Mentions Istelindë, my OFC who first appears in Broken (Chapter 12). She's Maedhros' wife in my head-canon. Sorry if it bugs you.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Russandol  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Amras = Telufinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

No one knew what precisely to say to the other side.

After so many years of nothing but dank cells smelling of blood, merciless torture and endless pain stretching on until his mind snapped, Maitimo didn't spare even a moment to think of how he might speak or what he might say when the time came to face his half-uncle and half-cousins. Such a trying experience—trying being a massive understatement, he noted privately in the back of his head—left him with a very clear picture of what was important and what was not.

And though he knew not what to say to mend the clearly broken bonds between himself and his narrow-eyed uncle, Maitimo knew one thing for certain: the crown was not of great import. It did not even make the top ten.

But that did not change the facts.

It did not change the betrayal that lay as an ocean between the two sides of the chamber, between the six estranged sons extricated from their father's watchful eyes through doomed fate and the victims of said father's fey and unjust wrath and lust for revenge. That the sons had naught to do with their father's crime meant little, for they had no excuse and they had no proof.

It did not change the years of endless white plains—of cracked, jagged ice that claimed lives and cold, biting winds that sucked away breaths and the bitter chill that sank down into bones and joints and froze living flesh in place. It could not take away the suffering that their kinsman had endured because of the rash, secret decision of one man who thought only of himself and his own betterment rather than of his people.

And Maitimo could not find it in his heart to blame them for watching him and his siblings with distant, leery eyes as once they had watched his sire.

He could not blame Findekáno for the pained, false stretch of his smile, grating over nerves like sandpaper on roughened wood, for the air about them with thick and hot, filled with smoke and steam until one's breath was choked out with the heaviness of the atmosphere of unbreakable impatience.

Nor could he blame Turukáno, who of any of them had the most right to hatred and bitterness. Had their places been exchanged—had it been Istelindë who perished between the Grinding Ice rather than Elenwë—Maitimo would never have forgiven and forgotten either.

The rest of his cousins were distant. Distrustful. Findaráto attempted friendliness but in truth was fidgety and uncomfortable. Artaresto did not even make an effort to disguise his blatant distaste at breathing the same air as the Kinslayers, and the two younger brothers—Angaráto and Aikanáro—followed his lead with their burning gem-eyes filled with animosity and abhorrence.

And then there was Nolofinwë. With his blue eyes but slits beneath thick, sharpened brows and his lips pursed so sternly it recalled to mind childhood spankings and humiliating public chastisement. But even he Maitimo did not begrudge, for his half-uncle had sworn an Oath of familial loyalty and friendship—of _brotherhood_ —before their father and King, and Fëanáro had slapped it back in the face of graciousness and tentative trust. Nolofinwë had thrown _everything_ away on the whims of his half-brother, thinking that the King had the best interests of _all_ their people at heart, but it had been for naught. Fëanáro had desired revenge and nothing else.

And Maitimo was beginning to think that there was absolutely nothing to be done to ameliorate this awful tension upon his shoulders, so weighty that his bones and tendons ached with the strain of carrying his own tired, haggard body.

Finally, he parted his lips, pausing only to lick them with barely discernible anxiety. "It is a relief to see you well, Uncle."

The air shifted. Blue eyes remained frigid, but slightly less incisive. Perhaps they would only pinch instead of stab when came the inevitable silent blows. "As it is to see you, my nephew. I had heard of your trials, and it pleases me to see that the blood of our people is not so frail as to give beneath the Black Enemy's first strike."

Resentment bubbled— _for surely he would say no such thing had_ he _been the victim of such horror and torment_ —but it was pushed away. It _was not important_. And Maitimo had not come here to fight, no matter how much his relations might desire to bite a metaphorical chunk of raw meat from his flank if only to watch him limp away in shame. He would allow it for now, if it would soothe away the taste for retribution that ran through all their veins.

"Indeed, my blood would allow no such surrender." _To say nothing of begging for death_. But about that Nolofinwë need not know. "However, it is not my resilience of which I have begged you here to speak, for surely it is by now an old tale."

"And to what _is_ it that you have called us here to listen?" Turukáno interrupted, voice scathing and harsh. Maitimo did not react to the disrespect, and neither did he allow his brothers to speed to his aid as though he were not only a cripple of body but also of mind. He could hear the mutter spread, the knuckles cracking and the bodies rising from their chairs, but at a raised hand they once again sat obediently. Their eyes, however, held no obedience and no quarter for their scandalized rage at the slight.

"I have come here to beg forgiveness for my brothers." At this, eyes widened. Even those of his own kin. "For your abandonment in Araman, they are not to blame. And if any blame should fall upon shoulders besides those of my father, let it fall upon _mine_. Indeed, perhaps if I had tried harder to convince him—"

"Do not be ridiculous, Russandol!" Findekáno interrupted. "You could not have—"

"If _anyone_ could have changed his mind, it was I, and I gave in all too easily after discovering his treachery. But hold none of my siblings in disgust or in malice." He sighed, wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose to stifle the hot tears pooling as traitors behind the fortress of his eyelids. "Telufinwë was lost in an attempt to _return_ for your sake, and the others followed my lead after I followed my father's. They could not be expected to rebel against their King and fath—"

"That does not _excuse them!"_

"Hush, Turukáno." Nolofinwë silenced his angry, heartbroken progeny with ease. Around all of them, some of the discomfort softened into contemplation. The sons of Arafinwë looked away, but they did not look quite so hostile. And Findekáno offered a brittle smile in the recesses beyond his father's broad shouldered presence.

Said presence poured all its attention upon Maitimo. And he could not bear to meet those stormy blue eyes, not now. Not after admitting to his failure.

"I would not hold you accountable for your father's actions," their half-uncle finally intoned, carefully and neutrally. _"Though some others may not agree"_ went unspoken. "You have shown willingness to begin mending our torn family branches, as has my eldest son and heir, and that I would not begrudge you, my nephew."

It was a relief. And the boiling heat of hostility and hatred between the two halves of their shattered family eased further, cooling into mere awkward silence, gangly and fragile. Too young and too easily broken with a misplaced word.

"I hope that no grievance then lays between us, Uncle."

"I should think not." Brief. Rude. But appreciated.

And now came the difficult part. For Maitimo knew instinctually that this next move would mend bonds but possibly also break bonds. Whether the opportunity cost was greater or lesser than the true payment had yet to be seen, but he could only hope that it spurned more friendship and trust than dislike and jealousy.

"If there lay no grievance between us, Uncle, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of all the House of Finwë, and not the least wise."*

Breaths were caught. The silence teetered and bent. And all Maitimo could do was wait and pray his brothers would not behave foolishly.

And be thankful that all he received at his back were gasps of shock and wild-eyed glares of incredulity. He had almost expected knives and slicing shouts of protestation. For what fool—even one broken in the dungeons of Angband—would throw away the crown and deny his successors their chance at claiming their _rightful_ birthright?

Except it was hardly rightful. Not after all that had been done. Not after all the bonds cut so cleanly and thrown aside without regard or regret.

But, indeed, his half-uncle and half-cousins seemed equally filled with shock. Mouths gaped inelegantly and breaths caught audibly. The hatred in Turukáno's eyes was mollified beneath a rush of surprise, and Findekáno's smile dimmed beneath newfound disapproval. But Nolofinwë somehow remained composed in the face of uprooted politics and succession, only the widening of his eyes signifying his shock at the abdication and lowering of the proud blood of Fëanáro.

"Are you quite sure, my nephew."

"I am, your majesty."

And the tension bled and bled until its bloated form was shrunken and slender with relieved pressure, skin sagging as an empty balloon. No longer did the sons of Arafinwë look so uncertain and so strained at the thought of servitude to a house of murderers. No longer did the remaining children of Nolofinwë seem rocked and shaken apart by the earthquake of betrayal versus childhood loyalty.

And if there were still but a few sparks of pure hatred and embers of revulsion and long, cold steel walls of resentment lingering behind, Maitimo could not blame his kinsman for their wariness or distrust. But, though between them they could not yet speak freely or come together truly as friends—let alone as family—he thought it was a good first step. A good nudge towards peace and unity of their people, rather than the shambles scraped together haphazardly with cheap glue.

Their people needed this alliance, no matter the awkward joining between murderers and innocents—between betrayers and the betrayed. It was salvageable.

And he could ask no more than that. It was no less than was deserved.


	146. Lower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir is quick to anger, but also quick to forgive. Most of the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us all remember that there is always two sides to every story. Or ten or twelve. An exploration into a different perspective of Awkward (Chapter 145).
> 
> Dysfunctional families and a fair amount of cynicism. Exploration into why Caranthir is such an uncooperative bastard.
> 
> *Uses the same line from _Of the Return of the Noldor_ as Awkward.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Caranthir = Carnistir  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Nelyo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno

Carnistir could be quick to anger and could smolder to put even his sire to shame, but he was also quick to forgive and forget. Of all his family members, he held grudges with the least vehemence, his upset but a flash of lightning in a thunderstorm rather than a long-lasting vein of fire in the earth.

There were very few happenstances that could fuel such a flame of vindictive hatred in his heart as had been ignited within the hearts of his father and brothers, let alone a flame with such a long life and hot need for vengeance or counteraction.

And the sight before him was one of those few.

It was not that his brother was injured which infuriated him as such, though, in its own way, the abduction, torture and mutilation of Nelyafinwë had fueled the burning rage in the hearts of all the people of the House of Fëanáro—and the brothers not the least of them. But the eldest had come out of that hell alive, had rediscovered his spark and had somehow managed to keep moving forward through cobwebs of horrific memories and the agonizing pain of recovery. And that recovery was a testament to endurance and strength—an example to all their people—though still Nelyafinwë was exhausted and disheveled from piecing himself back together.

His hair was still rather ragged where it had been sheared off upon his sickbed, so tangled and dirtied it had been that it could not be brushed or washed. His arm was also in a sling, as the muscles and tendons of his shoulder had yet to recover enough to bear the weight of his limb without help. But the most noticeable sign of his stress and fatigue after such an ordeal—and dealing with political upheaval on top of his own problems—were the dark rings about his tired gray eyes, bruises that beat their purple color into sickly pale flesh as marks of sleepless nights filled with shrill screams. It was clear that Nelyafinwë hadn't been sleeping enough and was not rested enough for the tribulations of a family gathering.

What really bothered Carnistir to the point of fury was none of these things, though it hurt to see his brother in such a sorry state. Rather, it was the line of relatives on the other side of the room that pulled all his strings in the wrong directions.

It was their eyes as his brother apologized for sins not his own. As the eldest took responsibility for not only himself, but his father and his brothers and his people.

It was the lie in his uncle's voice when he spoke the damning acceptance.

"I would not hold you accountable for your father's actions. You have shown willingness to begin mending our torn family branches, as has my eldest son and heir, and that I would not begrudge you, my nephew."

But he would. And he meant to. No compliment had ever been more treacherously backhanded. Against a downtrodden opponent who wished to only sue for peace and mend broken bonds. 

It was clear that Nolofinwë had no intention of following the examples of the heirs of the two Houses—had no intention of forgiving, though Nelyafinwë had done naught wrong. Though, of all of the sons and servants, he alone had spoken out in protestation against their father's actions. Though he had suffered and struggled through more trials than any of them could even begin to imagine.

"I hope that no grievance then lays between us, Uncle." His brother's voice was low and ragged. It would never again have that velvety softness Carnistir so well remembered. And he shuddered at the knowledge that it was screaming that had rent and torn that voice into tattered remains.

And that none save his brothers seemed to care. He could see his uncle's eyes—his cousins' eyes—and they did not hold sympathy or understanding or caring.

They were flat and dull and distant. "I should think not," was all his uncle replied, and Carnistir had never wanted to strangle someone so badly in all his life. Because there was that little hint of a smile blooming.

All they had wanted was to see Nelyafinwë lower the Crown Prince's line to the mucky ground and kiss their boots as a thrall in twisted payment for being left for dead. But the sins of the father were not the sins of the sons. And it was not Fëanáro being lowered like a slave begging his master for forgiveness, but Nelyafinwë.

Nelyo. His wonderful, loving older brother who had been through so much pain. Nelyo. Who tucked them in at night and sang pitchy lullabies and read stories and baked cookies and gave the best hugs. Nelyo. Who cared about them more than their father and mother combined.

Nelyo. Who was as far from a bad person as could be. Who was not malicious or ruthless or cold-hearted unless in defense of his family. And those eyes...

They laughed. They mocked. They looked down long, straight noses with scorn at the oldest son, as though he were something nasty that was not to be touched—something toxic or contagious that might infect them if they breathed the same air. And Carnistir would admit that they had earned the right for disdain and scorn.

But not the right to heap their troubles and blame upon innocent shoulders simply because the true victim of their stubborn hatred was passed beyond their reach. Beyond their punishment.

It made Carnistir's blood _boil._

No, not often was he drawn to hold a grudge. But in his chest he felt the constriction of rage, the suffocating blanket of cinders layering the insides of his lungs until he longed to gasp in his raw passion. The clench of his fists in the soft fabric of his leggings, twisting the fabric helplessly lest they try for something vital and fleshy in its stead, rankled.

And then...

"If there lay no grievance between us, Uncle, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of all the House of Finwë, and not the least wise."*

He would have been relieved. If only he had not been watching so closely.

Watching how Findaráto's shocked eyes lightened in half-hidden revelry. Watching how Turukáno's pure malice drained away into shocked silence and satisfaction. Watching how Findekáno's gaze narrowed in disapproval but how also his lips pursed and frowned rather than parted in dissent.

Watching how Nolofinwë's eyes brightened and how his lips twitched up ever so slightly at the corners into a half-sneering and half-smirking demonic visage. For it was no secret that their uncle desired the crown—desired to put his older brother _in his place._ Below.

And that had not changed. Except it was not Fëanáro's humbling which brought that purring voice forth to accept after a feigned, half-hearted "Are you quite certain, my nephew?" For there was none of that hesitance that should have been present at a caring family member stealing the birthright of another—none of that hidden guilt gnawing or discomfort itching that would have soothed the fury of the fourth son.

Rather, Nolofinwë _enjoyed_ seeing Nelyafinwë's shadowed eyes meet his and stare into unforgiving ice. Took gratification in hearing the answering "I am, _your majesty"_ from the lips of his enemy's heir and successor. Relished in the accomplishment of his goal of retribution in the lowering of those who had once stood upon the peak of power.

And Carnistir would hate all of these pathetic creatures forever for the pleasure they took in his brother's crippling and bowing and scraping. Those eyes. Blue and gray—fey and bright. Accusatory and sadistic in their observation. They were not the eyes of friends or family, but the eyes of enemies and traitors waiting to stab unprotected backs.

And if Nelyafinwë would not protect his own, Carnistir would readily do so in his stead, as his older brother—and only father of the heart—would have protected his.

It was the one grudge he would always carry in the back of his dark thoughts. The one dark promise which he could never release or forswear. The one slice of revenge for which his body and soul would always hunger.

The one slight he could never forgive and never forget. Never.


	147. Plead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words of a single woman set in motion a chain reaction which alters the fate of Arda for all of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call it characterization of a vala. I actually learned more about Varda and her (in my head-canon) purpose in the universe writing this than I thought there was to know in the first place. Kind of interesting, ne? Perhaps not canonical, but I couldn't care less.
> 
> Mentions Tar-Míriel possibly holding affection for her husband. This is not Silmarillion-canon, but neither is it completely non-canonical.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Eru = Father (the Valar call him this because I'm too lazy to prod at Valarin)

It was not oft any longer that the prayers of the people of Númenor reached the ears of the Valar. From afar, the stars had carried tidings of the dark doings of those blessed people—of the taint spreading across their culture as a doomed shadow of the Fall. Of their worship of the Darkness and its master cast into the Void.

They now offered their words to selfish, lustful ears of greed and slaughtered sacrifices upon the altar of sacrilegious temples in Melkor's name. The blood of innocents and virgins flowed like bubbling rivers over marble stairs, spilling upon the grass and sickening the blades with its curse until the land itself seemed to wither in illness, its glory falling to rubble day by day as a dying bloom without water and sunlight.

But, though most of the people held onto their jealous hatred and followed their King without question into the abyss, there were yet _some_ who remained loyal.

There were some yet pleading for mercy and repentance in the name of the Valar and the One.

As the beautiful dark-haired queen lingering upon the stone steps of Meneltarma was, her eyes cast upwards in supplication, gazing upon Manwë's broad demesne and Varda's most glorious creation with subtle, powerful belief. Her sweet voice echoed through the open sky and writhed its way into the heart of the Queen of the Valar, resonating in sorrow and fragile hope, a single point of light breaking the wide expanse of blackness.

Little prayers every night kept that light from going out. 

For her distant cousin—Amandil of the Faithful—who was her sole friend and confident in a court dominated by sin. For his children and grandchildren and all his followers who held onto their devotion to Eru Ilúvatar even when the King's decrees threatened to end their lives in fire and shame for daring defiance.

For her vast people—even those who had lost their way in the labyrinth of Mairon's deceit and trickery. Soft whispers dedicated to purifying those wandering souls and bringing them back into the light without harm and without punishment.

Even were there prayers for her husband, whom once she had loved and who had taken her as wife against her will, stolen her birthright and destroyed the country so beloved in her heart with his arrogance and lust for power. She whispered for his mind to be cleared of the cobwebs of wicked design, for him to see the error in his ways and repent upon the summit of their sacred peak.

But, for all the stars carried across the vast expanses of the world these little words, they were not pleas that could be granted from the graciousness of the heart of a single vala, no matter her status as Queen and governance over the heavenly bodies.

She was but one Power of the world amongst many.

And she needed help if any soul upon the accursed isle of Númenor was to be salvaged.

She daren't let _her_ last wishes fall to ruin. Not when there was yet something to be done to halt this nightmare and bring back the light to Eärendil's legacy.

\---

Thus she found herself pleading for the amnesty of the forsaken people before the throne of her husband, the Lord of all of Arda.

"Please..."

His hesitant silence was damning.

"There is naught that I can do," Manwë insisted. "Her people were foolish and envious. They followed the wrong path _knowing_ that they went against our Father in the hopes of gaining immortality—a gift not theirs to own or to take—and they must pay the price for their transgressions."

"And those who still follow faithfully the word of our Father—even on pain of death for themselves and their kin and their families!—should they, too, be damned eternally?"

Sapphire eyes were regretful, but not forgiving and not yielding. "Varda..."

"Thou dost know of what I speak!" And he did. They _both_ did. For at least that much of the Song was clear in the eyes of all their brethren, playing out in a cosmic drama. It was in His hands now, and He would annihilate the blood of Númenor, smite them down from their summit and drown out their rebellion until all the people—regardless of ancestry and faith and devotion—were but corpses to be cradled by the ocean until they rotted into dust.

Until everything Tar-Míriel loved and sang for and _cried for_ was destroyed, utterly and irrevocably. Along with her. Taken into the bosom of the sea forever.

"I know..." Manwë met her eyes with his, two glowing gazes clashing—her overwhelming brilliance to the endless blue fields—and holding in a standstill. "What wouldst thou have me do, my love?"

"I would have thee pray with me and plead with me in their favor, husband." And she would not release his eyes, would not allow him to look away and push the fates of those fleeting mortal beings from his mind as one swats aside annoying insects from the air. Would not allow him to _forget_ those who _did not_ kneel at his throne day-in and day-out, singing the praises of his majesty in heavenly voices with perfectly sculpted faces and waves of spun golden hair.

She wanted— _needed_ —for him to understand her plight. And she knew compassion was not his gift, for he needed strength and patience and fortitude above all else. Yet in this, she needed, too, his adamantine will to never give up, to cling to faith without question. It was _his_ word that would reach the ears of their Father.

Her fingers grasped his, coolness to sun-kissed warmth, and her lips met his palm. "Please... Please, at least _speak_ with Him on their behalf."

And when could he ever deny her, his beloved spouse? Perhaps it was unfair to use her charms and her soft, whispering entreaties to sway her husband to her cause, but Varda would not feel remorse for doing what was right. For saving the lives of those few who still looked to her stars for guidance and reassurance in these darkening days filled with distant strife and horror lingering on the horizon.

She would do her best to protect them and watch over them. Would do her best to save those who were brave enough to lay themselves in the palm of her hand and be taken away, trusting in her to hold them fast and shield them from malice and ill will beyond their control and sight.

Trusting her to watch over what was most important and beloved in their mind's eye and heart's depths.

It had been and always would be her place—her _purpose_. Perhaps she held no governance over vast fields and flowers, or over the earth's deep veins, or over the raging tides of the oceans. Neither over dreams nor the future nor the past nor even sorrow and healing and free-spirited joy. But she had this, her gift and her pleasure.

And if only she could see a smile of relief upon one woman's sorrowful visage in the face of challenging atrocities and destruction, Varda knew it would be worth the effort. Worth touching those fleeting human lives which burned so brightly but fluttered into darkness so quickly.

When those sky-eyes lightened and that frown helplessly bent to her will, she knew she had won the first battle of the war. Knew that there was a chance that those prayers and pleas spoken upon the celestial glimmering of her greatest work of art would not be in vain. That some lost souls might be saved, if they were indeed true to their word and their beliefs.

Knew that she had not yet let her most faithful follower down in _her_ time of greatest need.

And that was worth all the long years of holding the shuddering darkness at bay.


	148. Caring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amrod discovers his son, Valthoron, and watches from the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously dysfunctional family. Possibly more than a bit sappy. Past non-con implied. Slightly creepy stalker-like behavior.
> 
> Related to Cheat (Chapter 5) and all other pieces in that arc.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Amrod = Ambarussa  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Ambarussa had never intended to have children.

He wasn't like Nelyafinwë, who had practically raised six of his own already and had always been eager for more to join the ranks of the large family. Nor was he like Kanafinwë, with all the innate patience and soft hands and gentleness of temperament. Always, Ambarussa had been too fiery and too reckless, more interested in hunting and enjoying life as a bachelor than in finding a mate and starting a family, even before the Darkening and Exile.

Beleriand had not changed that. Nor had the Halls of the Waiting. Nor even had his second coming to Valinor. If anything, seeing those smiling young children frolicking through their own green, ignorant childhoods had left him aching and bitter with envy, for they had what had been so brutally ripped away from him and his brothers at the sundown of the golden shores. These little ones were sweet and innocent, had never seen their hands painted with scarlet—had never seen their father burn their brother alive and had never seen all the atrocities and carnage of war and vengeance.

No, he had most certainly not wanted children.

In some ways, he had thought of the return of the exiles to Middle-earth as a blessing. To be away from all that held his jealousy and scorn but was so far beyond his reach—it might then all fade into the background, lend him some peace in his troubled mind.

But then there was Thranduil. And then there was the redheaded young prince.

The undeniably _Fëanárion_ prince.

With that same cleft chin of the father and those fell-fire eyes of the grandfather and that pure Noldorin stubbornness pounded into the very foundation of the bloodline. A child of _his_ bloodline—he could feel it in his bones from the very first he saw the child.

The child he had never asked for. The child he would never have expected to care for.

And yet...

And yet he found his jealousy faded into white when he watched the boy laugh and joke with his peers around a campfire under the forest eaves, carefree and with little burden. Found that following the prince out on patrol in the darkness of Mirkwood, keeping an eye upon him, soothed an itchy, restless urge that continued to endlessly poke and prod at the back of his mind. That watching the back of his kin—no, more than his kin, his very _blood_ —allowed him to rest at night without overwhelming, visceral worry.

The knowledge that the boy was _his_ pushed away the hovering remembrance and the hatred lurking. And it left behind a part of him that he didn't understand, intrinsically bonded more powerfully than mithril chains to a stranger.

It was not long before he watched the boy ceaselessly whenever he had the time and energy. Not long before he spent his days wondering what the prince had looked like as a child, with wild red curls and huge, gorgeous turquoise eyes—the perfect mixture of his parents. Not long before he wondered if the boy was as hot-tempered as the worst of his sire's kin or if the boy was more like his "mother", with a cool outer shell that covered up a resilient and stubborn soul edged in icy resolve.

Without Ambarussa even realizing it, that boy quickly became the center of his world. Of his hopes and his nightmares.

They had never met. They had never spoken. The sixth son of Fëanáro did not even know his son's name. But none of it seemed to matter when he watched the prince sparring and chuckling with his comrades or practicing the bow in the utter silence and stillness of the forest. None of that seemed to matter _at all_ when he watched _his child_ go off into battle—against spiders or orcs or any manner of dark creatures—and waited with anxiety bordering on lunacy for the return of hair like a beacon of flame and brilliant starlit eyes.

He did the best that he could to make sure the boy was happy and safe. He cared more than he wanted to admit even in his own thoughts. At the same time, though, his ability to connect so closely with another was reassuring, although the bond was one-sided. It meant that the senility inherent in the line of his father had not yet consumed his mind. Wrathful lust for vengeance had not yet burned away all humanity left in his heart—his capacity to love and cherish something beyond gratification through violence and retribution.

All the young prince seemed to do was bring back light and contentment to the spirit that Ambarussa could not remember ever feeling, not even in the Noontide of Valinor in his hazy memories of sweetness and glory. No amount of revenge or glowing rocks or satisfaction could make him smile the way his son could—without even trying or knowing.

Maybe he was more like to the father of his heart than the father of his blood—more like to Nelyafinwë than Fëanáro—than he had ever suspected.

All he knew was that he would never stop caring for this boy no matter the trials and tribulations of the long years. No matter that he suspected the cycle of hatred still burned and bubbled in his son's veins and would rise as a monstrous fiend to rend him apart in spite should he show his face. No matter that Thranduil feared him terribly and would never love him as two halves of one soul should love one another, not after the horrible acts he had committed in his delirious terror.

Somehow, just the sight of _his_ curls and grin on his lover's elegant features were enough to push all of that away. This child was a collaboration of the both of them, and he was _perfect_.

And even should one day those lovely, laughing eyes look upon him with loathing and that roguish grin bend downwards with scorn at his sight, it would be enough to just be near—to watch and listen and take in the essence of a creation more amazing than any which could have been sculpted or molded of precious metal and studded with vibrant jewels.

He would never stop loving his son. He could not—not even had he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro (in this case denotes a member of his House)


	149. Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seduction of Ar-Pharazôn. _To the Dark Side of the Force_. Okay, forgive the horrible Star Wars reference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sauron (is that not warning enough by this point?). Mind-games. Blatant manipulation. Racism (in a weird sort of way).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Eru = Father (when Ainur speak about him)

If there was one thing Mairon knew about Men, it was how easily manipulated they could be. From the lowest homeless nomad to the prosperous middle-class merchant to the most influential, wealthy king—they were all the same in their flawed nature. Their minds revolved in the same endless patterns, so easily deciphered and twisted to a new melody of dissonance.

Ar-Pharazôn was no exception to this law. He was, in fact, the very epitome of its truth and reliability.

Rich. Powerful. Lustful. He was willing to do _anything_ to earn a higher position than had been granted him by the Father's grace. Would turn against anyone if it meant furthering his own goals and reaching that unobtainable treasure which his ancestor had snatched away so long ago.

He was one of the most inherently arrogant, selfish and stubborn humans that Mairon had ever crossed paths with, but not the brightest or the strongest in mind or body or will. In fact, the maia would go almost so far as to call him weak and breakable—not only because his quick-burning flame was encased in a mortal, aging shell, but also because his resolve was flimsy at best and downright inconsistent at worst. Easily crumpled and easily burned.

Just as easily torn to pieces and put back together again with a new shape and a new form. A new reality. Until everything he believed to be true was a lie disguised in an appetizing, tantalizing exterior.

And all it would take were a few words and a little humbling and personal humiliation, irritating though such efforts might be. After serving his first master for so long, a little bowing and scraping before a human still hesitant to use torture and coercion would hardly do any harm. At least he wouldn't get his face peeled off or his fingernails forcibly removed if he somehow displeased the king.

And it was that trail of thought which led him to beg an audience with his captor.

"The prisoner to see you, sire."

"Bring him in."

Just as before, Pharazôn was upon his throne, bejeweled and flamboyantly robed, lounging lazily as a lion in the sun. But those eyes were dark and narrowed, suspicious and distrustful. It was to be expected, and Mairon was in no way daunted by this miniscule obstacle, for he could see past that shield of calm into the shuddering, tangled mass of fury, greed and hatred beneath, just waiting to be tapped and pulled to the front of the mind, to be used to mold as with clay this man into a pitiful servant of darkness and delicious sin.

It would be all too easy. For no thought in this man's mind was veiled before the eyes of the wicked creature smiling in masochistic—or perhaps it was _sadistic_ —pleasure.

The maia did not resist in the least when he was dragged, still chained, before the king, or when he was thrown down upon the marble floor like diseased trash by the king's guards and bade silently beneath cold eyes to stay where he knelt, like a slave waiting upon the master. An all too familiar setting.

"What dost thou want to say, scum?"

 _Oh, how I would love to rip out that tongue for such insult! Such pride from this worthless piece of filth!_ The disrespect, as always, made his blood sear in loathing and his inner eye awaken with fantasies of bloodshed and vengeance. He could picture with such clarity, the limp pink muscle cut clean free and the blood spilling over white teeth and down that angular chin. The phantom screams resounded in his head, and it was to that soothing lullaby that he forced a tender smile upon his lovely face and bowed his head subserviently.

"My lord," he began, voice pitched low and breathy, "I understand that you do not trust my intentions. No man of intelligence—and indeed, _you_ are not the least in that—would so easily be won by his foe. Be that as it may, I nevertheless sought to speak with you about an important matter..."

"Get on with it!"

 _Rude mortals._ Hatred gurgled and roiled, but Mairon shoved it down behind a cage of advantageous opportunity and cloying amusement.

"I want you to understand that I am _genuine_ in my desire to _thank you_ , and thus I have decided to give you a _gift_ to show my appreciation for your hospitality and kindness, despite my past actions and our past scrimmages."

Those eyes were back on him, and they were curious but wary, still disbelieving and distrusting but inching closer with each moment to that precipice waiting to swallow the fallen. "I cannot think of a single thing thou couldst say that would sway my mind towards you in friendship or comradeship. What could _you_ —a prisoner without an army and without freedom—possibly have to offer _me?"_

And the maia smiled emphatically. Just beneath the surface, there was eagerness and anticipation. Pharazôn might play at impassivity, yet he was anything but. "Knowledge, my lord."

The king leaned forward at a nearly imperceptive angle. "Continue."

There was a thickness in the air as all ears waited out the tense silence for his reply. A reply he _knew_ would capture the attention of those who heard. Knew would override precaution and logic. "Knowledge of the key to gaining _immortality_ , my lord."

An intense stare burned its way through the kneeling Power. "And thou wouldst truly be willing to impart this knowledge?" That moment of hesitation, despite the elevated heart rate and the widened eyes and the excited undertones of that voice, lifted Mairon's opinion of the pathetic human from completely moronic to merely idiotic. Caution was a virtue, one this mortal did not possess in spades. This tiny amount was not nearly enough to counteract pure temptation.

"I would not have offered this boon had I not intended to impart the truth. What good would it do _me_ if I lied to you, my lord? It would eventually come to your attention, and that would hardly be conducive to my furthered comfort during incarceration in your care." Mairon scoffed internally, for he had no intention of telling the truth—that it was impossible to give or take immortality, even for the Powers of the world. "Besides, _your majesty_ , you have captured my _admiration_. It is not oft that a mortal has the power or ability to hold one such as myself hostage."

And he could almost see the mortal _purring_ and _preening_ in contentment and satisfaction at the flattery flowing from his tainted lips. But still, he could see also the fascination lurking as a shadow over that controlled face. The enraptured gaze bordering on obsession directed discreetly towards _him_ —he who offered that which most these poor, dilapidated old mortals yearned.

"Tell me."

And Mairon couldn't help the grin that crawled onto his handsome face. Couldn't help the hot rush of laughter that wanted to burst from his throat at the sight of noxious _hope_ in this pathetic man's heart. The most potent poison of the mind, so easily provided and so easily taken away. Hope. It was the greatest bargaining chip. The greatest bribe and tool of trickery.

It was all too easy to convince this desperate, avaricious king of the legitimacy hope which he offered seemingly freely. That hope was blinding and suffocating.

He could see it. Ar-Pharazôn was convinced and entranced, his eyes covered and his caution blown away upon a foul wind. He _believed_ in the graciousness of his prisoner, if only offered as a trade for good food and a soft mattress, because to not believe would be to surrender. Gullible and yielding, lacking fortitude and iron will, he clung to the first lifeline thrown to his drowning body, never mind that the other end floated freely upon the waves. It was both disgusting and disarmingly hilarious, dragging claws of humor across Mairon's spirit.

Perhaps this bowing and scraping would not be so terrible after all. Such entertainment!

But the chortling would have to wait.

"Very well. But first, let me impart to you the _truth_ of Eru Ilúvatar and the Valar, who name themselves Lords of the world, and the great and powerful Lord Melkor, whose place they usurped in betrayal..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> maia = lesser ainu (holy one)


	150. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel has returned to Middle-earth and finds his way back to his lover's side once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some romantic sort of marshmallow-ness. Connected up to Subtle (Chapter 4), Notice (Chapter 64) and a little with Fire (Chapter 77).

The ocean could no longer soothe his restless spirit. No matter the many long hours he sat and watched the spiraling, foamy depths and listened to the wash of waves crashing upon sand, the sound could not calm the itch that took up residence in the back of his mind. The yearning that could not be satiated with good food or a comfortable bed or companionable silence.

Beside him sat his cousin by marriage. A steady rock of support that had kept him anchored this long on the northern shores. But no longer.

"Are you sure you cannot stay, cousin?"

It was a question that Glorfindel had been asking himself again and again, but one to which the answer never changed no matter the circumstances. Certainly, he was content here amongst his close kin and friends, but something was always missing. Something intrinsic and necessary.

Simple little thoughts—of holding a cool hand entwined in his own and pressing his lips to the soft palm in a gentle caress—haunted his waking hours. But when he reached out to grasp the reaching fingers, it was to only empty air that he was greeted. Glimpses beneath his closed lids—of soulful dark eyes layered in sorrow, eyes that vanished as early morning mist as his golden lashes parted to let in the sunlight of dawn—flitted through his dreams on a hummingbird's wings.

 _"Glorfindel... Where are you?"_ He could swear he heard that beloved voice calling...

As much as he loved his comrades and cousins, whom he had been family to since the first Exile, he knew he couldn't stay. Knew that no amount of propinquity would replace that for which he hopelessly longed. Knew that he couldn't be _happy_ unless he _tried..._

"You know I cannot."

And Finrod's smile was both sad and understanding. Of all of them, he knew what it was to be sundered from that which was dearest to the heart. Knew the same wistful ache and endless need. It was not so terribly long ago that he was reunited with Amarië after centuries of being alone and apart.

A hand was laid upon his shoulder, squeezing. "I wish you luck, old friend." And then he was gone.

Glorfindel let out a sigh, for he knew what he must do. Standing, he turned away from the West and the vast expanses of ocean's song, instead facing the east and letting the salt-tinted wind whip across his back and through his hair, pulling him inland as invisible hands upon his spirit. In that direction lay his future, not languishing here upon the shore with empty hopes and dreams.

And he trusted the Valar to guide him to his goal. He trusted the stars to light his way once more. Until he found the missing half that would render him complete in truth.

Then, maybe...

But there was much to be considered and much to be done. Pushing aside the long list of hopes rendered now impotent phantoms, he made his way back to the small cottage on the beach in which he stayed. It would take only hours to pack his meager belongings, and then the vanya would set out on foot down the coast until he reached civilization. Lindon was only a two or three week journey.

He would begin there. And search. And if he never rediscovered that which he sought, the ancient elf was certain he would be wandering forever. Searching.

\---

Not forever. But for a long time. 

Long enough to survive the War of the Ring. Long enough to survive meeting, face-to-face, the visage of the Lieutenant of Angband once more. Long enough to encounter Ereinion, the little child in his hazy memories grown into the spitting image of his father—and dead upon the battlefield just the same in a blaze of light. Long enough to meet and become fond of Elrond, who had the eyes and haughty grace of the King of Gondolin but also Lady Idril's kind-hearted purity. 

They—the healer and the re-embodied elf—had become fast friends, protecting each other's backs on the field of battle for the many long years of strife, and Glorfindel trusted the great-grandson of Turgon with his very existence, of body and of soul.

It was a bond he would never regret forging.

"Return to Imladris with me," the herald had invited when all was said and done. "We would welcome you gratefully amongst our ranks, Lord Glorfindel."

The greater part of his being had wanted to decline what was a most gracious offer of security and kinship. Certainly, he had helped in the war and grown close to these warriors, become one of their sworn brothers, but even with his duties as a soldier of the Valar complete—for the time being—he had another task which was thus far left unfinished. A personal task that could not be abandoned or left to rot in forgetfulness.

Yet... yet there was a small spark of _something_ that flickered through his spirit at the words, something eerie. A little whisper in the back of his mind that told him to accept. That this was the correct path.

And his instincts had never directed him wrongly thus far. There was no reason to begin doubting them now.

Thus he had come to dwell as a member of the House of Elrond in the Valley of Imladris. The land was breathtaking, even to he who had seen the greatest kingdoms of Beleriand and Valinor in the flesh with his own two eyes. The gash of the rocky land opened to lush green forests, the distant shimmer of airy white arches and a warm, burnished glow of homeliness beneath the rays of the setting sun settling as a sheen over the valley. Shattered colors danced through the very air, reflected off the many falls decorating sheer cliffs as they plummeted into the Bruinen surging below, and their roaring deaths left behind an evening mist that layered the land in mystery.

Truly, it was a beautiful place. He could see why Elrond called it home rather than the courtly elegance mixed with radical conservation that defined Lindon. Where Ereinion's kingdom had been understated and militarized, more a fortress city and house of state than a living space, this was a creation forged for the purpose of luring and enrapturing the senses in comfort.

It was a shame, he thought, that one day he would have to abandon this wondrous place. For no matter the sweetness and charm of this Valley, it would never be _his_ home, could not replace the fond memories stoking that ever-present longing. Still he was incomplete, and ever would be until his task was finished and the shards of a broken bond were re-forged in bliss.

But until then, he did what he did best. He wandered the long, open corridors and gardens and spacious chambers of the Last Homely House. Wandered for days in open wonder and curiosity.

Eventually wandered straight into the library.

Its massive size and selection had not been exaggerated. Certainly there were places in Valinor with a larger accumulation of knowledge, but none so interesting or diverse as that which he could see merely from standing in the doorway. And beyond that, it had an atmosphere of welcome that he found not in any such room in the haughty palaces of his distant royal kin or in the public archives of the scholarly academies prominent in the greater cities of the golden shores.

Perhaps he might even find something of interest. Surely there must be some work in this collection which would hold his attention and divert it from the constant thoughts of...

"Hello? Is there something with which I can assist you?"

The figure was half-hidden behind a stack of massive tomes, but he could make out the dark robes draped over a rather short and slender body, accentuating the lithe male form. His eyes traveled upwards, past the intimidating books of laws and treaties, to the straight falls of dark hair left unadorned and unbraided, spilling over shoulders and pooling on the hard leather book covers. And then over the high-necked collar of a dark tunic to the pale skin in sharp contrast, almost white against the blackness. So smooth to his gaze as it worked over high, elegant cheeks and full lips.

But naught could compare to the moment when he met the eyes—darker than any he had ever seen except once, pools of shimmering grief veiled with a tempered shield of irritation glowing hot as metal beneath a forge flame. Beautiful eyes inlaid with the stars. _Familiar_ eyes.

Eyes that widened with the same shock as had burst to life in his chest and stolen away any breath he still carried within his lungs. With the same joy that flooded and overflowed with sudden tears...

They connected, and Glorfindel felt his entire being shudder as _everything_ came together again. As the other half of a bond ravaged by death suddenly found its missing counterpart and wove tightly back into place, tangled and unraveled ends meshing into perfect harmony once more.

And if neither of them heard the crash of seven thick tomes hitting the hardwood floor, who could have blamed them?

"I think there might be... _Erestor..."_


	151. Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lúthien cannot run away from the consequences of her actions forever. Eventually, she will have to face them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions insanity and some questionable sexual encounters. A little bit of divine manipulation. Very closely related to Obvious (Chapter 122), Tide (Chapter 55), Reap (Chapter 61) and All I Ask (Chapter 75) as well as a number of others. Not going to list them all, though.
> 
> Dior's parentage has been changed. Just a reminder.
> 
> I found this to be a bit confusing and I _wrote_ it, so forgive me if it's jumbled. This is what happens when I write late at night on three hours of sleep.

She thought, after all this time, she would have been prepared to face the consequences of her own actions—would have had the resilience and strength to stand before the reality of her shameful selfishness and not look away from her personal calamity. Would have had the courage to speak to those she had wronged unintentionally and make them understand just how _sorry_ , to tell those who had sacrificed even unknowingly for her happiness just how _grateful_ she would be for all of eternity. That their sacrifices _meant something_ to her—more than she could ever describe in words. 

But in the end, she always found herself turning back. Running away from the haze of terror and the sting of shame in her heart.

Finrod of Nargothrond, she could hardly bear to face. It was not the inherent ugliness of his ravaged features that drove her away, but the opposing brilliance of his spirit, the contradiction of his outer beauty marred in protection of her lover with his inner glory and honor. Rare was the sight of such a pure-hearted being immersed in true compassion, true kindness. And she did not feel she deserved his comfort and acceptance, though she knew it would be freely given.

Neither did she dare approach Curufin of the House of Fëanor, though she knew in the Halls he could not exact revenge or punishment upon her person. It was, rather, fright at the thought of the look in his eyes and the truth she would see—the disgust she knew he held for her burrowed down deep into the very marrow of his bones and the scorn that would curl his upper lip and twist his handsome face. Scorn and disgust she wished she could willing embrace, that she felt she deserved after what she had done to his brother. In the name of _love_. Love of another man.

Daeron, her dearest friend and confident, was far beyond her reach. Still he walked the realm of the living, far on the other side of the Belegaer, and she mourned that she might never again speak with him. Might never have the chance to apologize for her anger when all he wanted—even in his envious affection—was to keep her safe and happy.

But, most of all, she dared not approach Celegorm.

The father of her only son. Her true other half. The man she had used and thrown away without second thought.

How could she ever face him again? Would he, as did his brother, hold for her that same hatred, blazing in eyes made of shadowed starlight? Or would he be as he had been in her darkest memories, so love-stricken as to throw himself at her feet, a willing sacrifice if only to assuage her pain for a mere moment in time?

Lúthien did not know if she could bear either reality. She did not think that she could live with herself if he had lost all love for her and threw her aside—as he rightfully should—like filth that might taint his hands should they touch. But at the same time, it hurt to think of his lusty, adoring eyes gazing upon her with wonder—as though she were a pure angel full of goodness and holiness—when she felt the ink of wickedness run across the white sheets of her innocence, staining and bruising irreversibly.

Actively, she had avoided him. Until today.

Truly, she had not meant to see him, to gaze upon his form. Never had she intended for this confrontation to come into existence. But she had come upon him alone and stopped short at his sight. For he was not as she recalled.

There was no hatred, but nor was there love. There was nothing there that even remotely resembled the romantic man she remembered, the man who had soothed her tears away and crooned comforts in her ears as she mourned. The man who had held her so tenderly as they made love and declared his passion and devotion to her image even when she called out the name of another in the throes of their union. 

Nothing of that man stared back at her. Only empty amusement, a spine-chilling smile curving upwards the corners of his trembling white lips and cackling laughter that warned away those foolish enough to step too close and risk being bitten. Even just standing as he was innocuously before a tapestry, eyes riveted upon the weaving, twining images, his entire being screamed of blood-thirst—a predator that might torture and tease its prey before a slow, agonizing death.

But even through that wicked, sadistic joy, distant coldness iced over the depths of his expressive eyes. A shield to hide the vulnerable underbelly of his hurt—a perceived weakness to be exploited now carefully guarded against attack.

A shield—a monstrous shade—formed over the fear and hopelessness, the fragility formed and sculpted by her hands and decorated by his insecurities and shattered dreams.

She knew exactly what that hurt and fear were and from whence they had come. Before, she had seen it in the eyes of her best friend—her minstrel and protector. The betrayal and the agony and still the inability to cease loving. Daeron's eyes had flashed with it the day she had spoken harshly of his _jealousy_ and _treachery_. As though his attempts to keep her safe—even from herself—were damning to the continued growth of their close friendship. He had looked as though she stabbed him through the heart.

"So thou hast finally decided to face the truth."

Shocked, the former princess spun away from the saddening sight, instead facing the Lord of the Dead, who had long haunted her nightmares with his disappointed, derisive stare cutting holes through her blindness and delusion. Those dark mirror-eyes were not so harsh and cold now as they had been in their first encounter, but neither were they friendly. Merely neutral observers to mortal drama.

"I... It was an accident..." She knew she could not lie to him. And she _had not_ intended to seek out Celegorm—not ever. Not after what had happened between them. But now it was done, and she could not merely _forget_ what now rested so blatantly before her eyes and settled as a heavy stone of guilt in her belly. "How long has he... has he been...?"

The eyes were not upon her, and for that she was grateful. "Before Beren came to Nargothrond," the vala admitted, his deep voice rolling through her, sincerity in its every timbre. "Long before then, even, though he was better at hiding it before the Siege was broken. Thy love for thy precious atan was merely the last strike that brought him beyond mere torment into hopelessness and despair."

Almost audibly, she gulped. The ghost of bile burned at the back of her throat, and had she not wanted to maintain her dignity before the Lord of the Dead, she might very well have attempted to vomit upon her own silk slippers.

That such harm could be caused without intent... Before she had come to Nargothrond, she had not even _known he existed..._

And certainly not all of it was her fault, at least not before their first meeting. But neither was she blameless, nor would she pretend otherwise. Her choice to use him—to pretend to love him to get the comfort she needed in her darkest hour—had been her own. Her damnation and fall.

"Can anything be done?" she asked in a whisper, voice wavering with shame.

"We—I and the servants of my Halls—have done our best, but nothing yet has helped bring his spirit back from shadow." Resignation was prominent in that voice, and it left Lúthien cold and shuddering with dread.

"Then what... what shall become of him, my Lord?"

Then he was looking upon her once more, and she could see sadness and regret, but no mercy. No compassion. Just acceptance. "I cannot allow him to leave in this state—broken in mind and in spirit. Celegorm will remain here in our care forever until the End of All Things, and then Ilúvatar will do with him as He wills. The final destination of Celegorm is out of my hands now."

And what a sad fate it seemed. She would move on, be reborn into the bliss of Valinor with her parents and her friends and her people. But nothing she ever did could ever give back what she had taken from him if she turned around and walked away now without looking back. Never again would she witness his hidden suffering, but always would it rest in the back of her mind, a phantom to haunt her thoughts and shadow her joy.

There would be no reparations. No redemption. Just regret.

"Let me... let me speak to him, my Lord..."

"Thou canst do as thou dost choose, and I cannot stop thee." The Lord of the Dead did not protest as she thought he might, nor did he warn her away and crush her whispering thoughts of guilt erased through healing. Selfish thoughts. She wasn't really doing this for _him_ , but because she felt sorry for him and did not want to feel this cold weight in her belly forever.

She did not _love_ Celegorm Fëanorion.

But no one else had been able to penetrate that shield—the adamantine shell of lust for blood, bitterness and sadism burning over a layer of ice to put Helcaraxë to shame. No one had been able to crack it open and bleed out the sorrow that must be writhing and screaming beyond, an infection festering and poisoning the blood of the spirit. Yet, was there anyone more suitable to the task than she whom had had hand in its creation?

And salvation was the only repayment she could offer. She had to try.

It was then that Lúthien stepped away from her dour companion and towards the wild-eyed golodh who had once loved her with every ounce of his being—who might still love her with unceasing loyalty and devotion. And she told herself it was about equal trade and paying back a debt and soothing away the burning that took up residence in her chest—not about yearning for forgiveness. From him. From _them_.

From herself.

Forgiveness she did not believe she would ever deserve. Nor ever request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> atan = man (of the Race of Men)
> 
> Sindarin:  
> golodh = Noldorin elf


	152. Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm hides things from himself to protect himself from the truth. He is not the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insanity and self-hatred. De Nile. This piece ended up completely running away with me and did not turn out at all as I had envisioned, but it has allowed me to get to know our heroine better, so I'm actually quite pleased.
> 
> You could call this the continuation of Shield (Chapter 151). It's somewhere between that and Dust (Chapter 93).

It was obvious that, were he ever to heal his broken psyche and come to terms with all the ill-fortune that had befallen his family, Celegorm would have to open up his shields and release all of the emotion locked tight in the back of his mind. All the despair and bitterness and sorrow that she _knew_ were lurking beneath his broad grins and starry eyes. All those sentiments and memories that never had come to light.

Every time he laughed, she could see little cracks appear in the façade he put forth to fool her or lure her. Small amounts of tension and built up frustration were leaking slowly into his face and form—more and more each day. He would snap irritably at the smallest, most innocuous comments, and a mere compliment or chastisement could bring tears to his eyes that never fell, unacknowledged and unwilling—unnoticed. An ache resonated so violently with her own heart that his distress left _her_ nearly breaking down in its wake.

For all that he tried to hide and ignore it, it was becoming increasingly evident that nothing but pain resulted from his closed nature, from hiding all the feelings he perceived as useless and weak and unnecessary. He was distrusting and deceitful—toward himself and toward others.

And, though she was loath to admit it—even to herself—Lúthien desired his trust. She desired to see the man that he was beneath the monster he created to protect and defend vulnerability and weakness. She desired to see his true thoughts and true feelings and true tears. Every glimpse more she received of him...

Every little genuine smile without hints of threatening teeth and lust and fury...

Every sincere flash of joy that wormed its way into his voice as he remembered...

Every moment spent basking in the innate gentleness of his spirit when he was calm...

None of those would she ever have imagined on the face or in the heart of a Kinslayer. A murderer and a warrior. He killed in the cold blood and did not hide that reality from her sight, nor did he lie about the fact that he _enjoyed_ toying with his victims and splattering himself with their blood and dishonoring their corpses with the soles of his boots.

It was what Celegorm _didn't_ tell her.

Oh, he never outright told her falsities, but she knew he didn't tell the _whole_ truth either. Lies by omission. Knew that, whenever he professed to loving the rush of the kill and the cries of the enemy beneath his blade, pain and hatred flashed in the back of his eyes, beneath the fire and the ice, directed inward as a poisoned dart. 

Knew also that, when he thought she wasn't looking closely, there too lingered aching guilt and regret as his stared off into the distant sky dotted with little white clouds.

Knew that, when he talked about the green forests and vast meadows of Valinor that had once been his home, his voice was nostalgic and longing, that he was homesick for the past.

Knew that, when he spoke of his many brothers and their wild days of carefree childhood, there was deep fondness and wistfulness, that he missed them terribly.

But never did he admit it _aloud_. He wasn't _open_ with her. He was trying to hide from her that deepest part of his self which entranced her and which he found repulsive. That free spirit locked up in a cage, not allowed to see the sunlight and not allowed to spread its wings and fly. A little memory that Celegorm feared to dredge up lest it break all the walls he had labored to erect. Lest he realize how much of his true spirit he had been hiding from his own gaze.

All these walls, she wanted to tumble down and leave as rubble, revealing something golden beneath. Something beautiful.

And Lúthien did not know what had come over her that that deep inner self she knew was hiding left her breathless in want. That a mere _glimpse_ of the youth and sweetness left behind from before all the war and death and insanity left her heart pounding against the inside of her ribs, bouncing up into her throat until her voice crackled and died from asphyxiated elation.

And she _would not_ admit— _even to herself_ —that she knew what these symptoms meant. Knew what her heart and body were trying to tell her mind.

Couldn't accept that as the truth.

Maybe that was why she never pushed and never asked the difficult questions expecting revealing answers. Never tried to delve too deep lest she upset the delicate balance hanging between their awkward silences and empty conversations. Because she knew that, should he turn to her with those glorious silver eyes, wide and hopeful, and ask her if she _was in love with him..._

She would still say no.

And it would be a lie. Even if it was just a lie of omission. To him. And to herself.

Everything she did, she did because she owed it to him after her own heinous crime. Because she had used him and hurt him and thrown him aside without second thought and without any remorse, and he had never deserved her harsh treatment. It was not out of need for forgiveness—and it most certainly had nothing to do with winning his _love_ —that she had undertaken this quest and drudged on through obstacles and uncertainty.

Absolutely nothing to do with anything but making things right between them. She would not allow _that_ particular cell—that prison incarcerating her darkest and most honest thoughts and desires—to open and release its tempting epiphanies. Would not think in a direction that would only lead to more betrayal and more heartbreak. For herself and for Celegorm.

His sweet smiles that left her insides fluttering were not important. His soft, rolling laughter was a farce to win over her rational mind. And his pain was not hers to take within her own heart. They were not as one being.

She would reveal his secrets, comfort him and steer him back toward the light—would try her best to mend the war-torn remnants that would be left behind in the wake of turmoil and strife, stitching him back into a resemblance of that which he had once been—but remain only his confident and friend and nothing more. Never would she— _could she_ —open herself the same way before his eyes and risk the truth. Before _anyone's_ eyes. For her own sake and for his.

This was a mission and a punishment. Nothing more. And never could that be allowed to change.


	153. Tactile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel _knows_ the very first time she holds her youngest son that he is fated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-graphic death scene (burning alive). Precognition and foresight. Elven culture.
> 
> Very obviously follows the canon in which Amras dies at Losgar. Thus, it is related to Remorseful (Chapter 133), Heavy (Chapter 135) and Run (Chapter 17). Also, forgive Fëanor for being a bit misogynistic.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Amras = Umbarto

It was quite common knowledge amongst the Firstborn that mothers often experienced some manner of foresight the first time they held their infant child within the circle of their arms. This famed precognitive itch was no myth, for it was all too familiar to Nerdanel—proud mother of five. Until the early hours of this morning.

Now proud mother of _seven._

And each time she held one of her sons in her arms, she could clearly recall that _feeling_. It was something special, beyond the realm of explanation. Like brushing against a dream-world. She could not have explained it or described it to save her own life, though she had tried many times. Fëanáro—being the stubborn ass she had fallen so helplessly in love with—often scoffed at the "legend" revolving around the naming of children, despite the fact that the names often proved prophetically correct. He did not like or believe in any phenomenon that could not be touched or explained through simple physics and deductive reasoning, and thus considered it all a massive coincidence or female delusion.

Never had Nerdanel been able to explain her naming choices. Not even to herself.

It was always a glimpse. The flash of a beautiful face and a beautiful heart. The whisper of a deep voice rolling over the land. The quick temper writhing beneath a soft exterior. The flush of freckled cheeks, scarlet on white. The sight of her husband's gaze staring with piercing intensity. The gleam of copper curls beneath vibrant golden light.

But it was just that. A glimpse. Nothing tangible. A swift ghost of the future come and gone in the blink of an eye, touching her irrevocably and lingering forever in the back of her thoughts, but still as water slipping through her cupped fingers. It was not _true_ foresight, but merely a push in the correct direction, and she imagined these passing moments were the hints and nudges of a Power beyond the realm of this world giving insight into newly born souls.

She had never heard of anything more than this brush with ephemeral otherworldliness. Never heard of anything _stronger_. Anything touchable and corporeal.

Until now.

She was an artist, and she knew touch like she knew air in her lungs and water in her throat. She knew the feeling of heat soaking into her palms. She knew the tender warmth of Laurelin caressing her bare skin. She knew the consistency of wet clay rubbing its soft edges into her hands. She knew the difference between dreams and reality, but sought to make dreams _into_ reality.

And she knew what she experienced when she held her seventh son was _real_. Tactile.

From the very moment he was placed in her arms, it was as if another world overlapped the true present. Darkness fell about her as a shroud, and before her eyes she saw _him._

It was undeniably her youngest son, grown to adulthood.

And so like to his father he looked as he walked past her. Perhaps he shared not the same color of hair or iris, but those eyes flashed bright in the strange, foreign blackness, insolent and determined with an indomitable will to succeed no matter the cost. No diffidence was there to be found in his quick steps, in his insidious movements as he swept through the sleeping camp toward faint white spread over glistening waters.

Nerdanel followed, feeling the rocks sharply against her bare feet and the cold wind splash across her face, carrying with it the scent of ocean salt and breaking waves. Shivers rocketed through her body, pinching at her skin and tracing their cold fingers down her spine.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

She knew that even before her youngest son boarded the towering white ship alone, eyes tracing over the graceful sculpture of wood and gem carefully shaped into a swan, its jewel-eyes staring off into the dark. And, though she had no idea what was happening, she could see in his eyes the fury and the horror and the fear, wished that she could wrap her arms about him and hold him to her breast. Reaching out desperately, she tried to grasp his silken hair...

Tried to trace a flawless cheek...

But he turned sharply away, and the acrid smell of burning wood and paint was sucked through her senses, stinging the inside of her nose and singeing the inside of her throat. Shocked, she snapped her head around toward the shore behind them, and her eyes were blinded with the wall of flame rising from the dark water swirling below.

Dancing fire was licking its way upwards, eating the ivory feathers away with voracious greed. Smoke nearly slapped her in the face, searing against her eyes, bringing hacking coughs up from her lungs when she breathed in the ashy heat and choked on its grating thickness. It sucked the energy out of her limbs and left her slipping downwards to the floor, scrambling away without sight and without thought but finding clear air and escaping the heat.

There was only orange and red and gold, everywhere flickering in and out of blackness. She could taste his fear upon her tongue, feel the heat grow and grow until it was as a molten brand to her bare flesh. Melting away whiteness. Burning.

She was _burning._

 _He_ was _burning._

And screaming, shrill cries ringing and ringing against her eardrums. The pain of death was beyond anything she could imagine, and yet it was the sight of _him_ —the charred, ragged patches spreading across his flesh, peeling it back, eating straight down to the bone and leaving it blackened—that brought her mind once more to the surface.

Again, she reached for him—in comfort or in delusion, she could not say—fingers just brushing the ashy remains crumbling to dust and the licking tongues of fire before he fell back into darkness...

And then there was cold. Like plunging into frigid water with a heavy weight chained to her ankle, pulling downwards until gray spread and spread and...

"Nerdanel? Nárinya, are you well?"

And then it ended as brutally fast as it had begun, interchanging truth and fiction in a heartbeat. She looked down expecting a corpse falling apart in her grasp, but the child was resting so peacefully in her arms, cooing in his sleep and brushing tiny, perfect little fingers to her skin. Beneath her touch, that little tuft of vibrant red hair felt exactly as she had seen in her nightmare, so very downy to her fingertips.

More tactile than she could have dreamed. And more terrifyingly familiar.

"His name is Umbarto."

Her husband's eyes widened from where he stood watching as a sentinel over mother and child, and for once he was surprised into momentary shock at the scant few words. Lips parted, but no voice at first emerged from within his throat, words seemingly frozen into eerie silence. After all, what father wanted such a name for his son—a name that boded ill fate for its owner?

"Surely you do not mean that..." he whispered.

But she _did_. "I _saw_ it," she whispered. "I _saw him."_

 _I saw him die_. Felt _him die._

But she knew as soon as she spoke that it was the wrong thing to say to win over his logical mind. "You _saw_ something," he commented, voice low and mocking, derision within its disbelief. "You had a wild daydream resulting from fatigue—is that a reason to give your child such a _disturbing_ mother-name, vessenya?"

"It was not a _daydream."_ She _knew_ it wasn't. For how could such a frighteningly touchable false reality have come from her imagination?

Never before had it happened.

"You need to rest." Condescendingly, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, but at the same time snatched the child away, holding the newborn with the ease of a seasoned father and just the tiniest undercurrent of unsettled anxiety. "Please, Nerdanel, get some sleep. You must be exhausted."

 _I did not imagine this_ , she wanted to snarl.

All the same, she knew better than to argue and fight with her mate, for it was a battle that could not be won. That same will and fire within her son in her vision was a reflection of that which she witnessed now in her husband's gaze. Self-confidence bordering on arrogance, assurance in his own intellect and persistent determination to be _correct_ if only to avoid the creeping fear in dark uncertainty. Valar forbid that she might be right and he might be proved incorrect! That their son was doomed from his very birth!

But to try and convince this skeptic was not worth the effort. Not now.

When the time came, Nerdanel knew that she would _know_ what she needed to do. In her core, she knew it would come upon them as a shadow from the North, and its cold touch would bring her back to those moments in the lightless world of terror that haunted the recesses beyond her eyelids. To the moment she first touched her youngest. She would _know..._

But for now, she watched Fëanáro slip away, little Umbarto safely tucked into the crook of his powerful arm, and bided her time, eyes fluttering into sleep.

Let him believe it was delusion. But she knew different. She had _felt_ it, as real as the sheets beneath her trembling fingers and the sweaty strands of hair stuck to her face. As real as the tears now tracking down her cheeks and leaving small wet circles upon her shift, hot dampness against her chilled flesh.

Her husband would fool himself, call it nothing—fall into the trap. But she would never forget. No matter how much she wished these tidings were untrue. She _believed._

Because she had touched that charred dust with her own fingers. And it had been solid evidence of the undeniable truth. That was no hallucination or nightmare. No phantasmagoria. Time had bent and overlapped and _revealed._

It had warned. But it was a warning that would go unheeded. And that was, perhaps, the greater tragedy in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> nárinya = my flame/fire (nár + nya)  
> vessenya = my wife (vessë + nya)


	154. Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nimrodel arrives at Edhellond and discovers that no one has waited for her arrival. Or so it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly a touch melodramatic? Attempted suicide (I haven't decided if it's successful yet or not, but she probably lived). Forgive me for being mean to my female characters. Though, in all fairness, the guys usually aren't much better off.
> 
> Connected up with Dismiss (Chapter 134) and Compromise (Chapter 139).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Lady of Mercy = Nienna  
> Mistress of the Stars = Varda

It was the end of her journey.

And there was nothing at the end. Nothing at all.

Months of wandering through dense forest and mountains, so lost she knew only the directions by the glimmers of sunlight between thick canopies, of searching endlessly for some sign of her companions and her lover, of scrapes and bruises and nights spent weeping hopelessly to the stars for guidance and blessing, and here she had arrived.

Behind her, spread out upon the coast in a white array of crumbling glory, was Edhellond. It was beautiful, or once had been, before its silvered facets had faded to dull gray with decay and neglect. No footsteps marked the wondering of mariners and shipwrights, nor passengers of ships that had long left its docks and bays. There was nothing left of the haven but the remnants of a dream long since abandoned for brighter horizons.

And before her was the vast, writhing body of the sea, expanding on endlessly until it melded with the sky, too far for her elven eyes to behold. Not a mast marked the shimmer of Anor as she slid down beneath the surface, gold rays turning scarlet.

No sound met Nimrodel's ears but the crashing of waves upon the cliff face below, white foam spewing upwards in graceful arcs and curls, reaching upwards with grasping, pale fingers and beckoning hands. Hands that burned red in the dying sunset. And Nimrodel could only imagine that they wanted to grab her and take her away from this deserted ghost of a place, away from this empty dream that no longer did anyone lay claim to.

Her tears fell and disappeared into the mist below, and she wondered if it was the Lady of Mercy who sent these waters to receive her in her despair, or if it were some darker power bent on wrathful justice.

For no ship awaited her here. Nor did her one and only love.

There was nowhere for her to go but forward and there was no way she could turn around and go back, retracing her steps. All around her, it seemed that the world saw fit to fall apart. First her home. Then her forest. Then her people.

Then her life.

And _he_ had been her brightest star—her hope, her _prince._ Who had thrown away everything for her selfish desires and needs. Perhaps it was fate that she end here without his love. Perhaps it was nothing more than she deserved for using him as such. He was probably dead in the mountain passes, body rotting and scavenged, having waited and waited for her to come whilst she tripped and stumbled between dense trunks and low-hanging branches. Maybe he had been attacked by the enemy, a victim of the gathering darkness of the land. Maybe he had stumbled and broken his neck upon the craggy rocks. Or maybe he had starved to death, refusing to abandon his vigil.

But no matter what had befallen him, she did not doubt that he was beyond her reach now. Somewhere on the other side of this mass of water, looking out to the East with his wide blue eyes, wondering what had become of she whom he loved enough to sacrifice everything. Wondering if ever he would see her again.

And she wanted to be with him. Here or in Aman—she didn't think she cared any longer. Damn the light and the darkness. So long as she could touch him. So long as their story did not come to such a tragic close and leave her grasping at air, so very alone and so very tired.

 _If you are watching over me... If you can hear me..._ The stars blurred within her gaze, spinning overhead. _Please, someone, take me to him..._

_Take me to him..._

There was nowhere to go but forward. And Nimrodel only paused to close her eyes as her bare foot rested over open air, cold mist tickling the sole of her foot, wriggling between her toes and tugging her towards her destiny.

Her clenched eyelids blocked out the celestial lights overhead, but she hoped their Mistress would grant her this last boon. 

_Please, take me to my prince... my Amroth..._

And then she fell.

It seemed forever before she hit the water, but her breath was held in anticipation. She did not blink, only thought deeply of all that had transpired and all the places she had traversed to get here. All the obstacles she had faced, and the last one waiting below. For years and years, she had been moving and moving, searching and searching, but it was finally done. She was ready to hold still. Ready for his warmth to consume her completely.

It was that thought that carried her to the roaring waters below. Their welcome was not soft like the gentle touch of the river at home, teasingly caressing her skin. Instead, the surface slammed into her, a crack resounding with the surge of pain that engulfed her torso, stabbing inwards and drawing forth a scream.

But her sound never reached the sky, because the waves overtook her all too quickly. As a frigid blanket pulled over her head, she was cut off from the stars and the wind and the air—cut off from all return—and felt her body sizzle from the sudden cold wracking like knives of ice. Shocked, her lips parted, and she felt the flood surge inwards even as invisible hands gripped her ankles and dragged her down into the inky unknown.

No longer could she see the cliff face. Only blue and gray and black mixing and blurring together. Spinning into the dying white.

It all twined together even as she took her first breath of liquid and choked. In a myriad of shapes and twists, the water seemed to net her in. And if the last thing she saw of this wrecked and ruined land was the glory of the sea wishing her a farewell, then she would be content. For she would then awaken again, perhaps in the arms of her lover on the far shores to live in eternal bliss.

This was the end...

And she could almost swear... that she could see... his beloved face...

Could see a hand reaching out to her with a broad smile, haloed in resplendent golden light...

Reaching towards the end...

Or, perhaps, her journey was not yet finished. Perhaps, she thought as a rough, cold palm gripped her slender hand and _pulled_ , perhaps she was merely crossing a bridge...

Perhaps, her journey was only _beginning..._

But for now, she just wished... for sleep...

And the blackness took her away.


	155. Scowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elladan and Elrohir share many similarities. Their method of mourning is not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions torture and probable rape. Lots of self-hatred and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Rather dysfunctional family dynamics also.
> 
> Connected to Cleansed (Chapter 107) and Life (Chapter 112).

Elrohir sincerely did not understand.

He did not understand how his older twin brother could be so _happy_ and _carefree_. How he could _smile_ and _laugh_ after all that had happened. After how they had _failed_. After discovering their mother's desecrated body, used and tormented by her captors, left to die alone in the dark because they had not been present to protect her when they should have been. After they had watched her ride away into the twilight and leave them all behind.

Truly, he did not understand at all.

For he could not so much as close his eyes without the rush of overwhelming, horrifying _guilt_. Could not open his mouth without feeling the telltale rise of bile slinking up the back of his throat. Could not leave behind the sights and smells of burned and rotting flesh tangled in bone, nor the remembrance of his mother's terrified cries.

Every time he thought of _her_ , he felt the tears rise unbidden and uncalled for. But never did he allow them to fall.

He couldn't.

Instead, he put a scowl upon his stony face and turned away.

He pushed aside the despair and the longing—the wistful yearning to be encased in soft, white arms and hear that familiar voice rise in a lullaby, sweet to his ears. He didn't dare think about the long nights spent curled against pale skirts as thunder clashed in the distance or the feeling of fingers stroking through his dark hair as morning sunlight spilled through the nursery window. He didn't dare breathe too deeply for fear that the sweetness of her scent might linger upon his senses.

He didn't dare think of anything but her captors and torturers—of their twisted features that resembled neither Elf nor Man nor anything but grotesque sculpture and wicked imaginings. He did not allow himself to feel anything but the rage and cruelty that first surged through his veins as an inferno when he saw them crouched over her prone body, splattered in her blood and bathing in her screams.

The youngest son of Elrond let that sensation flood through his very soul, drowning out any sentiments that might dare to try and break the surface for breath. For he could withstand that burn. The melted inner core of his ignited spirit was a comfort, the scorching pain driving away the ache of deeper wounds, cauterizing still seeping lacerations and soothing deep bruises. It wasn't the same as healing, but Elrohir did not want to heal, not like _Elladan_ was healing.

He did not want to forgive and forget. He felt harshly the responsibility and sentence to _remember_. To make certain such a tragedy never occurred again under his power. To be sure he felt the shame and sting of his failure for all eternity as punishment. And to uphold his _duty_ to slaughter those who had targeted that which was dear to his heart. To bathe in their blood and entrails amidst their terror and hopelessness, a creature of pure wrath raining down his retribution upon his enemies with glee.

Most would have said revenge made him reckless, but it was a necessary catharsis. He donned his façade and rode off into the night alone without thought, and his sword struck down every foe without hesitation and without remorse. And each time the sharp edge cut through flesh as butter and hacked through solid bone, he felt some of the tightness in his chest release. Felt the sting of his eyes go suddenly dry.

Felt horrid _relief._

He would avenge her if it was the last thing he ever did in this life.

But he did not dare try to heal. It felt... it felt _dirty_ and _selfish_.

Because it was _his fault_. And his _mother_ had not been able to heal from her wounds, nor had she been granted mercy or clemency. The childishness and irresponsibility of her sons had brought an end to her life and sorrow to her household. How _dare_ he forgive himself when he deserved no such forgiveness?

And he knew that Elladan was not the same. That Elladan would shed tears. That he would allow all this tense frustration to seep out in bitter waves when he was alone in the dark—when he thought no one else could hear or see. The mere thought that the older twin _might_ be _letting go_ of their mother's memory and of their undoubted guilt was sickening. So much so that Elrohir could hardly bear to be in the presence of the brother he had once considered to be a very part of himself—two halves of an inseparable whole now sundered.

He saw Elladan in the gardens with a dark-haired maiden, gathered into her arms like a child within his mother's embrace, and felt such _fury_. Saw him sobbing and babbling and telling all. Betraying his duty to keep that pain bottled inside.

Whenever he felt that heaviness rise in his throat and wetness gather at the corners of his eyes, Elrohir always thought of _that image_ and remembered that _he_ was more devoted and less selfish than his twin. That _he_ would not give in and move on to weave and create and live a life that had been taken away from their mother by their immature, unprepared hands.

He would not cry when it was so much easier to scowl.

When it was so much easier to avoid the sound of her voice forgiving them both, echoing off into the darkness of his nightmares, and focus on the shrieks of the dying and the taste of blood upon his tongue. And the feeling that, maybe, he was somehow paying back his debt.


	156. Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilession contemplates his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing: the way Ilession (OMC) sees his father is not the way Maglor sees himself, but it _will be_ important. So bear with me.
> 
> Second thing: mentions torture, insanity, murder, espionage, war and all that lovely stuff on top of dysfunctional family relationships.
> 
> Third thing: connected to any Maglor-related fics, but Worst Day (Chapter 24), Villain (Chapter 23) and Morals (Chapter 142) in particular.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

It was done. Over.

The end of the war was supposed to bring about celebration and joy. They had proved victorious and all the peoples of Middle-earth were once again free of the encroaching shadow. Light came back to the skies and burned away the chains of filth that had infected the earth and the forests. Men could return home to their wives and children—to their jobs and work and leisure—without fearing for their lives every day and every night.

Certainly, there was sadness for the dead as well. Much had been lost in the effort to retake liberty, but it had not been sacrificed in vain. It was all the more reason for revelry—in honor of those who had perished for the sake of the survival of happiness. To let all that they had battled for and died for fall into gray ruin _in the names of those who gave their lives for that freedom_ would have been sacrilegious.

Yes, they were supposed to be _happy._

But Ilession did not feel like celebrating. He was not cheerful, despite the end of his own treacherous tenure beneath Sauron's thumb. Instead, he felt tired—exhausted down to the bone. Wrung out like a ragged old cloth with fraying edges.

It wasn't the death that bothered him. Not really. It was expected.

Rather, it was the _regard._

Eyes staring and boring. Voices whispering and hissing. As though he couldn't see. As though he couldn't hear.

As though he didn't _know._

Some of them held him upon a pedestal, a paragon of virtue for withstanding the danger of hiding behind enemy lines and risking his life. And some of them cursed his name as though he were viler than all their foes combined, for they knew that he was a murderer and torturer willingly and by choice. But no matter which side of the line they stood upon, their blatant observation and fascination was unappreciated.

_"You are a hero of the war,"_ Elrond had assured him over and over. _"Without your vital information, where would we be, my friend? Long ago would Sauron have destroyed us and left our homes and people in ruins."_

_A hero... right..._

He didn't feel like one. He had been just as full of doubt and just as frightened as any of the other warriors. He had perhaps even been a touch _cowardly._

Thinking of all that he had accomplished, he didn't feel proud, but neither did he feel much shame. Some of the things he had been ordered to do were horrendous—heinous acts of violence and evil. He had slit throats without hesitation and tortured hundreds into insanity without remorse. More so than even that, he had traded secrets to the Dark Lord, knowing that if he provided no correct information or valuable knowledge, it would be _his hide_ that next decorated the golden-haired demon's bedchamber floor.

He regretted that it was necessary and wished he did not have the faces of the dead drifting in and out of his memories, their screams chasing him in the dark.

But there was no shame in keeping himself alive when his job was so vital. There was no shame in putting his life on the line day-in and day-out to protect his king and his people and his family. There was no shame in doing what was necessary.

Yet, he was glad it was finished.

That "what was necessary" was done and over. He ignored those who wished to idolize him—name him one of their precious war heroes and parade him around like a trophy of victory down the streets. All the same, those whose insidious voices hissed at true betrayal and the taint of Sauron's filth spreading, he put them aside within his mind, for they could not understand his actions.

They were like he had once been. Ignorant of the deeper choices of others, of the consequences of every action. Of motivations and plots and deceit and the difference between right and wrong. That, he did not begrudge them, but neither would he praise them for turning a blind eye to hard decisions and the shades of gray.

These days, he tried to sleep a full night without waking up at every sound, knife raised to kill. He tried to ignore his haunted dreams and pretend everything was fine. And he thought more and more each day about the past.

He wondered if they would see him as their savior if they knew what he truly thought.

That he could think of many other men who had done as he had done, who had not been praised or worshipped or even mentioned. Other spies who had been lost in the dungeons of Barad-dûr. Other men who had been tortured to death for prized information. Still others who had become murderers in the name of protecting what was _truly important_ rather than righteously backing ideology that played no part in the real world when no one was pure and every dark corner hid corruption.

He wondered if they would scorn him for thinking that—were he considered a hero for his self-sacrifice and for playing his part as traitorous kinslayer so that they might live to see another day on the other side—so, too, should his father be considered a hero. Maybe more so. For saving his brothers from their own shattered minds. For protecting his sons from the true depths of the Oath. For killing even those who were meant to be allies and kin in order to protect what was dearest. For picking up two orphaned children and rearing them as his own even when his own sons had abandoned him like trash.

For never giving up, even when all the odds were stacked against him. When there was no choice but to move forward or be lost in the tidal wave of cursed fate rising behind.

Maybe those actions hadn't been _right_ , but in a strange sort of way neither could they be called _wrong_.

And, maybe, Ilession felt a bit of shame for taking so long to come to this realization.

He knew now that heroes did not have to be the kings of old in their blazing, adamantine armor, riding out to their doom like valiant martyrs—Nolofinwë dying beneath Morgoth's boot in single combat or Findekáno crushed beneath the maces of the enemy whilst his people retreated to safety.

Sometimes, they went unacknowledged. Unnoticed. Unaccepted and misunderstood.

And he wondered if his father felt this same way as he—so very tired and so very _relieved_ —when it was all over. When the end had come.

Wondered what Makalaurë thought of his own actions. If he considered himself a hero or a villain, or something in between.

Wondered if the second son of Fëanáro felt guilt and horror at the blood upon his hands. Or if, in the end, he felt justified. Or maybe, like Ilession, he had been conflicted. Had tried his best to do what was right but had made mistakes along the way and regretted.

Ilession wondered if he had miscalculated everything...

And if he would ever get the chance to truly understand.


	157. Emulate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-Galad is a feared and respected warrior. He reflects on his personal inspiration and motivation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically just introspection and experimentation with a character I've literally never written before. Mentions murder, war, mutilation, etc... Also has a hint of precognition.
> 
> Connects to Stormy (Chapter 79).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Gil-Galad = Ereinion  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

Only once had Ereinion ever actually seen his father's best friend and brother in all but blood. Despite being an extremely young child at the time, he still remembered it with the utmost clarity and awe. Still recalled how overcome with that breathtaking image he had been all his life.

His first sight of Nelyafinwë Fëanárion would be forever imprinted upon his mind.

The very young prince had been searching for his father on that day—his father who had inconveniently vanished from his offices, probably in an attempt to escape drowning in the massive tide of paperwork and meetings required of the king. And, of course, the grumbling councilors hadn't told him anything in their mad dash to recover their sovereign—too preoccupied to spare a moment for the Crown Prince—and his mother was busy and didn't seem concerned enough by the disappearance to play impromptu "hide-and-seek" to recover her husband, so it had been left to the very young prince to track down his wayward sire.

When he finally found the king, it was upon the practice field. And, blade-to-blade with his father had been the tallest man little Ereinion had ever seen.

Hair that blazed with a golden sheen in the light of Arien was left loose, its flaming curls reaching out as red-hot brands towards the enemy, catching all eyes. Still, Ereinion could recall the clang and hiss of swords meeting and grinding between the two experienced warriors when they clashed. Could recall the wide grin on his father's face as sparks rained down about their spinning forms.

But more than anything, he had noticed the opponent with the red hair—noticed how he _breathed_ and _moved_.

It wasn't as if the prince, young as he had been, had never seen sparring before. Many times when bored and left to his own devices, he had watched his father honing his battle skills against the guards and the sentries, crossing many blades in the late afternoon heat with a wild laugh upon his lips.

Never had he seen _anyone_ move the way Nelyafinwë moved. Not even the most experienced captains and generals. Not even his own father.

Perfect poise resonated through the long-limbed form. Each twist and turn and dart was perfectly executed to even and deep breaths, always completely under control without squandering energy or wasting movement. Beyond that, though, it had been _beautiful_ to watch how muscles flexed beneath a thin tunic, how incredibly stable and balanced every inch of that body seemed. And it was more graceful than any of the courtly dancing Ereinion witnessed at the balls and dinners his parents forced him to attend where men swirled around women wearing smothering skirts in large and dizzying circles.

This was streamlined and elegant without flamboyant spins and overdramatic flourishes. Even a child could recognize the mastery with which the redheaded man wielded a sword—left-handed. Taking heavy blows weighed down with the strength of two arms and not even flinching or trembling in fatigue.

Ereinion had been entranced.

But it was more so than that. Even after the fight had ended and the opponents laughed and embraced as old friends, it was seeing the eyes of the audience and how they followed the man as he crossed the field in broad strides, deadly hand brushing his wild hair away from his face. It was the respect and admiration that seemed to trail after him. Wide gazes filled with wonder and appreciation even through the intimidation any inferior warrior would feel at witnessing such prowess in the art of killing.

Even hundreds—thousands—of years later, Ereinion still remembered how those awed gazes would follow that tall, lithe form across that field. How they idolized the man for his masterful skill despite the poor reputation of the Fëanárioni.

And young Ereinion had been amongst the many soldiers—amongst young greenhorns and experienced veterans—who strived to emulate that liquid perfection of the dance of death in those old days of war and strife tearing the land apart.

It was that single, engrained image which urged him to scratch and claw his way up the ranks even when he was a beginner with a clumsy sword arm and floundering muscles that could barely heft the weight of his blade. It was those even breaths perfectly matched to sharp, aerodynamic strikes that held him still when he meditated for hours upon hours to hone concentration and soothe his body into relaxation. It was that movement of muscle and bone and flesh melded as one with a sword which prompted endless days spent sweating beneath the hot sun, repeating and repeating and repeating steps and rhythms and forms beneath the eyes of his teachers.

It was that one image that drove him forward, and Ereinion laughed to himself when he thought of what others might say if they knew the truth.

For he—the High King of all the Noldor—was now the adored man who was followed by awed and respectful gazes whenever he cleared the field of battle in an unforgettable dance of man and spear or sparred in the late afternoon sun with his comrades until he was layered in sweat. It was he who—as they watched him breathe and twirl Aeglos with exact, minimalized grace and perfect balance of partnership—those young and inexperienced soldiers looked up to in wonder. His elegance that they emulated so religiously.

And he couldn't help his wondering with innate curiosity—if he would be so idolized had these men and women known that it was a Fëanárion whose image was the unattainable goal toward which their leader strived.

But then he would shake his head and chortle—and remind himself that Nelyafinwë Fëanárion might be a cold-blooded murderer, but he would always be hailed one of the most prolific warriors and generals to ever grace the face of Arda. His skills were earned through sweat and blood and hours upon hours of picking himself back up off the ground. After all, he had been dragged from the very depths of hell on earth, nearly dead and openly mutilated, and still never surrendered. Never gave in. Never gave up.

Few could Ereinion recall throughout all of history who had faced such atrocity and could have withstood such trial and obstacles, still reaching greatness and mastery at the end of their journey.

And that was an example in which the High King thought there could be no shame in emulating. It was quite worthy of such honor and dedication of learning. 

No, it was not an image Ereinion would ever forget. He would carry it to the end of his days, and he could only hope that he lived up to the same standards as his predecessor. Could only hope that, one day, it was _his_ prowess sung into history and _his_ image that spurred even one young, yet nameless warrior into the vestiges of legend.

Were that a reality, he thought he could face the end without fear and die happily on the field of battle, as he always knew was his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro  
> Fëanárioni = Sons of Fëanáro


	158. Disconsolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one ever said Maedhros' marriage began in the ideal fashion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Politics, royalty and arranged marriage. Vaguely depressing. A bit of sarcasm and bad humor. Originally, I did not intend for this to happen to my characters, but it just happened anyway. And it's kind of fun for me this way, because it gives me (yet another) arc to work on.
> 
> Related to Broken (Chapter 12), Weapon (Chapter 54) and Dramatic (Chapter 82).
> 
> Istelindë is my OFC who appears in the stories mentioned above (and possibly some more that I just can't recall at the moment).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

It was not often that Maitimo lost an argument. And what an argument it had been! But today, he conceded defeat. His father had soundly triumphed over him in their battle of rhetoric and political sway.

It was too late to launch a last-ditch effort of desperation.

Now there was no more time to tarry or doddle. People were gathered in the streets and the holy places, excited and anticipating. And the second in line to the throne stood in his room, in front of his mirror, examining the lavish, dark robes draped off his long form. They were, of course, of the finest silks with velveteen lining and golden stitching, their designs crafted by only the most skilled in the art of needlework and their gemstones cut by only the finest craftsmen under his father's order.

All in all, the prince thought he looked rather ridiculous. Especially with a gaudy crown of state woven through his hair, twined vines and green gems sparkling in the golden light seeping through his parted curtains.

What a joke.

But he wasn't laughing. Instead, the prince plastered a smirk upon his features and waltzed confidently from the confines of safety, heading bravely out into a world of which he wanted no part—from which he wished he could hide. And, when he left his father's estate, thousands of eyes were peeled upon his form as he was carried in an open-topped carriage to the palace where his fate would be sealed.

Thousands of smiles gleamed up at him. Thousands of gazes glimmered knowingly. Many couples stood hand-in-hand as he passed, pressed so intimately close, so obviously passionately in love, their children standing before them or beside them as testament to their devotion.

The people were celebrating the love and union of the heir to the Crown Prince. A marriage which would disperse the heavy tension that always overshadowed Tirion. The discomfort in the remembrance of the first Queen's death and replacement. The estrangement of the Crown Prince and his oldest half-brother. The feuding of two royal lines clashing in silent battle in the upper echelons of society until gloom lay heavy over all the land, the uncertainty of their future a weighty burden.

These people needed this marriage, this celebration of joining and love. A reason to lift their morale from the dregs of unhappiness and throw back the curtains keeping out the light of a morning worth looking forward to. This shadow needed to be dispersed.

Such things his father had pointed out—too logically and too rightfully. Maitimo felt the bitter twist in his gut unfurl once more, simmering low with unpleasant disdain bordering on something more dangerous and insidious. Something not even the cheers of the delighted people could squash beneath overwhelmingly brilliant ambiance.

Of course, his arrival at their destination was heralded with a wall of noise. Today, he looked every inch his status as the second-in-line to the throne—confident and assured in his glory—and he would not allow a frown to take away from this overwhelming wave of pure joy and revelry.

No matter how disconsolate it left him in the wake.

For marriages were supposed to be happy occasions. The prince, as he beheld his father's stoic features waiting for him and his grandfather's kindly eyes boring holes in his fragile veil of deception, felt nothing short of pure cheerless resignation. His family could say whatever they wished, but as he met those eyes—looked deep into the gray depths that were identical in assurance—he knew he was little more than a pawn.

 _"It is for the best—for everyone involved,"_ his father had insisted. _"Do as your duties demand, yondonya. Do not make this more difficult than it must be."_

None of those people knew his great _love_ was all a farce.

After all, what a coincidence it would have been had the second-in-line to the High King of the Noldor truly fallen so deeply and irrevocably in love with the oldest granddaughter of the High King of the Teleri that the differences and dislikes of the two peoples had been set aside for their marital peace. _What luck!_ the people proclaimed. _And such a romantic tale! Overcoming such odds!_

Had he been alone, Maitimo would have snorted.

But he was not alone. _They_ were there as well—not only his own extended family and the courtiers and the councilors, but also his bride's extended family. Olwë, with his frigid blue eyes and his heir—Maitimo's new father-in-law—with a smile that could have frozen white-hot flame. The entirety of that unfamiliar royal family was present, from the King to his most distant cousin, all of them watching, knowing the truth, just as did the groom's family.

Knowing everything was all an act put together to soothe tensions and create alliances.

This was about politics. Nothing to be overtly celebratory over.

And _she_ was there. He would have been a blind fool to lie to himself and say she wasn't absolutely glorious in her gown, a woman any man would be proud to have on his arm as a wife. White hair was bound in ropes of braids and laced with the shells and pearls most coveted by her people. Where Maitimo was all gold-encrusted and bold colors, she was layered in pastel greens and blues over white—the colors of the ocean so close to the hearts of all the Teleri. Huge blue eyes looked up at Maitimo as they stood side-by-side, preparing for the bonding to begin, and he couldn't help but note that they were so very deep and clear.

And that they were blank and distant—just as emotionless as his flat gaze must appear to her impassive perusal. They watched one another, hidden from the prying eyes of the public, both weighing and judging the other, as they had never even been acquainted. And then Maitimo forced a wooden smile, inclining his head in respect. "Let us begin, my Lady."

The ceremony began and the private audience went silent and somber, but cheers from beyond the gates of the palace could still be heard echoing in the mighty marble halls. Voices rang vibrant with reverence from the well-wishers come to witness the couple as they departed from these hallowed halls as man and wife. But only echoes—faded and grayed.

This event truly was disconsolate. Solemn and cold. And not just for the unwilling groom.

For all the show they managed to scrape together, not once did _she_ smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> yondonya = long version of "my son" (yondo + nya)


	159. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angrod considers surrender for the first time since his capture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another idiotic prompt my sister chose purely to irritate me. But I'd bet that she wasn't imagining _this_ when she chose "Flowers".
> 
> Almost every nasty warning in the warning box applies here. Non-con, torture, suicidal thoughts, slavery, blood, etc... Thou hast been warned.
> 
> Takes place after Defiant (Chapter 102), Powder (Chapter 103), Parade (Chapter 126) and Impulse (Chapter 140).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Edhellos = Eldalótë

For the first time, Angaráto wanted to surrender to his foes. He wanted to _give up_ and _lie down_ and _die_ in the darkness.

Every inch of his body ached, all his nerves screaming as though they had been dipped in lava, his bones creaking under pressure that made a mountain's weight seem as a feather's in comparison—that could easily bend and twist iron to its will. Truly, he did not think he could move even if he had wished to do so. Instead, he lay motionless on the cold stone floor of his cell, shattered and torn to pieces.

_"Get up, slave. My master has bid me bring thee to him, finally. So we must prepare. It would not do to present something so pathetic and filthy..." In his hands were golden chains and small, white flowers..._

He had hated the Lieutenant. But he knew now that it was not Sauron he truly needed to worry about. It was not _that_ sadistic beauty who played the _true_ villain in this tragedy of reality. It was not that fire-eyed demon whose attention was so riveted in jealousy or whose goal was to ravage all that dared exceed his glory.

It was Morgoth.

And after only an hour in the Dark Lord's presence, crushed beneath the ambient power and the nauseating shadow that encompassed that disgusting, traitorous monster, Angaráto wondered if it was even worth the energy and stubbornness it would take to sit back up and crawl away from this pool of his own blood. All he could remember within his tangled mind were those red eyes piercing and that slithery voice like slime and the feeling of that black skin rough against his flesh, bruising with a mere touch, rending apart with ease...

All he did was stare at the red and the little white flowers floating on the surface. Their petals were stained and bent and torn, hanging on by a mere thread.

_"These blooms were nurtured upon the rotting corpses of thy comrades and kin. Thou shouldst be grateful to wear them, slave."_

Grateful to be dressed up in finery and silk and diamonds to be sent to the Dark Lord—to be a mindless, broken pet on a chain. A doll to be raped and played with and tossed aside on a whim and then dragged back for more. To sit on the floor at that monster's feet as a prized trophy of dominance and victory over the Eldar. To be mocked and gawked at and leered at by the enemy who both envied and despised his faded beauty.

And he didn't know if he could resist anymore... that beckoning, soothing whisper of unconsciousness...

 _"That will be all, slave. Thou shalt be returned to thy cell, and maybe thou wilt be more grateful at my_ generosity _in the future..."_

His eyes fluttered shut.

_Flowers..._

They reminded him of home. Of somewhere far away from this place where nothing grew but toxic thorns. Of vast meadows and mountains, the twining of silver and gold light refracting into a thousand shades of color.

Of warm embraces and soothing voices.

Of _her._

 _His_ flower. _His_ Eldalótë. With her rich bronze curls spilling over her shoulders and her soft green eyes bringing back long-lost memories—of the feel of vibrant grass on his feet and the sweet smell of spring on the air. By Eru, he missed her! So much did he long to see her! And maybe if he just drifted off into the welcoming darkness creeping into his psyche...

Maybe she would be waiting for him...

Except...

Except he could also see those little pale flowers speckled in blood with ragged, wilting edges. The remnants of his destroyed people floundering in this ocean of death, hanging on for survival even in the bleakest and most hopeless of conditions. Something pure and brilliant _sullied_ but somehow still so very lovely...

His eyes fluttered open to white and red. His shaking fingers reached out and brushed the soft petals, striping them with crimson. It had been so long since he had seen real blooms, for they did not grow this far north, would not take root and sprout beneath the haze of death and dust blocking Arien's rays or the poisonous taint seeping deep into the earth.

These were different. Grown from death. How ironic.

And was he not one of these little blossoms?

He _could_ give up. He _could_ die and fade away. But as he brushed another flower, half-sunken beneath the blood, drowning, he couldn't help but think of his people. Was he not also their prince? Was it not his _duty_ to keep his eyes open and keep his lungs breathing until every last thrall was dead or free from this hell?

Could he fade away before his foe was crushed and defeated under the feet of the Valar and the free peoples of Arda? Until he _knew_ those under his protection were safe from those red eyes and that blistering touch? Until he knew that never again would any of his family become victims of this same wickedness?

Was he allowed to leave these people behind to suffer and die alone?

_"Rest now. I shall return for thee tomorrow. Thou hast quite masterfully captured the eye of our lord, pretty little slave..."_

Angaráto sighed. And then laughed softly, ignoring the jolts of pain that racked up his spine as his body shook with mirth. How could he even _think_ of _surrendering?_ To _them._ What kind of a person—a man and a husband and a prince—would he be if he turned in the other direction at the first suffering of true agony when many of his people went through such trials daily? Many of them—man and woman, elf and man, all alike—went through this _every day_ and still refused to roll over and give up on life.

 _They_ had a will of iron.

And so, too, would their prince.

How could he even think of betraying his namesake?

No, he was the last of the leaders. One of the last bits and scraps of hope and strength his people still had to cling to in this hellhole, and—pride and purity be damned!—if that meant crouching on the floor like an animal and gracing the Dark Lord's bed and pretending at subservient obedience for decades on end, he would do it without remorse. And _wait for his chance._

_And those iridescent eyes formed of the earth's blood and malice personified were watching him with interest and fascination—with expectation..._

And maybe take a page out of his opponent's book.

With new determination, somehow, his arms found the strength to lift his upper body despite the burning and stabbing feeling wracking his back and gut. Twisting upwards, he forced his body to wobble without stability upon shaking legs and held back the hail of nausea and dizziness that rained down over his senses. 

Today would not be his last day.

The rules had changed, but he wasn't about to let that stop him.

Rather, Angaráto smirked, glancing out into the darkness beyond his prison, spotting that oh-so-familiar face. That horrible, beautiful smile full of cruelty and sadistic pleasure. And those watching, waiting eyes, unblinking and unceasingly bright, half-hidden in the shadow of a diaphanous veil of curling, silken waves.

Knowing eyes.

He was ready.

_Let the game begin..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eldar = Elves


	160. Collateral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first time Amrod has ever met his son, and the rift between them is even wider than he had anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very dysfunctional family dynamics. Death threats. Mentions past non-con and mpreg.
> 
> This part takes place after Shadows (Chapter 96) and thus after all the other parts of this arc, including Cheat (Chapter 5), Divided (Chapter 72) and Go (Chapter 108), but is connected to all of them (and more I didn't mention because there are too many now).
> 
> Valthoron is the OMC in Shame (Chapter 109).

It somehow hurt even more than he had expected— _hurt, hurt, hurt so badly_ —to feel the searing brand of ambient fury which engulfed his progeny at the very _sight_ of his face.

But it was not _unexpected._

In any operation, there were always unintended casualties. Well he remembered the days of war in the First Age—spent wandering through ashy, devastated lands once populated by farmers and villagers now decimated beneath dragon's fire and merciless armies pillaging and destroying. Spent fleeing across thousands upon thousands of leagues of land torn apart beyond all recognition as the enemy hunted southward ravenously. Spent languishing in terror and guilty conscience even though they knew there was nothing to be done—no force that could then counter the power of the Dark Lord as he razed hope and prosperity to the ground.

There had been charred bodies and mutilated bodies and half-eaten bodies of men and women who had never hefted a sword or marched into battle in their entire lives, their corpses numbering in the thousands left out in the sun to rot and attract flies and vermin. But no matter the horrors of such a sight and the despair at being too weak to put a stop to the atrocities, they had not been unexpected.

If he was truthful, Amrod had not expected such collateral damage from the Kinslayings. Man, woman and child—all were the intended victims of the Oath of Fëanor. Not one was to be spared out of kindness, shame or guilt, not when they dared stand between the brothers and their goal of revenge and salvation.

But here stood before him the proof. The accidental influence of one foolish act thousands of years ago in the name of vengeance and birthright. The example.

With his fiery red curls blown haphazardly over wild, infuriated blue eyes. Prince Valthoron.

His son.

And they were meeting for the first time. Face-to-face. No hiding in the deep shadows. No stalking through the forest. No spying in the recesses of night's veil.

Just as Amrod had always suspected, the hatred that ran hot through the blood of the Dispossessed was no less potent within the veins of his son than it had been within the veins of his father. The boy looked ready to unsheathe his blade and cut down his sire on the spot. Said sire suspected that, had Thranduil not been hovering nearby anxiously—clearly upset and worried to the point of exhaustion—Valthoron might have attempted to slaughter him as viciously and painfully as possible just for daring to breathe.

And he wouldn't have tried to stop the boy.

"I know that Adar has forgiven you."

Instead, he stood and waited for the venomous words to come. What could he possibly say to his own child when he knew he was deserving of every ounce of anger and fear slicing throbbing holes through his very spirit? _That he was sorry?_ The very thought was bitter with twisted amusement.

It would have been a cheap and empty apology. Sorry wouldn't fix all the wrongs that had been dealt. It would not take away Thranduil's unwarranted pain or Valthoron's violent conception. It would not take away the fact that this child had been born from shed blood and heinous crimes rather than through love and devotion as he should have been.

It hurt to look upon the creation marred by his own two hands so unintentionally, but Amrod could not allow himself to look away either. He would not be a coward seeking mercy in avoidance. He would not pretend at innocence.

"But I will not forgive you, murderer."

Eru! it was like being stabbed! No poisoned blade had ever caused pain such as this—almost enough to drag forth tears and tighten his throat. But Amrod did not even allow his stoic features to twitch or wince at the shock of pure agony fluttering up his spine and prodding through his ribs towards his heart. If it pleased Valthoron to see him suffer this little bit— _And what was this compared to what he had heaped upon others?_ —well, he would be a hypocrite to say that the same vindictive wrath did not satisfy his own bloodthirsty righteousness.

Like father, like son. Twice over.

"Adar cares about you, and that is the only reason I hesitate to strike you down for what you have done to him. What you have done _to us."_

 _To us._ The words came out harsh and low, shattered and trembling with pure emotion. Amrod stared seemingly impassively at his offspring's shaking shoulders and grinding teeth—at the firm set of a sharp jaw and the narrowing of all-too-familiar eyes. Every line of that body shuddered with anger. With the need to rend and tear if only to release the tension that must be building and building into a mountain of frustration beneath the skin. Itching and driving and egging...

But beneath the smoldering eyes lay a broken interior. Little shards of glass reflecting. Betrayed.

And it was so hard to breathe when he looked and _saw._

Because he could tell that Valthoron was trying very hard not to cry beneath his gaze—not to look weak. Amrod had expected fear. He had expected anger. He had expected _hatred._

But he had not expected the grief in haunted turquoise pools, swirling and mixing into a potent concoction of guilt-inducing collage. It was more than just what had been done to Thranduil. _This_ was not righteous anger, nor was it familial devotion.

The hitch in that breath so suspiciously like a sob. The bitten lip slowly dripping blood to keep in bubbling cries. The shaking hands biting crescents into pale palms.

And he realized he knew almost nothing about this child—his son.

There were pieces missing.

"But if you lay so much as a _finger_ upon him with the intent to do harm..." Eyes flashed, and the madness and inherent vehemence was so familiar that Amrod almost shuddered in visceral reaction, remembering _other eyes_ and _other smiles_ and _other threats..._

"I will make you _suffer."_

The words echoed and lingered between them. A steel wall that barred passage of camaraderie or affection or understanding. A wall that touched the very apex of the heavens and was twice as broad as the endless sky.

Overcome with tremors, the child pushed past, near shoving him away before fleeing the room, an upset Thranduil hot on those heels. But Amrod did not follow. He would not intrude when he knew that Valthoron had gone to weep and scream and shatter furniture against the walls. 

Amrod did not even move. But his smile was wistful and shaky.

"Silly boy..."

He had not expected _this much_ collateral damage. And he knew that this bond between father and son could not be mended through simple words or action. Not through any amount of kindness or devotion. Not even through the overwhelming amount of pure _love_ he felt for the child who wanted nothing more than to spill his guts across the floor and dance in his blood if only to protect and avenge the only parent he had ever known and cared for. 

Were he truthful—and hopeless—Amrod would have admitted that he did not believe this bond could ever be pieced back together. It had never even existed in the first place. He was the father that had sired a child through rape and abandoned his family to die, and nothing could make up for that.

"As if I would try to stop you."

But his blood would not allow him to roll over and surrender—to give up without a struggle and fade away into darkness. It took more than rejection to smother a spirit of fire.

Maybe there was nothing he could do to fix this mess. To quell that explosive ire and bring this broken and dilapidated little family together.

But he was still going to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Adar = Father


	161. Adapt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Istelindë must accept the reality of an arranged marriage that she never wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the assumptions and generalizations in here may sound misogynistic, but don't take it at face value by modern standards. Keep in mind that this is not modern society, please. And that all societies are largely riddled with hegemony. Basically all this talks about is arranged marriage and elven culture in Aman.
> 
> The OFC who shows up here is Istelindë. She first appears in Broken (Chapter 12), but this particular piece is a prologue of sorts to Disconsolate (Chapter 158).

Marrying for love was every young girl's dream. Istelindë had been no different than any other girl in this respect, despite her status as the granddaughter of the King of the Teleri. As a young child, she had been eager to seek out potential love, excited at the prospect of romance and everlasting bliss.

Her hopes and dreams had been large. A fiancé whose looks and personality and gentle compassion outshone the stars and the Trees. A wedding that would go down in history for extravagance and elegance and the smile on the bride's face. A husband who treated her with respect and listened to her and loved her more than life itself. A dozen children underfoot with big blue eyes and chubby, rosy cheeks.

Every girl had these images planted in their minds, growing taller and taller each year she grew older. They strived toward that goal. And Istelindë knew that many succeeded—found their prince charming and lived happily ever after as in storybooks and fairytales.

But there was a key difference between Princess Istelindë and many other young girls in Aman.

That being, of course, that she was a princess.

And being royal was, in of itself, more a cage than a freedom. More a curse than a blessing. Built off a foundation of responsibility and duty instead of grandiose frivolity as so many commoners liked to envision. Where those ignorant people saw dancing and profligate parties and the most expensive jewelry and clothing, there were also thousands requests and meetings and rules and manners and etiquette lessons in the background. But never was there room to behave in any manner unbefitting a member of the royal House. Not even in private.

And love had no place in that life. It was a luxury her status couldn't buy.

It was sheer luck that anyone at all married for love in her family. Her father and mother loved each other deeply and completely—two halves of a whole blessed enough to come together early in their lives—but she knew it was not the same for everyone. For her aunts, marriage had been about cementing loyalty and rewarding good servitude and making political ties with important allies. When she was little, it was all too easy to ignore this distasteful reality—to convince herself that that would _never_ be _her_ marrying for power. Certainly, her parents would never _allow_ such a _travesty!_

She had been a foolish and naïve little girl more focused on her own fantasy than the truth of the life she led. And now she was floundering in the tide of that reality as it encroached upon and overwhelmed and destroyed her false world mercilessly.

Because Princess Istelindë, who had big dreams paving her future toward eternal happiness, was getting married to a man she had never even _met_ before.

She wouldn't have that imaginary fiancé with his imaginary perfection and their imaginary wedding. There wouldn't be secretive smiles sharing love and silent feelings. There wouldn't be that quiet intimacy of courting in the silvered light and sneaking kisses in the gardens. There wouldn't be any of that trust and passion meant to be shared between spouses.

There would just be an empty bond tying them together and an expectation that she would provide children, take care of the household and stay out of her husband's way.

And she didn't know what to do. What to think.

How did one adapt to having all their hopes and dreams torn apart and thrown aside like meaningless trash?

She wasn't allowed to whine. She wasn't allowed to cry. She wasn't allowed to refuse or request or demand or _anything_ but sit as a dainty trinket upon her cushioned chair—legs tucked primly in place and hands folded delicately in her lap—and accept whatever decisions her father and grandfather made about her future.

Like a perfectly trained pawn, she was meant to go where she was told and perform her job whatever the circumstances, no matter how loudly the voice in her head screamed or how desperately it rattled the bars of its cell.

So desperately did she want to pretend that none of this was happening. That she would awaken and it would all be a nightmare.

But—though she could never claim to be a realist—Istelindë closed her eyes in the safety and privacy of her bedchambers and truly _thought_ about her future. So maybe she wouldn't get everything she had ever imagined as a foolish little girl. So maybe her self-centered little world wasn't going to be a perfect diamond, free of marks and flaws. So maybe she would _never_ have the love that every girl secretly yearned for in her most secret heart of hearts.

So maybe life was not as forgiving and gentle as she had always wished and imagined and envisioned.

But she was still going to make the best of what she had been given. It was either that or give up and become the very doll that her family saw her as—a lifeless, empty _thing._

It was, at first, hard to accept, but it was a lesson she wasn't going to ever forget. She _had_ to adapt or risk losing herself completely to despair at the endless road of broken hearts and disappointments stretching on and on into the distance. Sure, she could go on crying and fading and drift in and out of her own life like a phantom, pretending at familial bliss while inside she crumbled. Or she could make the best of what she had been given and persevere and save a little bit of that magic that seemed to make life worth living.

Maybe there would not be a perfect husband or a perfect wedding or a perfect marriage.

However, there was still that little dream she clung to, tooth and nail with every bit of iron fortitude she could conjure from the depths of her heart and soul. That tiny, pearlescent dream that was still a possibility if she just held on a little longer and trudged on a little farther.

That little dream of big blue eyes and chubby, rosy cheeks.

Istelindë no longer considered herself a delusional and idealistic child with unrealistic, ephemeral daydreams fuelling her intangible corporeality, but everyone needed something to hold on to. Especially when they were stepping off the edge of familiarity into the total darkness of an unknown future without the option of turning back.

And even if her husband turned out to be a cold-hearted bastard who ignored her all day and turned his back on her at night... Even if he never acknowledged her presence or intelligence in his provincial world and treated her like property instead of a person... Even if he never even realized she was more than an inanimate object whenever he wasn't using her as a vessel of procreation...

This was one dream he could never take away from her.

The one dream of which she would never let go.


	162. Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orodreth still hasn't figured his cousins out. And he really isn't getting all that much warmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of Curufin playing mind games with Orodreth. Basically Nargothrond drama. Mentions extramarital affairs.
> 
> Continuation of Hidden (Chapter 125). Connected to Cut (Chapter 138) and Obvious (Chapter 122) and all stories related to them. Too many to list now.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë

Ever since the night that Artaresto had discovered his brother's secret affair with their half-cousin—and had been caught in the act of spying on his _own king_ by said half-cousin—he had _known_ confrontation was inevitable. Had been jumpy and paranoid and uncomfortable, his skin itching unceasingly as though waiting for that prickle of unseen eyes crawling across bare flesh.

Waiting for the strike.

He had not expected Curufinwë to wait so long to act.

Since the very day his brother had departed, Artaresto had expected an attack—had expected to be cornered and interrogated, and thus made every effort possible to avoid being alone without a guard. But days—weeks—had come and gone. He had even _seen_ the other man—

_Seen him with that disgustingly knowing look in his sadistic eyes and that gloating smirk curving upwards his full lips. Telling him. Mocking him. "We both know what you have done, little spy. You have not seen the last of me yet."_

_And Artaresto could barely look at that face for the embarrassment and confusion swamping his normally coherent and nonchalant thoughts. For the memory of twisted sheets and breathing gasps and murderous plots..._

—but as of yet Curufinwë had not approached. Nor did he appear to have informed Turkafinwë of the incident in the king's bedchambers, or Artaresto was certain the irascible older brother would have rent his limbs from his torso in a fit of fury and bloodthirsty glee for daring to jeopardize their treacherous plans to usurp the king and mount the throne. He was afraid of Curufinwë, but Turkafinwë downright terrorized anyone in their sane mind.

Quite frankly, he wished his half-cousin wasn't waiting for Eru-only-knew what to happen before approaching. It was frustrating and maddening, waiting and glancing over his shoulder like a terrified, hunted animal.

Being stalked by the hunters.

And, like a stalking predator, his half-cousin struck when least expected—quick and quiet.

"Are you quite well, sweet cousin?"

It took every scrap of his willpower not to startle. As it was, Artaresto could not help the stiffening of his spine or the shudder that rocked his body. Slowly—very slowly, as he analyzed the likelihood of a guard or courtier coming down this deserted hallway in the middle of the night to scare off his attacker—he turned to look upwards...

Into eyes that would have put a mountain lion's to shame for predatory gleam. And he might as well have been the helpless, lamed deer stumbling through the underbrush hopelessly for all the good it would do him to try and run now.

He at least didn't _think_ Curufinwë would kill him... yet.

After all, Artafindë was not dead yet. And if the king yet lived, even the death of his temporary steward would only grant the brother's scepter-ship until the real king returned victorious from his ridiculous quest.

Unless his brother didn't return _at all._

"I am quite well, Curufinwë." He managed to keep the quaver from his voice utilizing every bit of control over his body that he possessed, and it somehow came out—however quiet—still firm and stable. "Was there something you needed, cousin?"

"That is _precious,"_ his counterpart purred, and the laughter that followed grated on Artaresto's nerves, for it sounded too much like a snarl, too much like teeth about to rip apart flesh.

"Let us not play coy now, little spy."

And his mouth was dry. So very dry. And his lips trembled as they parted.

He could pretend at ignorance or blatantly lie, but was there really any use in denying the truth? He had been seen, and there was no way he could convince Curufinwë that he had imagined everything, because they both knew he _hadn't_. That night, both of them had caught the other in a trap of information and coercion, and it was all a matter of who acted when and where that would decide the victor—the survivor—and the loser.

And Artaresto couldn't afford to lose.

He had _seen_ them together. Seen and _heard_ Curufinwë _threatening the king._

If that was not evidence of treason, then what could possibly be?

But then why did it feel so like his cousin held the upper hand in this game when it was Artaresto who held the damning evidence?

"I only do what I feel is best for my people and my brother," he finally managed to choke out. "Do not think I did not hear your words imparted to the king. Do not think I do not understand your _plan!_ You want the king to _die_ so that you might have at his throne. And if he does not die on his quest, you will do anything—even assassinate him—to reach your goal."

Those eyes were neither repentant nor startled at the revelation. They were not shocked or guilt-stricken. In fact, as they narrowed dangerously, Artaresto thought the glint inside carried a small dose of _amusement_. As if the traitor found the steward's words to be a joke—laugh-worthy. And it left Artaresto's throat closing in utter _fury._

How dare he laugh when Artafindë might be out there dying over some stupid glowing rocks and promises to fleeting mortals—with the undoubted and unquestionable loyalty of only ten courageous subjects—thanks to _these barbaric murderers!_

"Is that what you think?" Curufinwë asked him, still smiling—still silently laughing. "Do you think we would go to all that trouble just to get rid of Artafindë?"

_Yes. Why else would you? Nothing else makes sense!_

"He is in your way." Gulping, Artaresto dared—just this once—to stare down his taller, stronger and more powerful diabolical half-cousin. Silver eyes clashed sharply with blue, intangible chortling to overflowing outrage. "But hear me when I say this, _traitor_. I have proof— _seen through my own eyes and heard with my own ears_ —of your _treason_ , and if anything happens to my brother...

"I swear..." And Curufinwë did not look away. Neither did Artaresto avoid bellicosity, no matter the recklessness of that openness. 

"I swear I will make you _sorry."_

And he hated those eyes, because the laughter did not go away with the threat spoken in utter sincerity. It only seemed stronger, as though the words of utmost contempt were absorbed and fed oxygen to the fiery, fey silver light growing and growing into an inferno of glee. Those lips twitched, and for the first time Artaresto—of his own free will— _wanted_ to take part in violence, if only to replace that sight with a blooded, bruised and frowning mouth curved in shame.

But before he could even think to move, a hand reached out, grabbing his shoulder. And Artaresto's gut clenched—

_By the Valar, he is going to kill me right here..._

—but Curufinwë only shook his head as if in disappointment and chortled.

"Fool," the Fëanárion muttered. "You have evidence of _something._ The _real question_ is this: What do you actually have evidence _of?"_

_What is that supposed to even mean?_

"You see, little cousin, we are more alike than you think—you and I."

The hand on his shoulder tightened, and Artaresto quivered, his anger dying down into a pathetic simmer beneath the obdurate hardness in those eyes, overlapping and lacing and twining with that small bit of amusement and an overflowing flood of determination. And he knew that a mere threat wouldn't be enough to stop his cousins—had known it from the very beginning.

"But you are correct. Artafindë has refused to remove his obstacle from my path. And no matter how similar we are, little spy, I'm afraid I can offer no compassion or sympathy for your plight. Artafindë's ridiculous quest _must_ fail. _Will fail."_

So close was his half-cousin that hot breath washed over his cheek, soft puffs of air brushing across sensitive, prickling skin. "And if you do not stay out of my way, I _will_ remove you as well."

Just like that, the tension burst and Artaresto could breathe freely once again, because Curufinwë pulled away and walked by without a second glance, as though the entire altercation were a concocted fantasy. No flashing knives and silent death. No wandering hands pinning and capturing. No hunter chasing down and ripping apart his helpless prey.

_"What do you actually have evidence of?"_

And, suddenly, everything was much more confusing than it had been before. So much more contradictory. He could make neither heads nor tails of the Fëanárion. Could not tell if those words were a ploy or a distraction or the truth or a mixture of all three churned into an unrecognizable tangle of fated strings and pathways. Maybe it was all a massive soup of chicanery designed to send him into a downward spiral of confusion so that Curufinwë might somehow defeat him in this sick, twisted little game.

Nevertheless, he was beginning to wonder exactly what the parameters of "winning" even _were_. Because none of his half-cousin's words or actions made sense.

All he knew was that Artafindë needed to come back alive and well. Nothing else mattered to him.

But he was beginning to wonder if Curufinwë's goal truly was to see the king dead and take control of Nargothrond. Or if he had missed the point of the game completely. Or if everything was just a ploy to keep him distracted.

If there was, perhaps, a reason that Artafindë had ordered him to stay out of the way.

_"There is much underneath this situation that you do not know or understand..."_

If, perhaps, he was in over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro


	163. I'm Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Maedhros returns from Exile, his wife has hard decisions to make. Or perhaps they are not so hard as she had imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of angst and a little bit of fluff mushed together. Mostly fluff, though, I think. Just in case... Istelindë is my lovely OFC who is married to Maedhros who is _not_ gay for his cousin in this AU (though I am guilty of writing that pairing before *cough*).
> 
> Fits in with Broken (Chapter 12), Weapon (Chapter 54), Dramatic (Chapter 82) and especially Disconsolate (Chapter 158) and Adapt (Chapter 161).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

There had been a time when a single dream had been her reason to _live._

When, once upon a time, the thought of letting it go and watching it fade into blackness was equivalent to letting go of everything she had ever cared about and throwing away all hope of happiness.

But that time had long passed her by. Istelindë had been lucky; her marriage had been fortuitous in that she gained instead of lost, and more of her forsaken wishes and fantasies had been nurtured and fulfilled than should a woman trapped in an arranged marriage ever dare to count upon. She had indeed been _very_ lucky.

Lucky that Maitimo was altogether handsome, powerful and very kind-hearted rather than a cold-hearted, misogynistic politician more concerned with reputation and power than with the troubles of a woman he didn't even know. Lucky that when she spoke and questioned and requested, he stopped and listened to her words and did not throw aside her advice because she had been born female instead of male or ignore her needs because it was convenient and annoyance-free. Lucky that he would never have forced her into their marriage bed for the sake of continuing his line unless she, too, agreed.

Istelindë couldn't honestly say their marriage had gotten off to an admirable start, not when they had been two strangers forced together. But within a few years of their bonding, the pair couldn't have been more in love with one another or more devoted to the other's happiness.

They had been planning on their first child—building a nursery and preparing for the conception—when the world had gone dark.

When everything fell apart.

And maybe Istelindë _should_ have hated her husband. Should have spurned him. Should have forgotten about him and moved on with her life without him. She had suffered for his crimes as the wife of an exiled murderer infamous for slaughtering innocents in the name of revenge and the reclamation of three glowing rocks. There was a constant flow of whispers and rumors that stalked her unprotected back. Looks of disgust or hatred were not uncommon to those who dared associate with the departed Exiles. Not much sympathy was offered to a woman who would claim such a man as her spouse.

But she had never let him go.

He was hers and she was his and no amount of nasty comments or dark looks would change that. Nor could the slaughter of her people or his innumerable other crimes or even the stigma that would inevitably follow him wherever he went when he finally returned to Aman. _Nothing_ would change that single fact.

That was what she had decided when he left her alone.

And that decision had not changed.

Not even now that her lingering little dream—that dream that had fuelled her will to survive in the darkest hours of her life—was a fatality of her tiny family's tragedy.

There wouldn't _be_ a child.

And she was heartbroken. Istelindë could not trick herself into believing otherwise. She _wanted_ a child—many children. Wanted to be a mother and hold a baby in her arms. Wanted to see her husband's face of wonder as he held their first child. Wanted to watch children of their mixed bloodlines grow and walk their first step and speak their first word. Wanted to watch him fawn over his sons and become protective over his daughters.

She would be lying if she for a second denied that she had briefly _thought_ of abandoning her husband. Of relinquishing her bond to his cursed line and returning to her people as a free woman. No one would have blamed her—not even Maitimo—

_He had, in fact, expected her to turn him away. Had seemed amazed when she refused to let him go and disappear as a mirage from her existence._

—but she had known almost immediately, as the traitorous little whisper had slithered through her mind, that, even if _he_ would not blame her for the appalling and self-centered decision to put her selfish needs above his feelings, she would blame _herself_. Would never have forgiven herself. Would have regretted that decision until the End of Days.

Their marriage was not perfect, but she loved him. He was the culmination of many other dreams that she had once believed impossible, dreams she had thrown away when she believed they were no longer feasible in the chains of a political engagement such as theirs had been. Dreams that he had fulfilled without even realizing their worth. A wonderful husband who loved and admired her, told her how beautiful she was and remained incredibly affectionate and attentive to all of her needs in a society where a woman need only stay silently in her place to be forgotten until it was time to bear another child. It had never been a requirement that he even speak to her after the bonding ceremony, but he had always respected her as an equal, even before they had fallen for each other.

In the end, it was about what was more important. Because no child of her womb conceived from another man would be _his_ child. And to get that one child—from a man she neither loved nor cared for—would mean throwing away all the blessings she still had within her grasp. Throwing away _Maitimo's love_. And probably his life.

And, as she laid beside his sleeping form in their bed, watching his sweet face relaxed and gentle in sleep, she didn't think she could live with herself if she destroyed what was left of this man. Maybe he was a murderer, but not a remorseless killer. And, certainly, he had changed. But so, too, had she.

And she didn't remember when that little dream had expanded from a child cradled close in her embrace to include the sensation of his strong arms around her body and his fiery hair tickling her cheek as they watched over their infant son or daughter together, wrapped and entwined until they were more one entity than two. When he had melded so completely into the image that he could no longer be expelled from its vivid perfection.

Istelindë couldn't imagine it _without_ him. Not anymore.

And so here she was.

Her fingers silently, softly, caressing his sharp cheeks and drifting through wave after wave of russet curls spread across their sheets, combing out the little knots as Arien's light began to leak through their window and spill golden light across the floor and walls. Until it shifted minutely and shone right into his closed eyes. The urge to giggle into her hand was strong when she saw his nose crinkle, lashes fluttering in annoyance against the sudden garish brightness.

Those dark lashes parted to stormy gray. For a few moments, they stared up at her in adorable confusion—somehow lightened—for their master was clearly more asleep than awake, caught in a net of pleasant dreams. "Lindë...?"

"I'm here," she murmured, shifting closer until she was pressed along his side, her curves fitting so _rightly_ into the length of his form. Still carding her hand through his hair in long, lenitive strokes, she rested her ear over his heartbeat and released a contented, blissful sigh. "I'm here. Now go back to sleep, silly husband mine. It is far too early to be up."

There was some grumbling that may have been an attempt at reply, but he merely turned his head away from the window and went back to his snoozing, the vaguest hint of a snore carrying through the room. And the bizarre familiarity of that single gesture brought a smile to her face. For he had not changed as much as she had feared.

He was still her Maitimo.

And she wasn't going anywhere.


	164. Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros says goodbye to Fingon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-explicit description of death and corpses. Borderline suicidal thoughts. Possible insanity.
> 
> Probably related to Get Up (Chapter 22), Try Again (Chapter 60) and Obsessive (Chapter 28) amongst others.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Fingon = Findekáno or Káno

It rose out of the scorching, parched air, towering into the desolate sky hazed in sickly yellow sulfur and choking dust. Even from afar it could be seen, the only anomaly dark against the desert stretching over the northern wastes in the wake of war and destruction. The only remains of the tragedy that had ripped apart the last hope of the free peoples and left them all stranded with only the path to ruin left beneath their feet.

Piled high, rotting limbs and rusting swords and rivers of dried blood gave it the darkened red color mixed with bleached white and shimmering silver. These corpses had never been burned, their bodies left behind so disrespectfully to be feasted upon by vermin, scavengers and maggots. An insult to their valor and courage if ever there was one.

Haudh-en-Ndengin. It left a bitter taste in the mouth.

Most would never dare venture away from the safety of the distant foothills for any reason, let alone risk traversing the hot, shifting sands underneath the gaze of the hated enemy merely to stand before this monstrosity.

But Maitimo Fëanárion could hardly be counted amongst "most".

It was, to him, laughable—the idea that he would fear capture by the enemy with such vehemence and cowardice that he would leave behind those who had died— _those he had failed, because had this whole ridiculous venture not been his idea?_ —and hide away in the last stronghold of the north left untouched by the desolation of Beleriand. In the distance, Himring still sat upon its peak, a dark turret stretching into the grayed, noxious sky, but he felt no pressing need to flee back to the safety of its mighty walls. That stone could protect his body, but it could not shield his mind or sooth his conscience.

Maitimo did not fear death. But even if he _had_ , it changed not the fact that he wanted— _needed_ —to pay his respects.

The Hill, up close, was even larger than he had expected when he imagined its size from a distance. But in retrospect, so many had died that he thought perhaps it was too small—not the veritable mountain it should have been. Maybe the enemy took prisoners. Or maybe they had eaten much the remains.

It didn't seem to matter much now, at the end. Even if no remains laid here for every man fallen in battle, it still served its purpose. As a tomb. One that could never be neglected or forgotten, for who could look upon it and forget its sight?

Just standing near to it should have turned the mighty warrior's stomach, but no amount of spilled innards or mutilated bodies baked in the merciless sun could damage Maitimo's psyche further than already had been done in the torture chambers of Angband. Not even the smell rising rancid upon the burning winds—of charred flesh and the copper of blood and the rotting and rotting and rotting to the bone—could shatter his resolved calm and determination to see through this task. See through this funeral.

Alone.

He approached the Hill further, until he could make out individual body parts sundered from their whole, desecrated corpses ripped to shreds and thousands of tons of metal armor and dulled swords. Until he was close enough to reach out and touch. Until every detail was branded sharply into the back of his mind.

But even amongst all that horrifying death piled high into the air, he spotted dapples of green sprouting forth. The first signs of grass branching its way upwards, growing from the nutrients of dead matter enriching barren soil. Nowhere else upon this wasteland was a single spot of life to be seen except in that which death was most prominent.

Now this evil symbol was marred. For the better.

And all he could think to do was hum softly that song which most reminded him of Findekáno, even if it was ever so slightly off pitch in the eerie silence, its ancient melody broken only with the buzzing of flies breeding thick in the air. Maitimo ignored them, his eyes instead searching for even the smallest token or shard of his best friend amidst the death and rubble and greenery.

Not even a star in sight. But it was to be expected. If any corpse had been taken away to be further disrespected for sport, it would have been the High King's. Morgoth, he knew, was a vindictive and jealous creature; that foe would not have allowed this slight to pass without post-mortem humiliation of the royal House. Even if no one was there to appreciate the nauseating celebration of reinforced victory but he himself.

But that was neither here nor there. Not now.

"Well, I am here," Maitimo finally spoke when the song ran dry beneath the hot sun, evaporated away. And he hated that his voice wobbled ever so slightly. That guilt laid so heavy upon his shoulders that he almost fell apart right there upon the burning sands, for a moment considered laying down here with those men who had followed him loyally and died for his folly and joining their ranks in peaceful slumber.

But then, that would have been shameful. He hardly deserved to rest with such fine comrades. Even his pristine, washed body was too tainted to brush against these decaying bodies.

"I do not suppose I can set aflame this Hill," he continued. "I have a feeling you would not have wanted to be cremated anyway, Káno. You always did rather scoff at such silliness. Besides, I think you would have liked this better."

To be the only spot of life in a sea of death. His cousin always had been a defiant spirit. And what better way to defy the enemy than from beyond the grave?

Awkwardly, Maitimo gazed at the bared bones, skin melted away. None of the bodies still had eyes. Either they had been plucked free by birds or the first to disappear with the ravages of time and heat. Nevertheless, he wondered if any of them could see him standing here or hear his words from afar. Wondered if they scoffed or sneered.

"I would not ask forgiveness," he added softly, "but I did come to say goodbye. And that I am proud to have had one such as you for a cousin and a friend."

_Even though it will be hard to go on without you._

For Maitimo knew he was falling apart. Everyone knew it. Without hope of breaching Angband and defeating the Dark Lord, he had no choice but to turn southward, towards Doriath. Towards the only Silmaril within reach of cursed greed. In his breast, the Oath was raging out of control, a seed that had grown into a toxic monstrosity rooted deep in his mind. He could not deny it any longer, could not delude himself into believing that there was another path.

It was too late for him. And with no Findekáno to ground him or tie him up to a chair and imprison him in Mithrim... there was not much of a chance of stopping him from continuing his quest.

In some ways, this was just as much _his_ funeral as his cousin's.

But still, he scrounged up a smile from somewhere.

"I cannot say you will be proud of me, my dear cousin. But I do hope we meet again. Try not to get into too much mischief whilst I am away."

With nothing else to say, Maitimo kept the Hill company in quiet stillness for a few minutes. The rest of the men here deserved at least that much respect (much more, were he honorable enough to recall their names and faces without fear) from a mere Kinslayer and failed commander. And silently he wished them luck as well. Their tenure in hell was over, and soon they would be home. Far away from here. Far away from this crumbling land lost to the darkness. Far away from the sin sitting premeditated in the back of this murderer's mind.

He wouldn't have wanted Findekáno to see him fall from grace. His cousin was blessed in that he was to miss the most disappointing chapter of their tragedy. The part where the suffering hero surrenders to his inner darkness and plummets into the abyss of wickedness and despair.

He was almost _glad_ that his best friend would not be here to _witness._

Task completed, he turned away and began the long trudge back to the dark speck in the distance, ignoring blazing light upon his back and sweat soaking through his clothing. Arien was now dipping beneath the horizon, casting her bloodstained veil over the world, but when Maitimo turned to look back upon everything he was leaving behind, he could still appreciate the only emerald gleam in stark contrast against crimson red glimmer of setting sunlight upon tons of armor and iron. It was almost blinding from such a distance. The brilliance of a vivid green star in defiance of the encroaching night. As he walked away, it watched in silence.

And Maitimo descended out of its glory and into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Haudh-en-Ndengin = Hill of the Slain (place where Morgoth's servants piled the dead bodies of the men and elves after the Fifth Battle)
> 
> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro


	165. Puppy Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who would think the love of a child anything but fleeting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly mildly cliché, but I just don't care. Basically just very juvenile flirting mixed in with sarcastic realism.
> 
> Could easily be related to Flowers (Chapter 159) and anything in that arc, but I wouldn't say they are in the _same_ arc.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto

_She_ was the most beautiful thing young Angaráto Arafinwion had ever laid eyes on in his entire (short) life.

The young prince—at the mere age of fifteen, hardly more than an infant—knew he had met the woman he would one day marry and spend the rest of his life with. The woman he would one day start a family with. There wasn't a single doubt in his mind that she was _the One._

Glancing around the corner of the manor, he spotted her once more and stared blatantly in awe of her glory. Breathlessly watched her as she went about her daily work. As the estate gardener. With her burnished auburn curls gleaming with gold and her heart-shaped face folded into a contented, soothing smile, a soft tune hummed along with the buzzing of fat bumble bees in the lazy light of Laurelin. Everything about her simply amazed him.

The child spent hours upon hours watching her work whenever he managed to escape from boring lessons and lectures. He would rather spend all of his time watching her rather than learning boring mathematics or physics. He loved how she moved silently over the grass, not crinkling even a single blade beneath her soles and toes. Was enchanted by how she would whisper away to her precious flowers as if they were long-lost confidents, voice low and sweet like honey. Stared at her graceful, long-fingered hands—hardly caring about the dirt on her palms or underneath her short nails—ever so carefully brushing against the fragile flower's petals. Could have watched her forever.

Everything about her was simply perfect.

And he didn't care that she wasn't born royalty like his mother and father. He didn't care that she wasn't a courtier's daughter or a scholar's niece dressed up constantly in frilly, lacy dresses with fancy, feathery hair trinkets and fans. Most days, she wore trousers like a man and foreswore shoes altogether, showing her bare ankles. Tied her hair up in a simple bun with the tail hanging loose over the nape of her neck instead of spending hours on a fancy coiffure. Her skin, rather than the powdery white of the rich, was sunny cream and flushed healthily.

She did not scream snobby wealth and power. Rather, she was the personification of gentleness. Of everything that Angaráto could never find in high society's bloodthirsty, twisted political game infesting the royal House.

Perfect. She was absolutely perfect.

And, one day, she would be _his_ princess. And then she wouldn't have to garden just so his family would pay her money so that she could buy groceries and live in a cottage on the estate. One day, she would be able to plant whatever she wanted wherever she wanted, and he knew he would be content just to sit in the grass and watch her work her magic if that made her happy.

The thought brought a smile to the boy's face. Feeling his heart flutter and his belly fill with butterflies, the young prince left his hiding spot and approached the woman. "Miss Eldalótë," he greeted in a manner far too formal for such a young child, trying to emulate how his father spoke to his mother. Down to the crooked little grin. "Might I join you?"

And she smiled at him, and Angaráto thought he might topple over backwards and sprawl in the pristine, emerald grass, so violently did a crimson blush overcome his features. Because she was _smiling at him_. And when she smiled, he could swear she outshone the Trees a million times over again. Nothing in the world—not even Varda Elentári herself!—was as lovely as the family gardener.

"Of course, my prince."

Angaráto knew he would never forget her. One day, they would _be._

\---

Eldalótë almost sighed. Every day was always the same. She came to the manor, found her list of chores and landscaping requests awaiting after a hot meal in the lower levels of the kitchens, and went straight to work. The gardener would tie up her hair, put on her grubbiest tunic and head out into the midday heat to replant this flower and pot up that flower and dig up this flower and...

And then, like clockwork, the young prince would appear at the corner of the house. Lessons ended in the early afternoon, and the first thing he did each day was come and visit her as she worked.

Or rather, the first thing he did was spy on her for at least an hour before working up the courage to speak to her.

In some ways, the child was rather adorable. It was clear that he harbored a bit of a crush—sweet puppy love that was very endearing and made Eldalótë giggle behind her cupped, dirty hands when he tried his best to be charming and flirtatious. But all the same, she sometimes wished he wouldn't linger. Wished he might forget all about her and find some pretty young girl from court to blush at and flirt with.

After all, he was a prince, and she was _the gardener._

It was cute how naïve the boy was, but sometimes also irritating. Eldalótë was far from naïve, and she knew that if anyone suspected that she was encouraging the boy, she could very well lose not only her job—which would have been a horrible blow in of itself—but also be blacklisted by the elite as a gold-digger. Or worse.

Still, for now it was harmless. And it wasn't as if she could just send him away.

It wasn't as if it was serious. And by the time he was old enough to _be_ serious, he would have much else to keep him busy and away from her gardens.

"Miss Eldalótë, might I join you?"

"Of course, my prince."

Just as always, he plopped himself down on her rich carpet of grass—she would have to groom it again after he left to get rid of the compressed indent he left behind, upsetting the perfect symmetry of the blades—and stared wide-eyed at her as though she were a vala in the flesh. It was adorable and flattering, but slightly painful, because no grown man had ever looked upon her that way. Likely, none ever would. And certainly not—

"What is Miss Eldalótë doing today?"

"Planting more lily of the valley," she replied, skirting around the young child with her fragrant charge in hand. "Do you not find them beautiful, my prince?"

The boy cocked his head to the side, examining the small while flowers with something like incredulity. "Not as pretty as Miss Eldalótë."

He wasn't even _trying_ to hide it.

"You are most gracious, my prince," she murmured demurely in reply, "But I am hardly superior in beauty to these blooms." _Especially not whilst sweaty and grimy and covered in soil._

"Miss Eldalótë is the most beautiful lady in the world," the young prince said with total assurance. No words from any lips would convince him of the falsity of his perception. Now, if only she could have gotten that assurance from a man old enough to court and to kiss rather than from an infatuated child. Maybe then the smile on her face would have been more than a flimsy, wooden mask of false pleasure.

"Hardly more beautiful than the Princess. Or the Queen. The mere daughter of a farmer could never compare to them."

"One day you'll be a princess, too. And then everyone will know that you're the prettiest girl in the world." The young prince offered her a sunny smile, emphasizing his rosy cheeks still lined faintly with baby-fat. "One day, you'll be my wife, and I'll make you the happiest lady ever."

_I doubt that_. But she didn't dare reprimand the boy aloud. Besides, in a few years he would forget all about his family gardener. He would meet some young lady at one of the dances and spend his time in the gardens with _her_ , flirting coyly and kissing behind the rose bushes like all young, spirited couples dreamed of. And then they would marry, and if she was _extremely_ lucky, Eldalótë might be the gardener in charge of putting together the flower arrangements for the ceremony.

But she didn't doubt that, one day, this promise would be a hazy daydream in this child's mind. One day, he would look at her face—the one he claimed today was more beautiful than any other—and he would not even remember her name, let alone find her enchanting.

Still, Eldalótë did not slap down his words and nip in the bud this childish affection as she should have. Instead, she set down her flowered charge in the cool dirt, kneeling beside the plant as she began to press soil around the exposed roots, building the earthy foundations upwards with sure motions. "If you say so, my prince."

He gave her a look somewhere between imperious and confident. As if she was silly to even question his wisdom. "I do."

And she merely smiled and shook her head. Let the boy dream. While it lasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Arafinwion = Son of Arafinwë


	166. Gloves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilession sees the means. Maglor sees only the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Makes references to war, torture and Kinslaying. Physical scarring. Mental trauma all around, as usual.
> 
> Ilession is, of course, my OMC who first appears in Worst Day (Chapter 24). However, this piece is part of the arc that starts with Morals (Chapter 142) and includes Hero (Chapter 156).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë

Never had Ilession known his father to cover his hands. Not before.

As a musician, Makalaurë made a point to always bare those long, elegant digits so that they might be ready at a moment's notice to perform miracles of melody and harmony. Perfectly manicured nails cut short and neat, set upon pale skin callused from plucking strings for long hours defined the strength and precision outlined in muscle and tendon and bone. As a child, Ilession had loved those hands, not only when they playfully teased or tickled, but when they merely moved, liquid grace flashing over lyres and harps like magic come alive.

Even when the Exiles had crossed Belegaer and it became a common habit of warriors to wear leather in protection of their soft palms against the ravages of metal hilts rubbing skin to blisters and bruises, never had his father donned so much as a scrap of cloth to hide away his fingers. It would have been nearly sacrilegious, the defiance of Makalaurë's true being.

But, seeing him again after so long, should it have been surprising that much had changed?

That change was still more surprising than anticipated.

Makalaurë wore gloves, taut dark leather worn with time and creased into the exact pattern of the lines that Ilession recalled so distinctly as crisscrossing his father's hands. The covering was soft and flexible from use, obviously well-loved, if an article of clothing could be loved in such a manner.

Yet they never came off in the open air beneath celestial eyes.

Away, Makalaurë would hide were he to seek a bath after weeks of hard travel, vanishing for hours and returning damp and washed without providing an opening to explore the area of itching curiosity gnawing at Ilession's restraint. And, if the bard planned to play his harp, it was well within the deepest of cloaking shadows, keeping that skin away from light as though such a brilliant touch might burn and sear as acid to unprotected flesh.

It was as though Makalaurë did not _want_ him to see.

And, born of the flame and the madness of _that_ accursed House, Ilession—of course—could not help but wish to understand. Could not help but desire to unmask this new point of intrigue so that its mysteries were unearthed and all appeal was carried away upon the merciless winds of discovery.

His father was _not_ cooperating.

And Ilession was not all that surprised.

The other man _went out of his way_ to keep the hands out of sight. Even from himself.

\---

For those fleeting moments when the younger man _knew_ the leather was removed, that the sight he was so eager to behold was hidden by only the cant of a broad, hunched shoulder or the veil of inky-dark hair upon the breeze, always those stormy eyes would look away. As, quickly and efficiently, long fingers pulled the imprisoning creations back upon themselves and laced and knotted taut and firm against intrusion or escape, always there would be that distant look upon the elder's gaze. Staring at something far away in the churning of the sea.

Something that wasn't there. That would never be there again.

"Why do you wear those?"

He would receive that blank look he so hated, as if a mind empty of thought sat vacant beneath those symmetrical features. Brows sat neutral and lips remained flat. "To what do you refer?"

"Those gloves." With a nod in their direction. "You hardly perform the menial labor that requires their protection. Would it not be conducive to forgo their hassle?"

But all it would earn was a shake of the head. "They serve a purpose."

And he thought, once, that he understood. Back then.

There had been a time—not too long ago, in the wreckage of victorious defeat—when Ilession could not bear to see his own fingers and the stumps of those unlucky few that his master had seen fit to remove for entertainment or vindictive pleasure. For he could see his scarred, burned and broken hands wrapped about a barbed whip's handle, chafing on the fine, braided leather. Or holding a vial of acid high overhead as he watched a tiny, seemingly innocuous drop glide over the lip of the glass down and down. Or wielding a brand, glowing a hellish orange in the shape of a demonic, unblinking Eye, sizzling until flesh blackened with taint.

There had been a time when all that that image held was the memory of blood and screams and pleading, betrayed eyes. But, painful though they had been, Ilession had long banished those demons from his heart and his head. He had done what needed to be done for those beloved to his spirit, and he _would not_ be ashamed of the violent, horrific acts those hands had carried out under their own power in the name of those precious people he cherished.

"Is it the blood?" _Is that what they cover?_

Because _that_ he could understand.

However, no such understanding was forged that day or any day since. Makalaurë looked down upon his gloved limbs with blank eyes, and the minute flash of despair was present as a streak of lightning in the dark. Yet there lingered no shame or fear or guilt. Just drowning sorrow sinking soul-deep as a festering wound.

"It is not the blood that bothers me. Long since has it ceased to have its hold."

There was a pause. A silent breath between them. And his father would not face toward him, but rather turned to the comfort of the sea and the salt and the mist whipping over the coast. "It is not what they have done. It is what they _have not done."_

And there was naught else said on the matter.

\---

Not even when he _saw_ for the first time.

One of those gloves had been ripped asunder in a fight, hooked upon a naked blade and sheared away, bearing beneath the marring that Makalaurë so desperately seemed to keep hidden away in the dark. Locked away from the world. As if those marks might spread. As if they were some infectious disease.

But they were only scars.

The deep cutting lines etched across what had once dared to be called perfection. Skin of white lily-petals melded now ripped to pieces with deep red welts. Burn-scars that had never been properly treated or healed, but were left to melt and deform without care, leaving behind this rising, netted mess of a pattern. Yet it was a pattern well-imprinted upon the son's mind.

The eight-sided polygon with outstretching arms. A star with a face all too familiar and terrible. Ilession looked upon it and recalled holy light from afar, a memory hazy from childhood that seemed to slip between his fingers like grains of fine sand. A brief glimpse at the catalyst of all the death and tragedy of the First Age.

This was an echo of that glimpse. For nearly as soon as cool air brushed bare skin, Makalaurë pulled shut his cloak to hide away the foreign limb from sight.

Not fast enough to keep hidden its secrets. Yet with the revelation of that secret only came the discovery of a dozen more nagging and taunting at the corners of Ilession's mind. So many clues that made no sense.

To _touch_ those facets and yet wander empty-handed for millennia. He could not help but wonder at the true reason for covering those scars. For grief but not shame. For despair but not horror.

Could not help but wonder if, as the son, the father had come to terms with shedding blood long ago. And it was a different phantom that Makalaurë was driven to imprison.

Truth be told, if yet another demon haunted the man who spent his thousands of years alone traversing the craggy cliffs and hissing shores of the Belegaer, Ilession could not rightly have said what it was. He did not know the mind of his sire any more now than he had all those many years ago. And he knew Makalaurë would not speak.

He would wear his gloves and hide from his demons.

And Ilession had not the heart to call him a coward.


	167. Nullibiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I've decided that everyone has to be afraid of something. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This exists because my best friend wanted to torment me with this diabolical word that makes no sense whatsoever. So if this story makes no sense either, be not surprised, my dear readers.
> 
> Strange concepts. Mentions war, torture, rape and other forms of unpleasantness. Denial. Experiment with subconscious trains of thought.
> 
> Connects to Prowl (Chapter 137), Kneel (Chapter 34) and Lust (Chapter 43) amongst others.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon

If there was one thing that Mairon absolutely _needed_ , it was direction.

Direction was an important part of the world. Without it, there was no telling which way was forward and which way was backward. Which way was to the north or which way was to the south. Which way was the right path and which way led to a sticky fate. No way to find the place at the end of a journey and, indeed, no way to find your way back to the beginning. No right or left or up or down or any other recognizable concept with which to navigate in a frightening and unknown creation stretching on forever in a mindboggling contradiction.

No time would weave its four-dimensional threads together into a recognizable, unbroken line. No yesterday or today or tomorrow. No past and no future to conceptualize when the line was broken and left in shambles. Then, when one lost their footing, they had no notion of where they were or when they were, or if they were anywhere at all to begin with.

No formulating plans or looking ahead in dread or anticipation. No hindsight or analyzing what history taught, no guilt or remorse. Just sitting still and doing nothing and feeling nothing and thinking nothing. Without movement toward an image or purpose in action.

Because without knowledge of your place in reality, how can you dare to move? How can you even imagine it?

Of any concept, Mairon feared this the most. Nullibiety. Being unable to look into the future and find a route, a means to an end, that would justify the existence of such a being as he. There would be no goals to grasp and hold firm between his fists like a lifeline. There would be no need to keep going, to persevere and survive, when the only reward was further silence and stillness stretching on and on forever. Emptiness that never ceased and held no quarter.

Without a concept of _somewhere_ , there was _nothing._

And he _feared_ nothing.

His entire life was about creation of _something_. Jewels, weapons, artistry, technology—power-inducing tools subject to the whims of his godlike will to dominate and bend the earth into a pleasing, rational image. To set it in its proper place and set _himself_ in his proper place. Organization and perfection. Tactility and sensation.

Part of him knew it was an obsession that drove this ravenous undertaking of world domination. Part of him knew that sadism was only an action created to put into place those pathetic life forms that dared step out of their bounds and upset the delicate balance personified within his mind. That, should they succeed—should he lose focus for even _one moment_ —he might lose his footing and plummet into darkness.

Might never find his way back.

The Void lingered heavily in the back of his mind. A huge, empty forever-ness without end and without beginning. Without any sense of direction or purpose. Without a past and a future and a present, but something all tangled together in a mass of unraveled rationality. A nightmare.

The very _thought_ of it pushed and pushed and nagged and nagged.

In the shaping of the world there was enjoyment to be found. Logic persistently was his companion. The blood that flowed between his fingers was heavenly and the screams that rang in his ears centered corporeality. Every second was devoted to that far distant dream being built with layer upon layer of destruction and reconstruction beneath iridescent eyes. And it was the most beautiful, lenitive song Mairon could ever remember hearing.

Because it drove away the concept that he was heading toward nowhere and coming from nowhere. This was his place in the world, and his past was the Lieutenant of Angband kneeling at his master's feet and his future was the dark throne in his dark tower in the ash-filled skies of Mordor as the world marched to his every whim and fancy.

 _That was his somewhere._ Too precious to forget for even a single second.

For not a moment could that thought waver or peter out of existence. For the sake of his sanity.

As long as there was direction, there was focus. And, as long as there was focus, Mairon was validated and his means led to an end.

As long as there was an end, there was a somewhere.

And that was all he needed. Living in this little dream of a somewhere ahead and a somewhere behind, he could forget all about fear which, in his mind, was a useless and wasteful emotion to be purged and extinguished. What was the wrath of the Valar in comparison? What was the wrath of Morgoth in comparison? What were torture and mutilation and rape and starvation in comparison? They all led to _somewhere_. And they could not touch him.

Mairon was not nearly the perfect being as his master had envisioned—that flawless diamond shaped in the image of cruelty and subservience and nonchalance. Maybe he was even delusional, warped by that little whisper wrought before the existence of Arda itself. But he wore a smile on his face and pretended, because better delusional than senile. A translucent dream-coating hiding ephemeral reality was fixed at the center of his personal universe.

He would crush all those who opposed his new reality, who tried to shatter the opaque wall boxing Mairon inside. How dare they try and destroy the _order_ and the _rationalism?_ How dare they defy his indomitable _will?_

But as long as they were crushed beneath the sole of his boot, their pleas for mercy peppering his ears as little droplets of bliss in a scorched and blistered world of drought, he could be happy and amused. He could forget all about that little fear—ancient and immaterial—in the back of his mind. Could pretend for eternity that there was not a single intangible passing notion in all the history of the world that could shake the unshakable foundations of his eternal being.

Even if it was just pretending, it was real enough to create a _direction_ at which to aim his traversing and striving. And that was all that mattered in the end.


	168. Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And you just thought he liked the Silmarilli because they were sparkly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we were beginning to think Fëanor wasn't a person with feelings. Obsessive behaviors. Possible delusions and slightly irrational thoughts/behavior. Mother complex just as bad as his father complex.
> 
> This is possibly related to Waste (Chapter 87) and Engage (Chapter 143) amongst others, but is not directly connected to any stories as of yet.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Little was there to be found in the world more enchanting and mysterious than the Two Trees. They were the greatest of known creations other than the very roof and floor of the world itself, and for any craftsman their beauty and perfection were worthy of both admiration and envy.

Thousands of poems had been written in hundreds of styles, but all in awe of their glory. Architecture was modeled and sculpted after their graceful images in pale imitation. Histories were written surrounding their brilliant glow with reverence. Paintings and drawings could be found on every corner of Aman in supplication. Even jewelry was riddled with their theme—of twined silver and golden light burning away the darkness.

They were the muse that supposedly set those people of Aman apart from those who dwelled behind in the twilight shadow-world of stars across Belegaer. The spark that set fire to the spirits of the Eldar.

Fëanáro did not know if that was truth or fallacy. All he knew was that he was no more immune to the enrapturing power of the Valar's greatest creation than the rest of his elven brethren. The eternal resplendence of the Two Trees captured his vivid imagination like nothing else, brought forth the longing to shape and forge until his entire body shuddered with the resonating power.

But it was not their light or supposed perfection that held him in an invisible net stronger than iron and more impenetrable than mithril.

Every time he looked at them—at their heavenly light raining down upon the Undying Lands and reflecting off the dew-speckled earth below—it reminded him...

Reminded him of _her..._

He barely remembered her at all, so young had he been when she perished of faded spirit. Certainly, he had seen her remaining body, with its dull, empty flesh and limp gray hair, left to lie endlessly in the Gardens of Lórien as though resting peacefully and not devoid of life. But in the back of his mind, her locks were molten with brilliance and her eyes outshone the stars a thousand times over again. Like the Trees, they were beacons of divine presence, radiating life that defied her deathly state.

And their light now rested within _him._ Fëanáro. It was because of him that she had blinked and flickered out, leaving behind her small family to weep at her passing.

Often, he wondered if the Valar—who had created these Trees with their life-filled light—could have somehow saved her, had they the merciful compassion to care about the illness of a mere mortal creature of flesh and blood. Wondered if that rumor about the Trees giving the spark to the living soul were true. Wondered if, perhaps, a slight dimming—so infinitesimal it could not be divined with the naked gaze—of these golden and silver beauties could have sustained a mere elf woman. Could have brought back the glow under her skin and the glimmer in her eyes and the liveliness that embodied her spirit before...

Maybe it was irrational to feel resentment in the pit of his belly at the thought that they might have had the power to do _something_ and had not out of supposed fairness or fatalistic judgment. Maybe it was pitiful that he often looked upon the Two Trees and was captivated by the idea of taking their light away instead of keeping it immortal and imperishable. Of holding it in his hand and under his power instead of admiring from afar.

Maybe it was a little pathetic that, even after all these centuries, he had not quite given up hope that she would be coming back. That all the fire sucked from her spirit could somehow be returned.

Even after her last breath had faded into willing silence. Even after his father had wept and mourned and moved on. Even after the king had remarried and spawned an army of half-siblings. There was always that nagging little voice in the back of his mind that _whispered._ That maybe something _could_ be done.

That maybe, _he_ now had the power to do something to change fate. To transcend supposed mortal boundaries and give back the spark that he had taken away.

Looking at those Trees, he heard his muse in the back of his mind with her voice of the purest chords and felt her lips so soft against his cheeks and brow. Saw her beautiful silver locks twined within his fingers and her bright eyes smiling down upon him with pride and affection. Felt chills break over his skin as he imagined catching rays of this light that warmed his bare skin and suffused his scorching spirit and holding it tightly in his palms.

Of giving it away.

No, it was not the Two Trees that brought his most terrifying and daring vision into being—the creations that he knew would be his most extravagant and amazing and dangerous—but something lost as moonbeams between grasping fingers. In his mind's eye, the solution shimmered beneath his gaze—three stars of his own make and design—welcoming and warm with that energy that he so desired and so valued.

Fëanáro was ready to begin his final project. Finally. For this mortal cage of a body no longer could limit his spirit to the realm of possibility. He could go _beyond._

And not even the intervention of the Valar themselves would be allowed to stop him. For this was one daydream that the lonely, brokenhearted boy forever trapped at the core of his volcanic, writhing genius mind would never be able to forget or release. A thought that forever tugged the strings of his consciousness into tangles of fascination and desperation.

A little silver butterfly kept forever prisoner in a little glass jar of hope.


	169. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the lust that catalyzed the downfall of Númenor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General unpleasantness that is Sauron. Willful stupidity. Obsession with immortality. Incorrect theories about the difference between Elves and Men. The works.
> 
> Ar-Pharazôn's POV of Believe (Chapter 149).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor

Magic.

A strange and unnatural force to be reckoned with. An existence completely beyond the human comprehension and completely out of their flimsy grasp. It dazzled. It amazed. It entranced. It was a mystery that captured and held the imagination captive, bound with dangerous, toxic strings of hope.

And for his people—for his own self—it could mean eternal salvation.

For what was the true difference between a fleeting mortal man and one of the ancient, immortal kindred, but ambient magic running through the blood? Or so it was theorized by the most skilled scholars of their fields. For how else could those undying creatures of flesh and blood have the gift of permanent longevity? How else was it that their skin stayed forever unmarred and pale, never wrinkling or spotting from age? How else was it that their gleaming hair and brilliant star-eyes never dimmed in senescence?

The problem was, of course, encountering the right sort of magic. From the right source.

The tomes of elven sorcery left behind held no such secrets, and even had they, it was doubtful that they would have been any use. Pharazôn was loath to so much as brush his fingers across them for the utter heresy they contained. Every charm and ritual within those leather bindings seemed to revolve about worshipping the Valar like pathetic slaves and bowing with humility before their divine ruler Eru Ilúvatar—about getting down on hands and knees and begging some greater being for help like filthy worms. About throwing away pride in exchange for nothing but empty promises.

He would do no such thing. The Valar had long forsaken his people to the arms of death, and was it not Ilúvatar himself who had cursed his race at the very beginning of time to their doomed fate? No... he could not turn in that direction, for there were no answers to be found.

And he could not release the hope spurred on by fear and jealousy. By the shiver that rippled down his spine at the thought of closing his eyes to rest and never waking.

Perhaps that was why he did not merely _kill_ the Dark Lord when the demon knelt in the mud and bared his pale throat to his newest master with subservience that set the teeth on edge. It would have been all too easy to merely slit open that neck, to remove this thorn in his side that refused to go away and be rid of all the trouble endeavoring to keep him from conquering completely what he could reach of Middle-earth.

But there was one thing about this Sauron that captured and held his attention.

Like the Valar, he was neither elf nor man. A being living forever in the springtime of life. And a creature who subscribed to neither the slavish bowing and scraping before the Valar or to striving through good deeds toward the supposed blessings of the One. This man with the fire-opal eyes did what he wanted and depended on nothing and no one but himself to achieve mighty feats of strength and power.

Maybe it was foolish. But Pharazôn looked at that man on the ground in heavy black armor, smiling like death incarnate as unblinking eyes ceaselessly watched and waited, and felt that hope again spring forth.

Because Sauron _had that magic._

The seemingly rare divine spark that so did Pharazôn desire—that light that would fill his being and put a stop to the withering of time ever so slowly chipping its way into his being, forming dips at the corners of his mouth and silvered patches at his temples—rested like a violent star underneath Sauron's flesh, radiating outwards tantalizingly. None closer to a god had the King of Númenor ever encountered, and none would he again lest he reach the far Undying Lands across the open expanse of sea.

It was temptation as nothing before.

Everything about the Dark Lord screamed youth and beauty, from his healthy, rosy skin to the ocean of curls loose upon his broad shoulders, free of dull gray strands crinkling weakly in death. Looking upon his newest prisoner, Pharazôn lusted—not after the body—but after that seemingly innocuous state of utter perfection.

If the Valar could not give unto him that which he desired, perhaps the magic of this wily creature would serve just as well. Perhaps it could be taken. Or perhaps it could be given. Or perhaps there was yet a path to traverse which involved neither—but if anyone would know such a path, it would be a being such as this one before him.

Pharazôn was not about to allow this chance to slip away.

Thus, Sauron was not allowed to go anywhere until he hefted over the secret to gaining that much-sought immortality. Pharazôn did not care if he had to wait decades, so long as he did not have to wait _forever_. And if the demonic being proved stubborn and uncooperative after spending years in a dinky, wet cell with minimal food, the king was not adverse to turning over his adversary to the torture chambers to loosen that pretty, sly tongue.

But it never came to that.

And, in retrospect, that was the first abnormality in the entire following ordeal that should have sent him stumbling backwards in suspicion to avoid getting his fingers bitten off by the very source of power he had been searching to harness. To keep himself from being ensnared within the very spell-work he sought to bring under his control.

Because magic should never be offered so willingly. Indeed, who _would_ offer it so willingly as had the Dark Lord with his catlike smirk of satisfaction and his scorching, amused eyes?

 _"What couldst_ thou _—a prisoner without an army and without freedom—possibly have to offer_ me?"

_That infuriating, knowing smile again. "Knowledge, my lord."_

_"Continue."_

_"Knowledge of the key to gaining_ immortality, _my lord."_

Such words were sorcery of their own accord. Sauron had not even needed an incantation to enchant his new followers. And looking back, Pharazôn still did not care about such blatant manipulation. He did not care if the Dark Lord was lying through his teeth. He did not care if the alabaster beauty was scheming to escape or somehow turn this situation to his advantage. He did not care about _anything_ but becoming powerful enough to _take_ that immortality from whoever had the strength to give it, be in the Valar, Melkor or the One himself!

And if Sauron was the key to that victory, he would delve into all the mysteries of black magic—all the torture of innocents and deaths of his citizens and sacrifices of gallon upon gallon of blood—if it meant that he would never lie weak in his bed, knowing with terrifying certainty that his final moment was approaching, taking his final breath before entering the distant unknown.

Whilst the elves were allowed to stay forever in their bliss. Blessed and loved over his people. Blessed with that otherworldly spark.

He _would_ have that spark. He _would_ live forever, eternal king of this eternal kingdom.

One way or another. He _would._

And thus began the fall.


	170. Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros did not want to be saved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions Angband, so all the nasty warnings from slavery to torture and all the shit in between, though not incredibly explicit. Self-hatred and borderline suicidal thoughts. Maedhros is having his angsting time.
> 
> This happens just before Get Up (Chapter 22) and is therefore also a prelude to Try Again (Chapter 60) and Funeral (Chapter 164).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Fiingon = Findekáno

No one seemed to understand.

Maitimo knew they were trying. Trying very hard. He knew Kanafinwë visited relentlessly to hold his hand and give an endless stream of reassurances and promises about things getting better (he only ever half-heard them, for his mind was often distant and reluctant to see his brother as anything but a wistful mirage conjured in the midst of delusion), and that Findekáno came often to check on his progress (or lack thereof) and speak to him about the ongoing trials of raising civilization from the ground up in this wilderness (as if he actually cared—really, it would have been better if they had turned back when they had the chance), but it was difficult to find comfort in their devotion to his recovery.

It was difficult to do anything anymore when all images and thoughts and feelings seemed overlaid with a phantom of a memory that would not stop haunting his every conscious moment. That would not _go away._

All day was spent lying still in his hideously soft bed with pristine white sheets, staring sightlessly at white-washed walls and at the cloudless sky free of noxious fumes and spewing ash, comparing them with the dank, filthy, windowless cell lining his peripheral and the concrete floor decorated in dried blood and waste, so cold that it left his body aching in discomfort. It was a contradiction, because all this white did nothing to make him feel any less violated or exhausted. Did nothing to make him forget.

They kept him in this clean environment the way a captor holds a hostage, his family and their army of half-trained healers. They washed his hair every day (it had gone for more than twenty years without so much as a brush stroking away the knots and tangles, so why did it need grooming now when it was cropped short?) and cleaned under his fingernails (once upon a time those nails had been long and jagged and lined black with dirt and he hadn't had the time or energy to care about something so trivial when faced with impending torment) and told him to wash his hands before every meal (when he was starving in Angband washing had been the least of his worries, for any offered water was for drinking no matter its state of cleanliness) and it was very confusing and annoying and frustrating and he wished they would stop.

It made his teeth grind. The pitying looks sent from behind his back. The hidden flinches at the sight of his bared scars. The words whispered when they thought they were out of earshot because he never reacted to anything they said—never became annoyed enough to feel the need to rage or snarl. Was too tired and worn through.

These strangers—his brothers and his cousins—they meant well, but in the end it was all the same. They were trying to scrub away the taint that had deeply rooted itself into Maitimo's body and mind, left behind permanent scars tattooed into his skin and soul that would never dull or fade. They were naïve, believing that gentleness and time would soothe away the shadow that laid its heavy veil of despair and hatred over his spirit, dampening the brilliance. They wanted to remake him in their own image of sweet ignorance by washing away what they believed to be the dirt and grime covering his body and holding him down in sorrow and in pain.

They did not realize that, no matter what they did, he would never be _clean_. Not like them. They had lost comrades and suffered through merciless journeys and even fought bloodthirsty battles, but they had never lost _hope._ They had never lost the will to _survive_ no matter the suffering and hardship, for one's own sake and existence.

Once it was gone, it could never come back.

It was about the innocence and the memories. It was about seeing in his mind's eye the bodies of his comrades being desecrated and devoured by ravenous fangs whilst their eyes still flashed with agony and terror and _life._ It was about remembering the hopeless feeling of _knowing_ he would never again see light, would die alone in the blackness and the toxic air, suffocating. It was about being tortured to breaking, until the mind could think of nothing but pain and feel nothing but pain and remembered nothing but pain. It was about lying in the aftermath and wishing to die, knowing the world was a cruel and horrible place and no amount of endless emerald fields or sweet kisses in the moonlight lingering in the back of the mind could chase away the sudden disappointment and horror of _reality._

Those stains could not be taken away. The violation and the terror and the pain and the humiliation could not be erased. Everyday Kanafinwë spoke to him of how much his brothers _missed him_ , as though he were the same untainted person returned miraculously from the dead. Everyday Findekáno silently begged him to transform into the best friend that had been far beyond reach from the first day of torture, long lost in the cruel vaults of time.

Even far away, folded into these warm white sheets and surrounded with the view of the vast sky lit with golden rays of light, Maitimo was constantly trapped. His skin itched and burned with remembrance of being touched and harmed, with the sting of whips beating welts into formerly soft skin and the hiss of brands laying the heat of molten rock down to the bone, and no amount of washing could make the sensations cease. His missing hand ached until it was seizing and twisting and helplessly he could only lie still and wait for it to fade and wonder why his cousin had been so cruel as to not simply _end_ his suffering. And his mind replayed the scenes over and over and over again so that, no matter how many times he told himself that he really was free now, he could never quite convince himself that this wasn't some form of dream—some form of torture derived to tantalize with hope and then snatch it away.

He wasn't the same person. He wasn't their Maitimo. He wasn't clean or pure or innocent or naïve.

He was just an unlucky thrall who had failed to die. Who had been tasked to live.

Still, he washed his hair and his hands and under his nails. Scrubbed the skin until it was raw and red and the scars were almost invisible against the irritated flesh. But then it would fade back to the pale white cream inherited from his mother's redheaded genes, and the red lines and marks and puncture wounds would slowly reappear as the hours passed until once again they stared back mockingly.

Proving to him and reminding him. That he wasn't _that_ Maitimo. And never would be again. And that by daring to lie to these people who carried none of this filth and taint, he would only be giving them false hope—hope that would be raised upon a pedestal and then crumble and crash into rubble in the end, burying beneath it that purity that was too precious a commodity to be wasted.

He would only be spreading the taint. He would only be destroying their innocence. He would only be making them unclean. And there was enough horror and destruction and violence in existence that it did not need his help to infect and corrupt.

More than anything, he wished they would just leave him alone. That Findekáno had simply shot him through the heart and left him hanging upon that cliff to bleed out in peace. That Kanafinwë would give up trying to resurrect the long-lost prince from the ranks of the dead simply because they shared the same name and face. That they would forget all about his pathetic existence and let him fade away into nonexistence.

Wished that they would not try to understand. Wished that they would remain untouched and pure. Clean. Wished that they would never have the horrifying epiphany that this world was truly a horrible, cruel place. That they would never know that all words of peace and mercy and forgiveness were bitter lies.

It would be better that way in the end. For everyone.


	171. Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staying silent is killing her. And keeping her alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darkening of Valinor. OFC POV. Non-canon children. Pregnancy. Slight sexism. Slightly morbid talk of war and death.
> 
> The OFC who serves as Curufin's canonical wife (in my head-canon, obviously) is Lindalórë. She features prominently in Locked (Chapter 35), Punch (Chapter 36) and Snore (Chapter 51), but this story itself is connected to too many others to name.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar or Telpë (nickname)  
> Curufin = Atarinkë

It wasn't really right, what she was doing. Even thinking about it left her stomach twisting into uncomfortable knots, as she was the traitor looking back upon those she planned to betray and feeling the crushing guilt and regret blooming sickly within at the thought of what she was about to do—or, rather, _not_ do. She spent her days in the dark pacing and wrapping her arms about herself in the blackness, wondering and worrying about the future, trying not to cry herself into exhaustion. But she never spoke, never gave away the truth kept close to her breast.

It was too dangerous.

Everything was too uncertain. The future too hazy with the veil of the unknown.

Just a few weeks ago, she had been so _happy..._

_To tell him. This was the day, and she was excited. She had visited the healers, gotten it confirmed. They had been trying, waiting patiently, and finally she had conceived a second time. Her Telpë was going to get a brother or sister. Her Atarinkë was once again going to be a father._

_But then the Trees had gone out all of a sudden. One moment there was light, and then it flickered violently. Her eyes closed instinctually against the flashing, blinding brilliance oscillating with black and the sound of frightened screams echoing down the streets drew her hands to cover her ears, her basket of fruits falling forgotten to the cobbled street to be bruised and crushed beneath trampling feet. Stumbling, her back found stone and leaned, sliding downwards. Crawling, she found her way down familiar paths until she knew she was safe upon her doorstep, cloaked in eternal night._

_When she once again looked up at the sky in the eerie silence, there were no stars to be found._

_And waiting at home for her husband and son to return was hell._

_Pacing back and forth... What had gone wrong? Back and forth... What if something happened to them? Again across the floor... What if they were hurt or lost out in that chaos? And back... What if there had been an attack? Her ankles ached, but she ignored them. What could possibly make the Trees wither and die?_

_Why weren't they home yet?_

_Lindalórë had not known. Anything. And she had been terrified._

_Telling him of the baby had not even crossed her mind when Atarinkë burst through the door, slamming the wood against the wall hard enough to dent. All she thought about was throwing her arms around him and burying her face against his throat, breathing in the scent that was so purely_ him _and so comfortingly familiar. So reassuring and real._

_She had been crying._

_"I was so... so w-worried..."_

_And his arms came up around her, his cheek pressing to her disarrayed curls and his breath coming in deep, long inhales. Breathing her in until they twined together. Until they knew the other was safe and sound and whole. Not lost in the dark._

_"Hush... All is well... hush..."_

_She had believed that, as long as his arms never let go..._

_Everything would be okay. But..._

Everything had just... fallen apart.

Her hands reached down, running over her stomach, still flat and inconspicuous. But inside she knew there was a child growing. And his or her future was also uncertain. As uncertain as the future of her family and her husband and her son.

His or her future was dependent upon her speaking or silence.

And though she wished to part her lips, in the end, she could not bring herself to do it. Not when she knew it was a hopeless endeavor.

_"We are leaving. For the other side of the sea. Leaving Aman."_

_Wide-eyed, she met her husband's serious eyes, darkened with pain and fury. He had told her what happened to his grandfather, had told her that his father swore a vengeful Oath against the Black Enemy whose hands were painted with their sovereign's blood. But until now she had not really thought about what that meant. For him. For her. For their children._

_"L-leaving?"_

_"Telperinquar and I," he clarified. "But I... I want you to stay, Lindalórë."_

I want to leave you behind.

_Her fingers had curled taut into the fabric of his tunic, ripping some of the delicate stitching at the hem. "Atarinkë..." What did one say to that? What did one say when they were about to lose everything that they cared about? When they knew they were being left behind._

_She didn't want him to leave. She didn't want her son to vanish. She didn't want her family in danger. Because leaving meant only one plan:_

_Violence and war. Culminating into revenge._

_And she did not want that for her husband and children. She wanted them to stay. Stay here with her, where it was safe. Where they would never need to hold aloft a weapon in defense of their own lives. Where they would never know fear of death or the pain of slowly bleeding out at the enemy's nonexistent mercy. Where they would never know the agony of loss that came from watching those you cared about die, unable to help._

_And she almost told him. Almost told him about the baby. Maybe... maybe if she begged, he would stay. Maybe if she told him that they were about to be parents, he would throw aside this strange, foolish quest for revenge and focus on their son or daughter instead of the bloodthirsty lust to take back birthright he didn't even care about..._

_Except she didn't think he would._

_If there was one thing Curufinwë Atarinkë valued above all else, it was family. No matter that he had never been close to his father or grandfather. No matter that his brothers would have understood without question the importance of staying. The enemy had violated those with whom he shared kith and kin—murdered and torn apart the lives of those he loved._

_That could not be forgiven or forgotten._

_Not even for her._

_And the realization_ burned...

Nowadays all day and night (the two were no different now, for all times of day were darkness) were spent preparing to leave the Undying Lands. Preparing to set out into some new, foreign world of unknown dangers. Spent practicing accuracy with a bow or honing skills at swinging a sword, burying its shimmering length into the guts of imaginary foes. Spent practicing the art of murder.

And each day her need to speak dwindled as she realized that, no matter what she said, her Atarinkë would never change his mind or foreswear his witnessed Oath. Realized that, no matter how she begged and pleaded, he would never leave their son out of this scheme...

_"Why Telpë? Why does he need to go with you?"_

_Her hand gripped at her husband's sleeve nervously, keeping him from simply turning away as he so often did these days, ignoring her words and her pleas with a single-minded focus that was frightening._

_"Is the boy not grown? He is a man, Lindalórë. Treat him not as a child."_

_But he _was_ a child—_ her _child. Nothing could change that fact, not even the many years beneath his belt or the accomplishments lining his name. She still remembered him vividly as a bundle within the cradle of her arms, with his fluttering green eyes, cooing cutely up at his ecstatic, enchanted mother. Still remembered the little boy whose smile was so bright and infectious as he raced through the yard with bare feet, perfectly innocent and unaware that a vicious shadow was slowly creeping up upon his life, ready to rip it all away._

_She did not want that sweet smile to disappear. Did not want that image to float away. Did not want to send that little boy away to war and—for nothing but a few glowing rocks—to die._

_"I am his_ mother! _How can you think to take him from me?"_

_"I am his_ father! _And he is my son." And those eyes had burned so intensely that she shuddered and glimpsed her husband's father overlapping the man she loved, eclipsing completely. Glimpsed that expression of impassive, compassionless will and wild, uncontrollable fire. It was terrifying to stand within arm's reach when his temper overflowed, sizzling and crackling in the air between them._

_And his lips parted again to seal fate and shatter her heart beyond all glue and stitching. Into sharp pieces that dug deep into her soul and cut and_ cut. _"He is my son, and he_ will _follow his father."_

_He slipped out the door, slamming it shut in his wake with barely controlled anger. Left her alone with the quiet and the creaking of the lonely house that would never see all its members together in bliss._

_She had not dared to ask again. She had surrendered._

_And she had wept._

_But never once had she thought of revealing her secret. Because she was already losing one son to the passionate hatred incarnated in blood hotter than molten earth. She was losing everything she loved, except that sweet little whisper, the tiny heartbeat in synchronization with her own..._

_She would not lose her second child, too._

She would not allow that future to dominate her unborn baby's destiny. For if he knew, she knew Atarinkë would never allow her to stay by herself and sunder him from his blood. He would insist that she come across the sea at his side. Insist that their child be born upon the road or in some tent, somewhere in danger and uncertainty so very far away from home. Insist that, when the time came, a son would become a warrior and walk out upon the field of battle to die for supposed righteous justice or a daughter would be married off to produce an army of children, her sons the next generations of living sacrifices in a reality compromised by madness and her daughters the vessels procreating the long line of suffering far into the distant eternity.

It was that thought—the thought of what might happen if she gave in to her own fears and wants and needs (to stay close, to cling to his side, to never let go) and forgot about the baby being nurtured within her own body _for even a moment_ —that thought which kept her strong and helped her resist. She could never forget that, one day, that child would pay for her happiness in his or her blood and the blood of his or her children and their children and their children...

When would it end? With the loss of her husband and son? Or would it keep going forever, a curse that could never be lifted?

Was that the price of her fleeting happiness?

Every time her will to stay silent wavered, she laid a hand upon the flat expanse of her belly, upon the secret hiding deep inside.

And tried to forget about that comforting scent and the safety of that loving embrace. Tried to drive _him_ completely from her mind.

Tried to imagine something beautiful.

Tried to imagine sweet green eyes that would never know war or death or suffering.

Tried to imagine a little boy or little girl who did not have so spend every day in paranoia and fear of the merciless Enemy. Did not have to learn to fight in a cruel world that did not understand mercy and did not give second chances. Did not have the curse of the Oath hanging as an ever-present veil of despair upon their heads to the very end.

Tried to hold on to that vision. And to her tears.

And to forget about everything else.


	172. Superstition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor says he is not superstitious. Let him be in denial for a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Features Fëanor actually being kind of sweet and fatherly, for once. Also, that river in Egypt. And misogynist tendencies. I don't actually think that women are any less intelligent than men (I _am_ a woman, after all), but I'm trying to keep it realistic to the Noldorin culture as I interpreted it.
> 
> Closely tied with Tactile (Chapter 153), Remorseful (Chapter 133) and Heavy (Chapter 135) amongst others.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Amras = Telufinwë, Umbarto (or, alternately, Ambarto)

The first time Fëanáro saw his youngest son's full name written in wobbly, childish handwriting, he felt his blood run cold.

He had been peering over the boy's shoulder, perusing the simple practice worksheet designed to initiate and improve handwriting in Tengwar, and had initially watched with more than a little bit of pride as the little one struggled through his own name—a bit advanced for a child who had only started the day before yesterday. There had only been one or two miswritten (and clumsily corrected) tengwar and tehtar.

But once the father-name—Telufinwë—had been sounded out and scribbled down in very nearly illegible handwriting, the boy had started on his mother name.

Started it using a "u".

One tehta that made all the difference.

To see a child writing something like _that_ down in ink that couldn't be erased, it left a strange pulling feeling in the father's gut. Somehow, writing it down this way—in the child's hand with the boy's seemingly innocuous, trusting acceptance—left it looking all too real. All too tactile. If he stepped just a bit closer, he could have reached out and touched it, smeared the black across his hand and rubbed the inky wetness between his fingertips, confirming its reality.

The reality of a fantasy.

The urge to wipe away the clumsily written name was powerful, but Fëanáro blinked and pushed away the impulsive need. Only fools let themselves be controlled by supposed mystical urges and nudges of fate, and he was no fool. It was a simple mistake to be corrected gently and easily, nothing to be hasty or concerned about.

It meant nothing. Of course not.

"Your mother-name is Ambarto."

The child paused in his concentration, head tilting to one side in confusion as he beheld his own messy script. "But Atto, Emmë always says it with a 'u'. Umbarto, not Ambarto."

_Umbarto._

It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Left droplets of ice water dripping down his spine.

_"His name is Umbarto."_

He remembered when she first spoke those damning words. Remembered the look on her face, so very certain and still in statuesque assurance, her eyes wide open and gleaming with perfect clarity and breathable terror, peeling back his layers with ease and boring him wide open with primal fear. And in her arms had lain their youngest child, green-eyed and red-haired in her image, cooing innocently without a care in the world. Unaware.

The boy hadn't changed much with his few years of age. He was still so very young, not old enough to know or understand the meaning of that name. Not old enough to understand how very wrong it was to see a child condemning himself to—

But the prince shook away that thought, too. Fëanáro did not subscribe to such ridiculous superstition, of course. He merely disliked the connotation of such naming. Disliked the wrongness of calling his child by a name that foreshadowed death and doomed fate. But he did not believe it was, in fact, true condemnation. Fates were not written down as such—like this ink before his eyes. And a simple tradition would not change his mind.

_"I saw it. I saw him."_

Not even when she sounded so very certain. As though she had lived it herself. In her nightmares.

"You must have heard her wrong, little one," he finally said, voice soft and distant with memory. "I was there when she named you. Do you not think I remember the day you were born?"

Squinted green eyes gazed up at his face, weighing his words for truth. And he wondered when the child's eyes had become so incisive. So piercing. So very like to _hers_. The child would otherwise have been cute with his comically wrinkled brow and nibbled lower lip as he internally debated the soundness and logic of his sire's argument.

"Maybe you just do not remember right, Atto. Surely Emmë would not forget?"

Neither of them would forget.

 _"You saw something."_ Well he remembered his own sarcasm and doubt. _"You had a wild daydream resulting from fatigue..."_ And condescension and disdain.

_"It was not a daydream."_

But how could be anything else?

And even though, in the pit of his stomach, Fëanáro felt a hot bubble of unease rising, pooling in the back of his throat as bile, he merely shook his head and smiled. Leaning down, stricken with visceral instinct, he pressed a kiss to the boy's brow and stroked back the messy rat's nest of curls, catching his fingers in the tangles.

"Of course, you must be right. Forgive Atto for being forgetful."

He shoved away the sickness and the unpleasant coldness that raked its spiny fingernails across his heart. Because, really, what harm could it do? It was merely one tehta, and it meant nothing in the end.

It had all been a daydream resulting from exhaustion and stress from giving birth to twins. Nothing more.

The child giggled and squirmed out from beneath his long fingers, sticky hands rearranging the messy locks back into their organized chaos as those too-familiar emerald eyes looked straight through his own. "Silly Atto! Did you not know that Emmë is always right? She says so!"

_All a daydream._

"Whatever you say, little one. Keep practicing."

He didn't bother to correct the error of spelling. Instead, he observed his youngest quietly and pushed far away all thoughts of naming, traditions and feminine ridiculousness. Let Nerdanel subscribe to her strange and whimsical fancies and dreams. Fëanáro subscribed only to logic. 

Fate was not set as the stars in their heavens. Not even by a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Tengwar = written language  
> tengwar = letters  
> tehta = sign (diacritics in Fëanor's writing system)  
> tehtar = plural of tehta  
> Atto = Daddy or Papa  
> Emmë = Mommy or Mama


	173. Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindalórë dealing with the tragedy of the Noldor and with being left behind. Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depression, self-hatred and very unhealthy coping methods, including possible psychosis or memory repression. Slight historical context and sexism.
> 
> Mentions three OFCs from I'm Here (Chapter 163), Blush (Chapter 48) and Locked (Chapter 35). This story is, however, a continuation of Secret (Chapter 171).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Atarinkë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

After the departure of the Exiles—after watching her husband and only son disappear into the darkness without having spoken a word to either of them of the little one growing within her body—Lindalórë felt her resolve and strength to stand tall dwindle by the day. By the _hour. By the moment._

She knew it was too late to rethink her decision, and even when she _did_ question herself—her motivations and selfishness clawing at the back of her mind for blessed _relief_ from the torture she inflicted upon her own psyche—she always came back to the same result: that she had done right by her unborn son or daughter. Hiding the child from his or her father had saved the baby from a lifetime of suffering—either a short and wasted death or long and torturous life.

There was the bright light of a far off little boy or girl who would never know war and violence. Who would never have blood of innocents or enemies painting their hands and bodies. Who would never know fear for their life each day and each night. Who would not be afraid to leave their house alone or close his or her eyes in the dark to sleep.

But neither would they know the touch of a loving father or a protective older brother. Nor would they know the comfort and security of an unbroken family, of many smiling, laughing cousins or the camaraderie of a close-knit community of friends and neighbors.

None of her friends or family—except her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law—would look her in the eyes anymore. Would even _speak_ to her. Some of her family members could no longer even stand to have her over for tea in the afternoon. And the people who had once been so friendly and open before the Darkening would see her walking down the street and draw away as though she might bite or rip a knife from her bodice and attack like a diseased animal. Because her husband was an Exile—a _murderer_ , they hissed just within earshot—and it was clear as day that she carried his cursed blood in her womb, continued his senile line.

Months and months of being alone had taken their toll. She tried very hard not to think of them every day— _every moment_ —and to concentrate on _anything_ else. On embroidery or laundry or cooking dinner. But inevitably she would pause, remember a day when a laughing Telperinquar helped her hang clothing to dry on the line in their yard or a scowling Atarinkë had clumsily helped her prepare evening meal, and the longing would start all over again.

The need to feel her husband's arms around her and hear his heartbeat beneath her ear. The need to stroke her fingers through her son's hair and _know_ that he was well and safe.

In the evening, it was increasingly harder to sleep without a presence at her side, snoring well into the night and reminding her that he was there. During the day, all she seemed to be able to do was daydream about times that no longer existed.

It had worn her thin. Very, very thin.

And then there had been the offers. To stay with Istelindë or Vardamírë. To be anywhere but home by herself as the days counting down to the birth dwindled at an agonizingly slow pace. But Lindalórë could not do it. All that awaited her there were more _memories. More reminders._

She needed to forget.

All the pictures—the portraits and the memories and the music—she stacked all of it up inside an empty room that used to sit vacant in silence. Anything that, for even an instant, reminded her of _them_ she stuffed away in the shadows and stillness and pretended to forget. Every trinket crafted by _their_ hands. Every piece of jewelry _he_ had given her. Every fledgling work of craftsmanship _her baby_ had presented to her.

And she reminded herself that _this_ baby—this little boy or girl—did not _have_ a father or a brother. Only a mother. Only her and her alone.

Perhaps it was sick. But it made her feel better. The nights of sobbing and shuddering in the cold without _his_ warmth at her side drifted further and further away as her belly grew rounder and rounder with child. The days of staring off into the distance and picturing familiar faces beneath the golden light faded until she could barely recall what _they_ looked like, so far had she pushed them away behind the invisible boundaries of a world where they didn't exist.

Until the day came when she got up and didn't think about them at all. Went to the market and ignored the glances and the whispers and the fidgeting as if they were nonexistent, beyond her notice. As though she were _blind_.

Blind to everything but her complexity of a fantasy where she was not married. The little world where people did not shimmy back because she was a murderer's wife, but because she was a pariah, a pregnant woman without a man in her house or a name to hide behind. The little world where that mysterious door remained locked at all times, the key pressed against the throbbing space between her breasts like a brand, sealing away anything that might shatter this new reality.

Anything that might take away the little dream holding the unraveling edges of the fabric of her thoughts and feelings and _sanity_ together.

She still went for tea with Istelindë and Vardamírë every other afternoon, walking familiar pathways up to familiar, empty houses. They were, after all, fellow husbandless, childless women. But whenever they mentioned _those names_ , Lindalórë reminded herself that she knew no such people, blinked her eyes and stared at the wall beyond their shoulders as if nothing was said at all. Because to acknowledge would be to accept, and that was truth she could not stomach.

Her friends— _not sisters-in-law_ —quickly learned not to mention them.

Lindalórë stopped talking to her mother-in-law— _she had no mother-in-law, after all_ —altogether. Because _all_ she wanted to talk about was _them_. Because that face with those soft lines reminded her too much of _other faces_ that were but a mirage in graying memories.

And eventually everything settled into a peaceful routine. Of waking up alone and wandering the house in the early morning paleness, meandering down the porch steps and taking a walk through the fresh air and the gardens in the comfortingly overcast darkness of the earth. Of eating her midday meal alone at the table and cooing down at her belly, running her hands over the bump and imagining what color the baby's eyes would be— _only green, they could only be her green_ —and if he or she would be a quiet baby or a fretful, loud baby. Of spending the afternoon having tea at so-and-so's house and perusing the shops, staring straight through the glares and the sneers as though they did not exist until finally time set on her little world and she fell into bed without glancing at the empty compression beside her and daring to _think..._

None of those things existed in this fantasy. Just her and her house and her friends and her precious little baby who was soon to be born. Soon to complete the false image overlaying what had once been her wrecked and ravaged life.

It wasn't healing. It wasn't even bandaging. And blood still seeped from the edges of festering wounds, hidden away from sight and shoved out of mind.

But it was enough. It _had to be_ enough.


	174. Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Lalwen began her journey to become the single, independent woman that Aredhel admires so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most definitely inspired by the song _Wild Horses_ by Natasha Bedingfield.
> 
> More elven culture stuff. If it's not okay for the king to marry twice, why on earth would it be okay to have kids out of wedlock? They don't seem like a very accepting culture to me. Also, pregnancy, sexism, premarital sex, arranged marriages and politics.
> 
> The unborn baby is not an OC. And I'm not the only one who has unconfirmed suspicions about his parentage. (And it's not Ecthelion I'm talking about.)
> 
> Of Names:  
> Írimë = Lalwendë, Írien, Lalwen

It was not in Lalwen's nature to be reined in tight. Always she had been a free-spirited girl, spoiled in childhood and left to run wild when her older siblings were locked up in lectures and lessons on propriety and academia. She had been her father's little angel, loved making him smile with her antics and cheeky humor. And he had allowed her wildness—reveled in it, even—because there was far too much strife and stress in the royal household for any joy and happiness to be wasted. Her childish fancies had been indulged and even appreciated.

But only to a point.

And that point on that line that read "forbidden" in bright red script had been crossed irrevocably. Not merely by a toe, but by a half-dozen or so leagues.

The whole matter, to Lalwen, was beyond ridiculous and unlucky. It had been one night. One night alone with a man who could hardly be considered more than a peasant farmer, whose name she didn't bother to remember after they had had their tumble in the hay. It had been about fun and pleasure and a night of pure recklessness away from the stifling atmosphere of court.

One night of irresponsibility.

And she was pregnant. With child and without a husband.

And not even her father would tolerate _that_. It was a scandal waiting to pounce upon her and devour her whole. If _anyone_ outside the family discovered the truth before she was safely married and sharing a household—and a bed—with a man, she knew it would not end well for her _or_ for her child. She knew of the stigma that surrounded such women, the names they were called behind their backs by self-righteous ninnies too concerned with self-image and frippery to think for themselves. She knew what they would say about _her_ if they knew...

And maybe she was a rebellious, wild girl with an untamable heart. But she hadn't meant to take it _this far_. It wasn't supposed to _be this way._

_"You need to learn to think before you take action, daughter."_ If he had been angry, she could have defiantly lifted her chin, clenched her jaw and stared him down to put the Crown Prince himself to shame, but Finwë had not been angry. He had not even stared at her coldly in disdain for her shameful actions. Rather, his ancient eyes were disappointed and saddened. And it _hurt so much_ to have that stare pierce through her.

_"I can see that my trust in you was misplaced."_

The way she saw it, her only chance to appease her family was to settle down with a stranger. A man who was willing to take the compromised princess as wife, even if it meant raising a child that was not his own and staying with a woman more uncontrollable than the ocean and the wind combined—and she was certain it had little to do with any sort of compassion and everything to do with reputation and status garnered from gaining access to the royal family. She also knew such personal misgivings shouldn't play a part in her duties as responsibilities to the royal House.

The problem was that Írien Lalwendë, Princess of the Noldor, had sworn upon her coming of age that she would _never_ marry. That she would be herself and no one else. That no man would hold her reins and douse her spirit. Not then and not now and not ever.

On the one hand, there was the image and clarity of _freedom_. It was a dream firmly implanted into her mind at a young age, unburdened by the ugly truths of reality—by slandering and gossiping and social ostracism. She had wanted to be able to do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted without a man to cook for and clean for and stitch clothing for. She wanted to be able to go to the beach for two whole days and swim in her underclothing and ride a horse bareback in the meadows and camp in the gentle silver glow of Telperion with only the stars for company.

No respectable princess or wife of a noble would be caught _dead_ doing any of those things. Horse riding and adventures and free time were for unmarried men without duties and wives, and certainly not for respectable women of any age.

_"I do not care about being respectable!"_

That is what she had said once upon a time. But was it true?

Because looking ahead at the two branches of a forked road stretching into the distance, she felt fear bubble in the center of her chest, reaching outwards, scalding fingers closing about her slender neck and squeezing until her throat closed around a sob.

There was the path of marriage.

And there was the path of ruin.

In her heart she longed to take both, or a road in between that was now blocked and overgrown beyond use. She longed for the safety of the former; she would never have to face those vicious women with their wagging tongues and scathing comments branding beneath her skin. But she also wished to take the latter, if only to keep the promise to herself in her girlhood and remain true to the woman she wished to become.

Foolish, some might have called it. Her sister. Her mother. Her brothers. And her father.

But it was as though... as though her resilience and determination to keep hold of that precious bit of freedom and self-respect, her careless words and oaths sung high to the sky in her years of innocence and naivety, were now being tested. Either she could be brave enough to venture down the path of ruin and face the consequences of her actions—and an uncertain future that could end in either blissful joy or terrible disappointment—or she could take the coward's way out and give in to the pressure of her traditionalist family. Throw in the towel and marry the nobleman who was so _kindly_ (at this thought, she always snorted in disgust) offering her his hand in marriage—power in exchange for salvation from the utter destruction of her social status.

Could she face ruin and scorn—possibly for as long as she lived? For the sake of a silly promise?

Lalwen had been told many times that she was a strong, stubborn girl.

But was she _that strong?_

Was she strong enough to stand up at the altar and stare into the groom's eyes as she jilted him? Was she rebellious enough to replace the words "I do" with "No" like an ungrateful, selfish young girl whose head was filled with fluff and useless daydreams?

If she did, there would be many trials afterwards. Many days where she would not want to rise from bed and face the hostility from all sides and the derision with which her family would surely look upon her and her illegitimate child. There would be whispers and rumors and name-calling, some of which would be fallacy and some of which might even be twisted truth. And she would be raising her son or daughter completely on her own, probably without the help of her parents or siblings or friends, and certainly without the help of a husband and mate!

But then, would she not be raising the child alone _anyway?_

After all, the route of marriage offered safety, but it also offered its own obstacles. Offered day after day of tedious woman's work without a single say in the direction her life was taking. Offered an empty love life in which her only purpose was to lie still, conceive like breeding stock, and then care for a plethora of babies all day while her husband, whom she neither knew nor loved, did whatever suited his fancy. Offered nothing but a thin wall of protection and endless years of unpleasantness and dreariness wrapped up in salt-rubbed bandages of crushing disappointment.

No matter how disappointed Finwë might be in her if she went against all tradition and wisdom in a final devastating blow to her reputation, would it compare to how disappointed she would be in _herself_ if she merely gave up?

She had come this far, was leagues past the point of no return.

Was there a point in looking over her shoulder now?

Maybe... maybe the first test was to take another step forward instead of a dozen steps back. To truly _be_ the brave and reckless woman she had always claimed to be.

And maybe passing this test wasn't about doing right or wrong by society's standards or the Valar's standards or even the _One's_ standards.

Maybe it was about doing right or wrong by her _own_ standards.

After all, she had once sworn never to be underneath a man's thumb as long as she lived. And Lalwen was not the type of woman who went back on any promise. Even if it was one she only made to herself in the dark and quiet without a witness to write down her oath in everlasting ink for the entire world to see.

No matter what she chose, she did not want to regret forever.

And, with that, she closed her eyes and smiled hesitantly. Her decision was made. And there would be no going back now.


	175. Tease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just Curufin randomly dreaming about the past. Because I had to explain the relationship between the brothers C and Finrod somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took liberties with the canonical inter-familial relationships. Mostly it's just brother-bonding and elflings being elflings. Hints blatantly at the affair between Finrod and Curufin. Also mentions the backstabbing and ruthlessness of Curufin as well.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë, Curvo  
> Finrod = Artafindë, Findë  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Turko  
> Caranthir = Moryo  
> Maglor = Káno  
> Maedhros = Nelyo

Sometimes, Curufinwë wondered why all good things must end and why the world must inevitably fall to pieces about his life.

Lying still in his cousin's bed, he had to admit that he did not feel sorry. Not for anything he had ever done to anyone in his long years. Not for all the times he had broken noses and bruised jaws and snarled out ill-thought-upon words of fury in the midst of temper. Not for the First Kinslaying or for spreading slanderous rumors behind Artafindë's back or even for riling up Artaresto until his sweet little cousin was ready to pitch the fit to end all fits and slit his throat in frustration.

The world was not a sweet and gentle place, and Curufinwë would do whatever it took to survive in this hellhole with silken sheets and masterfully carven walls. He would lie and kill and trick to get what he wanted and needed.

But he wouldn't lie and say it was _always_ easy. Even he, the most heartless of his brothers—possibly of all his kin—had moments of passing and irritating sentimentality.

Now, as he flicked a strand of golden hair between his fingers and stared at Artafindë's restful, beautiful sleeping face—caught in an image of pure innocence and serenity—was one of those moments.

One of those moments when he thought about the past as it had been and never would be again. Thought about Turkafinwë before his brother was crazy and about Artafindë before his cousin was sad and about Valinor before the Two Trees had fallen dark and plunged the world into chaos.

About being a kid playing, carefree and clueless about harsh reality, with his brothers and cousins. Before the politics and hatred and bitterness doused their lives in oil and lit them aflame.

_About that silly scowl that Turko always wore on his face when he concentrated too hard. So caught up in the moment was he that it seemed he would have missed a raging wildfire screaming out its fury and bearing its tongues of flame down upon his backside. Who knew that stringing a bow could be so enthralling?_

_Personally, little Curufinwë thought it was dumb. Who wanted to run around getting muddy and cold and wet just to shoot some flee-ridden animals with a bow and eat them? Normal people just got chunks of meat at the marketplace and let the cooks prepare them into delicious, tender delicacies. And besides, Atto had been sure to tell the youngest son that he ought not follow his third oldest brother's example many times over again, adding interesting long words to his explanations—like "malicious", "disobedient" and "bellicosity"—that little Curufinwë did not understand._

_He thought they all needed to lighten up. No one in his house smiled._

_"Are you_ sure _we should bother him?" The voice was high and a bit whiny, but Curufinwë was used to that by now. "He doesn't look in the mood for playing, Curvo."_

_"Don't be such a baby, Findë."_

_Beside him was his little cousin. Though, in all honestly, Artafindë was not_ that _little. He wasn't even a whole year younger than Curufinwë. Nevertheless, their closeness in ages meant that they were often shoved together to "play" with one another because none of the older brothers and cousins wanted to spend time messing around with the babies of the family and their "stupid" games._

_Eventually, they had become friends out of pure necessity. Or, as much of friends as two boys with fathers who hated each other's guts could become without a scolding._

_Thus it was that, since not even Moryo would spend time with him, Curvo had begun dragging poor cousin Artafindë into all his schemes and tricks. It was absolutely no fun causing trouble (and getting caught) if there was no one to share the fun (and punishment) with._

_"We're just going to tease him for a while, that's all. Maybe tie his boot laces together and steal his bow. You can bet he'll chase us and trip. It will be hilarious!"_

_"That's not very nice, Curvo."_

_"It's just a joke." He grabbed his goody-two-shoes cousin's hand and pulled him forward in the direction of the bowman. "Just be absolutely quiet, or he'll hear us coming!"_

Looking back upon it, Curufinwë felt his lips twitch as his half-hooded eyes drooped, mind falling into a light doze as the golden firelight flickered and danced across the walls and the sheets and burned Artafindë's hair into sunlight. Surely, Turkafinwë had known they were there right from the start, had heard their entire plan and had merely indulged their childish foolishness. He had had sharp ears and could sense trouble a mile away, after all...

_It had not surprised young Curufinwë that his brother had failed to notice their approach, for he had been practicing his stealth much lately on all his siblings. The pair of mischievous elflings perched themselves on the back of a tall boulder in the long grass at the older brother's back, watching his silvered braid swish back and forth with his quick movements. Back and forth. Back and forth._

_Curufinwë darted out of hiding, giving the tail a firm tug, and scrambled back to his hiding place behind their rock, pressing his back to the stone. Artafindë, at his side, lowered his head out of Turko's range of visibility like a groundhog darting down into the safety of his burrow and smothered a loud giggle with a pudgy, grass-stained hand. But the laughter was plain in his wide blue eyes. They leaned around the rock, peering (blatantly) out at their victim to watch his reaction._

_As expected, Turkafinwë had twitched sharply, glazed eyes coming back to reality and focusing into a point sharper than the tips of his razor-edges arrowheads, scouring the surrounding shrubbery and grasses. Passing right over their (semi-conspicuous) hiding spot with little more than a grunt of dismissal. His deft hands had not even ceased their work on the bow._

_As soon as his back was turned, Curufinwë sent his little cousin a meaningful look._

_A "now you try" sort of look._

_"Me?" he received silently in reply, from wide and nervous eyes. Of course, even then he had known that people made nasty rumors about Turko biting people's heads off and roasting their tongues like a barbarian (whatever that was supposed to mean), but his brother wasn't_ that _bad! He only ever brought home dead ducks and deer! Never people, no matter their size or level of annoyance!_

_The young prince gave his baby cousin another look. The "Are you too chicken?" look that had a flush worming its way up onto the golden-haired boy's slightly chubby cheeks. Well, a little teasing and peer pressure could go far. And it wasn't as if Turko would harm them..._

_Gulping (audibly), little Artafindë jumped out of their hiding spot and bolted forward, pulling sharply on the long silver braid. Hard enough to snap Turko's head back and make his hands falter in their work as he tipped and tipped..._

_And tipped over backwards into the grass. Artafindë was lucky that he was so quick and nimble on his feet, or he would've been caught and squashed._

_Turko—instead of getting angry like Atto would have or annoyed like Káno would have or exasperated like Nelyo would have—just let out a gusty sigh that stirred up the grass (and the little ones' fits of half-stifled giggles and snorts). "Pests," he accused lightly, sharp silver eyes, half-blocked by tall grass, finding the pair blinking out at him from behind their rock and staring seemingly straight through all the forest of green blades between them. "Better run before I catch you..."_

_Or maybe he was angrier than Curvo had thought... A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as his fully-grown brother rose silently from the grass, a towering image of a handsome prince and dangerous predator merging despite his dusty clothing and simple tunic and messy hair. And then there was that scowl, twisting upwards his pale lips to bare straight, clenched white teeth._

_"Come on!" He did the only logical thing a younger sibling does in the face of such an adversary... he_ ran. _And dragged Artafindë behind him._

_"I knew this was a bad idea, Curvo!"_

_"Just shut up!" Now was not the time to be embarrassed by the fact that Artafindë was mortifyingly correct. There were more important things to be considered. Like where to find Nelyo! Nelyo would keep Turko from eating them both alive!_ No one _ignored Nelyo when he gave an order, not even their most stubborn, reckless and free-spirited, silver-haired, bow-wielding loon of a brother._

_They turned a corner... and promptly ran head first into muddied, well-worn leather boots with strikingly familiar laces. Laces Curvo had been imagining tied together just a few minutes earlier._

Crap...

_"And where do you think you are going, hm?" The look on his older brother's face really was evil, worse than any of the mad-faces or irate-faces or scowling-faces that Atto_ ever _made!_

He really _is_ going to eat us!

_Powerful hands caught the backs of their tunics before either of the tiny children could scurry off in the opposite direction. With ease, Turko lifted them off the ground, one held in place by each of his broad hands, dangling them helplessly. And on his face was a grin that would have made Curvo's friends at school wet themselves in fright._

_"Caught you."_

_Shuddering, Curvo closed his eyes tight..._

_And then he was being tickled even as his rump hit the ground. Laughter and squeals helplessly bubbled up from his belly, choking out his breath, as long-fingered hands crawled across his sides like spider-legs, hitting all those sensitive spots until he was rolling about, squirming like mad to escape. Above him was that blurry figure of his older brother and that evil smile softening into genuine amusement._

_By the time the torture ended, Curvo was gasping for air. Flopping over, he laid limp in the grass, propping his chin upon his tiny crossed arms. Beside him, little Artafindë was red in the face, chest still hitching with giggles as he lay spread out on his back, hair mussed and filled with green plant remains and old, torn leaves._

_"You're mean, Turko," the little brother complained, half-hearted at best. In truth, it was rather nice to see Turko smile. And to know that he wasn't going to roast them and eat them for evening meal._

_"Tease someone your own size next time, troublesome brats"_

_There was that helpless affection that then bubbled over in little Curvo's chest right then, when a hand came down and ruffled his hair playfully. Atto never did that. And he was never this nice, even though he always called Curufinwë "son" and not "brat" or "pest". He wondered if his face had that same amazed and adoring look upon it as did his little cousin's when they looked up at the older elf sitting upright against a tree with a crooked smirk and devilish eyes._

_Wondered if Artafindë felt like they had the most awesome older brother (cousin) ever, too._

"Hm... Curufinwë..."

The soft voice drew him away from the pleasant memory-dream. Blinking, he realized he was still sequestered up in his cousin's private chambers, still naked and a little sticky and sweaty. And they were no longer in their years of carefree youth or the green, safe forests of Valinor so far away. Artafindë was shaking him awake with pursed lips and slightly worried eyes instead of a cute, shy grin and wide, awed sky-colored orbs.

"Dawn is upon us. Were you planning to leave before the morning guard duty makes their rounds?"

Normally, he did not stay even this long, screw waiting until the night guards left their posts to switch with the morning ones. But it seemed that tonight was one of those nights in which he was tricked into sleep by haunting memories of older times. Better times.

Times when Turkafinwë still smiled and he really _didn't_ have to worry about his dear older brother tearing his face off and roasting his carcass over a fire-pit for dinner. Times when all of them could laugh and boast and tease freely without worrying about politics and family feuds and accidentally offending the others.

Times when everything hadn't been so damn complicated—

"Do not worry." He hoisted himself out of bed and set about dragging on his rumpled clothes from the night before without even bothering to clean himself first. They would be washed this evening anyway. "I shall make myself scarce before your servants and assistants arrive to prod and poke at you like vultures, dear cousin."

—but those times were long passed.

"See that you do." The friendliness was absent. It was almost as if they were complete strangers. As if those fond times they had spent together before this tragedy were useless, valueless trinkets without meaning. To be forgotten as though they had never taken place.

There was no more time for teasing and games. And no more time for laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A year in this story refers to a Valarin year, which is much longer than a solar year. Therefore, Finrod could be anywhere from one to eight years younger than Curufin. I guess it's up to the reader to decide.
> 
> Quenya:  
> Atto = Daddy or papa


	176. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the death of Caranthir Fëanorion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death scene. Mental instability. Suicidal thoughts. Assisted suicide. Second Kinslaying. Unrequited love.
> 
> Related to Transparent and Addicted (Chapters 6 and 9) as well as Afterlife and Forward (Chapters 124 and 136) amongst others.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Caranthir = Carnistir  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

It was bizarrely easy to hide how torn up inside he felt. How unstable he truly had become.

No one looked too hard at the snarky, sarcastic and slightly sadistic middle brother expecting to find anything more than was on the surface, for he had always been easy to read and discern with a glance. An open book. To the world, he was a bitter and empty shell, just as riddled with thirst for blood as his siblings and just as obsessed with revenge and reclamation of birthright as had been his sire. A man who pushed everyone away with stinging words, even his own brothers and servants. Whose sweet and bashful nature had long been banished beneath a shower of blood and death and wickedness.

Things had changed, but even his brothers did not see through the vicious smirks and venomous comments to what lay underneath. They did not know to look deeper. They were blind.

They suspected nothing. 

And perhaps if they had, they would have locked Carnistir up and kept him far away from the field of battle. Far away from Doriath. Far away from temptation. Far away from _himself._

But he was here, standing in the midst of chaos that might as well have been a mirror image of the churning, violent clash occupying his thoughts, with thick clouds of dissent and darkness reflected back into a twisted fantasia of horror. He watched with narrowed, distant eyes as his brothers and comrades rained down upon the marchwardens and slaughtered them all without mercy, breaking their way into the sacred lands of the forest folk. Watched as they broke through the gates to the ancient city and spilled the blood of the few guards trying to hold back their tide of death and give the civilians—the innocents—a chance to escape.

He watched as they broke through the line of armed warriors and began the true massacre, taking anyone and anything in their path down into the abyss of hell.

It was very hard to sympathize.

As chaotic and terrifying as the outside world was, he could still stand on his own two feet. Still had solid ground upon which to rest his weight. Still kept his tenuous balance.

Inside, everything was off-kilter. Tilted and broken.

Inside, he felt as though two feuding factions were boiling over into civil war. Cold and warm air clashed and burned through his body and mind, lightning flashing jaggedly through the blackness of contaminated thoughts. A downpour of depression settled itself like a blanket across his spirit and _doused_ , driving out all the will and all the power and all the desire from his blood and leaving a shivering, whimpering afterimage in the wake of destruction. All it offered was pain. There was room for nothing else but that shuddering quake of complete aloneness and hopelessness and agony eating holes through his core with a searing, acidic touch.

It was a storm of emotion far more terrifying than anything the outside world had to offer, crumbling him apart from the inside out. Carnistir stood and watched as women fell protecting their children, whose blood was then splattered across the wall irreverently and mercilessly. As snobbish nobles scattered in panic, were cornered and picked off like lamed animals surrounded by wolves, easy prey for the hungry predators. As the helpless scholars and minstrels tried to flee or stood to fight without experience or weaponry to defend themselves and were chased down with ease, a flimsy wall bowled over by the wind.

He _envied_ them.

Envied that emptiness in their eyes. Envied that their strife and fight was ended.

Envied the peace that must come from the silence that death offered.

Because he could no longer _think_ , let alone function as a person. Spouting poison-dipped words with arrowheads, launching them where most vulnerable his opponents appeared, was an easy task. But even that was beyond his capacity. Pretending was beyond his capacity. Even fighting was beyond his capacity.

Everything was beyond his coherent mind but thinking about her— _she had been dead for so long, why could he not forget everything about her, from her surreal eyes to her wrinkled smile?_ —and about endless, useless war— _so terrified were these innocents, but they had not seen comrades devoured alive or dismembered for sport, had not seen torture or slavery stretched on for centuries_ —and about exhaustion— _he was so ready to burn out, for the wild hurricane blowing itself across his mind to dissipate so that he could lie down beneath a clear sky and sleep forever._

He just wanted it to be _over_. This life. If it could even be called as such.

After all, what kind of life was this? He ate and slept and dreamed about a woman who he would never see again who never loved him in the first place. He sharpened his sword and sparred until he dropped and murdered without care, spilled crimson all over his hands and clothes and boots without second thought. There was nothing to look forward to but eternal damnation and no way to return to the deceased and shattered past.

There was just the pain of being ripped apart slowly, piece by piece by piece. Of bitter winds raking their icy fingers across his soul until he wanted to curl up and plead. Of unceasing rain pouring and pouring until he thought he might drown. A never-ending storm that derived its sole purpose and pleasure in tormenting him to the brink of insanity.

And he could think of only one way to make it stop. To burn it out.

To take away the fire that fuelled its ferocity.

Nelyafinwë would have been angry had he known that Carnistir never planned on fighting. No mere Sindarin warrior, save perhaps the king and his closest guard, would stand even a chance in single combat against a battle-hardened, experienced Fëanárion, so the eldest had thought not to worry. For as long as his brothers stood tall and fought until their enemy laid in his own blood and intestines or until they themselves felt black swarm their vision and the cold embrace of Mandos carry them away, the six remaining sons would keep fighting forever tirelessly.

Except Carnistir would not. Did not plan to. Did not _want_ to.

He _was_ tired. And it hurt so much. He just wanted it to _stop, stop, stop..._

And thus he stood at the center of cacophony and discord but did not take part. Instead, he stood still. Wondered curiously when they would notice that he moved not a muscle to attack or defend. Not a centimeter. Just waited patiently for whatever end might come.

Wondered absently, when he looked up into hazel eyes glaring without sympathy—eyes filled with fear and hatred for the invaders—if they could see the internal struggle raging beneath the calm, neutral exterior. Wondered if, when that arrow pulled taut to an elegant cheek, the archer with sharp eyes could make out the relaxation of his foe's muscles. The surrender in every inch of his being. Knew that he would not dart aside or move to intercept.

Wondered if, when he heard the twang of the bow releasing and the slicing scream of fletching breaking the air, this death would hurt. Or if, perhaps, it would feel pleasant.

To be free of rain and wind and crackling lightning burning the air to ozone and singeing his insides into charred, unrecognizable rubble. To be soothed and feel nothing at all, simply float without discord or inner turmoil, forgetting the creeping shadows.

He could have moved. He saw it coming, aimed perfectly between the eyes.

But instead he looked at the archer— _at his killer and savior_ —seeing the blast of silver hair blown back from an unfamiliar face and shocked, widened eyes filling with disbelief and confusion. And he wondered if the Sindarin warrior—whomever he might be—knew that the Fëanárion was grateful for the kindness. For the end.

He would never get the chance to ask. There was a flash of silver and the sound of screams ringing. A shot of pain in his skull that lasted only a moment.

And then blessed silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro


	177. Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second chance at romance between our favorite Sindarin princess and resident part-time sociopath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Some depression and supposedly unrequited love, as well as references to insanity and murder and stuff. But mostly fluff. Really.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Caranthir = Carnistir
> 
> The switching back and forth between Celegorm's Sindarin and Quenya names is purposeful.

"You have never tasted a strawberry?"

He honestly didn't know _why_ he was so shocked, except that he'd had his first strawberry barely out of the cradle and couldn't imagine a world where one could reach adulthood without trying one. Nerdanel had loved the little red fruits and had been sure to always have fresh strawberries readily available, even more so when she was pregnant and craving them wildly. Much to her husband's annoyance, every single one of the seven brothers had inherited a liking for them (their father blamed the cravings), and they became a permanent fixture inside the house and in the gardens and on the grounds.

Tyelkormo had been no less enthused by the taste of the fruit than his mother or siblings. He remembered munching on them with his brothers in the afternoon, dripping juice all over and trying to wipe it away, only to end up with a sticky face and sticky hands and sticky hair. Remembered hunting the plants on the ridges near the estate where they were wild and overgrown, and picking the fruit relentlessly, carrying as many as he could manage in his cradled arms. Remembered eating so many that he (along with all of his brothers) was sick to his stomach and went without lunch, but still repeated the process over and over again the next few days until all the wild strawberries had been filched from their blossoming plants.

They were positively heavenly. Even though he didn't remember much from before the wars and the insanity, he _did_ remember _that._

But the strawberries that grew in the Gardens of Lórien were to regular strawberries as a king in his most ostentatious finery to an impoverished, dirty peasant in rags. Just _tasting_ one was like consuming a small slice of the purest, most beautiful theme of the Song, languishing in its divine chords and trills.

And Lúthien—sinda that she was—had _never eaten a strawberry._ Not even a wild strawberry. Even though Tyelkormo _knew_ they had brought the plants over from Valinor on the ships (much to his father's chagrin) and had planted them in Mithrim, managing to grow some (slightly subpar) fruits in the southern parts of the territory.

They had grown much better in Nargothrond. And he _knew_ some had made it to Doriath. Knew enough about his cousin Artafindë's trading logs to be certain that strawberries—amongst many other fruity delicacies and sugary confections grown or created uniquely in Valinor and supplied only by the Exiles—had been very popular even with the Sindar, who usually turned up their noses at anything that so much as _brushed_ Noldorin hands as though it was diseased.

In retrospect, he shouldn't have been _that_ surprised, but...

_No strawberries?_

And his voice had sounded so shocked and skeptical. Maybe a bit pitying. Like it was the worst fate imaginable, to miss out on strawberries. Personally, Tyelkormo could think of many, many worse fates, but he would have missed the red fruits had they not made it across the sea.

"My father didn't approve of them," Lúthien admitted, giggling softly at his reaction. "He thought they were too foreign. He almost banned them, actually, like he banned Quenya, but Naneth liked them. Nevertheless, he refused to allow me to try them. Said that they were probably poisonous or otherwise deformed and not fit for consumption."

Tyelkormo turned to face his companion, now finished chewing the berry that had been (mortifyingly) half-consumed when he had spat out his surprised question in response to her polite inquiry. She was beside him in the grass, her waves of dark, silken hair loose and tumbling about her back and shoulders as she lay on her stomach and kicked up her slipper-less feet. Before them, of course, was a strawberry plant heavy with fruit, one of which had just been plucked and promptly devoured with glee before the woman had asked "What do strawberries taste like, Celegorm?" and left him sputtering and trying to hide the fact that some of the juice had backtracked a stinging trail up his sinuses and out his nose.

"A shame," he finally choked out. "My mother fed us strawberries as soon as we were old enough to eat solid food. I loved them as a child."

"So they are good then?" Lúthien looked at the odd red berries dubiously. Admittedly, they perhaps did not look _that_ attractive with the achenes and deformed shape, but Tyelkormo had never found himself particularly caring how aesthetically pleasing his food appeared before it was chewed to pulp and digested in his belly.

"Here," he muttered, plucking another one free and shoving it towards her in offering. "I mean, if you want to try one, that is..." He didn't want her to think he was _forcing_ her to...

But she thankfully didn't seem offended by his brash manners. Instead, she offered him a smile that had his insides fluttering, like an adolescent flirting with a girl for the very first time. How she always managed to make him feel so _unbalanced_ , Tyelkormo would never know, but he resolutely reminded himself that she wasn't interested in romance, that that had failed once before, and it was better to stay nearby as a friend and confident than to be thrown aside entirely and never get to be near her at all.

Certainly, it hurt. Made it a little harder to breathe and to think. But seeing her like she was now, all laughter and brilliance and glowing eyes, was worth a little bit of pain.

And then she bit into that strawberry.

He wondered if she knew that those kind of pleased, half-moaning noises sent bolts of pure heat shuddering straight through his entire body. Clearly, she appreciated the fruit, for she devoured the rest in a second bite, the juice dripping down her slender, perfectly sculpted fingers and dying her already deep and full lips an even darker and lusher red.

Her tongue darted out, lapping at the soft petals (he remembered vividly just how soft their cushion was against his searching mouth), leaving them glistening tantalizingly in the golden light. And then her mouth opened and she began on her fingers, slowly laving at the stickiness left behind, a pleased noise bursting from the back of her throat as the tip of her tongue slipped between her fingers and curled and... and...

And Tyelkormo knew he was frozen and wide-eyed. That he must have looked like an idiot staring the way he was in shocked silence at her unladylike (and seductive) behavior. That his cheeks were probably so flushed that they put Carnistir's infamous ruby red blush to shame.

But all he could think of at that moment was that... that he really wanted to kiss her...

That he loved her. And that she was the most glorious creature to ever grace the face of Arda. More so even than any one of the Ainur. Especially whilst enjoying strawberries.

"Celegorm?"

And she just _had_ to say his name, her lips still flushed and seemingly swollen. Was it any wonder that he could not resist kissing her? Could not resist relishing in her startled little squeak of pleasure as their lips connected or indulging in running his tongue over the contours of her mouth?

She tasted like strawberries. Valar damn him to the Void, he was _doomed._

They parted, but the taste was still there on his lips. Sweet and heady, mixed with something purely _her_ that was indescribable. And she was looking straight at him, eye-to-eye, her face surprised, brows raised and mouth forming a perfect little O.

"Forgive me," he said quickly. "I did not mean to... to offend..."

For a moment, he actually thought she was going to stand and walk away in a huff. That his chance at even a friendship with her was completely lost (because of _one strawberry_ ), but calm settled over her features, coolness instead of the blaze of white-hot anger or the sickly jade hue of disgust. Pale fingers rose, still glistening with saliva, and brushed across her lips as though checking the reality of their state.

And then she smiled. And he _melted._

"Worry not," she said. "I am not offended, Celegorm." Her fingers fell back to earth, stroking over his hand where it lay limply in the grass. "I am not offended at all."

He kept his mouth shut. Letting loose the lovesick "Really?" that bubbled up from his vocal chords would just have sounded even more pathetic and desperate than he already appeared. It was obvious enough without further mortification that he was completely infatuated.

Clearing his throat, he glanced up at her, only to find that her lashes were lowered as she looked straight back, purposefully and playfully. She looked _sultry_ in the fading afternoon light, her skin softly glowing in sharp contrast with black hair and dark, dark eyelashes on damask cheeks. 

"W-well? What do you think? Of the strawberry, I mean..." _Really? You could think of_ nothing _better to ask than_ that? _Could you be more blatant, I wonder?_

The amused look he received told him that she was onto his real question. Those lips (that he really, _really_ would have liked to kiss a second time) curved upwards and revealed the dimples on her cheeks with which he had always been enamored. "I think it was lovely," she replied, and her voice carried that tone of mischief that both set him on edge and drew him closer in curiosity. "Would you give me another?"

_Another kiss?_

He wondered if he was redder than the strawberries yet.

"Another strawberry, this is."

"O-of course..." And the inevitable crushing defeat. He tried not to let the disappointment show, even though his shoulders noticeably drooped and his eyes remained averted in humiliation. He had known it was coming, but still—

"And maybe another kiss, too."

And, just like that, the torrent of mortified sadness was swept away beneath a veritable flood of pure joy. It was _shameful_ how _happy_ those five words made him in all of three seconds flat. How easily she had him wrapped completely around her finger in an endless prison of a loop.

But he _did_ kiss her again. Quite (embarrassingly) eagerly.

And she _still_ tasted like strawberries.

He was never again going to be able to _look_ at a strawberry— _let alone eat one_ —without blushing from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> sinda = Sindarin elf


	178. Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amrod does not recover in the aftermath of the Second Kinslaying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Willful delusions and possible insanity. Mentions murder, torture and war. Hints at past non-con. PTSD.
> 
> This is the aftermath story of Overflow (Chapter 131) from Maedhros' POV in regards to Amrod. It's sort of the twin or companion piece to Catatonic (Chapter 101) in a weird way. Related, of course, to all the stories that spawned from Cheat (Chapter 5).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Nelyo  
> Amrod = Pityafinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë, Káno

_"Leave him be, Nelyo."_

It had been the same command over and over since they had departed the destroyed, decayed tomb that had once been Menegroth. The same words repeated in that low, crooning baritone from his sad-eyed brother—again and again and again—ever since they had left behind the smoking ruins of hope and idealism and family. Three brothers, Maitimo had lost in the carnage of that useless, wasteful massacre. And another he feared to lose. Might as well have already lost.

Pityafinwë was just _gone_. And there was a strange, blank-faced doll in his place. A person that only vaguely resembled the man Maitimo's little brother had grown into. A shadow of the past locked up tight in the future.

Physically, the youngest was completely sound. Hardly a cut or bruise dared mar the perfection of his lily-pale skin. It seemed that the youngest of the brothers had been lucky in that respect.

And that respect alone.

Because, though his body was hale and whole, his mind was an entirely different matter.

For days—for weeks—he had done _nothing but stare straight ahead._ He could see and he could speak, but something was _off_ about every aspect of his being. It sent shivers down the oldest brother's spine just _watching_. Just standing close enough to witness. Pityafinwë, though he could hear and vocalize, would not respond at all to talk or touch, no matter the volume, no matter if there was pain and no matter who was speaking. And, though he seemed quite capable of seeing and navigating the landscape without assistance, it was as though the blackened, cracked scars of Beleriand and the withering, slumped warriors with dark eyes were completely invisible to his gaze. Nonexistent.

When left alone, he would stare off into the distance at _nothing_ as though it held the keys to bliss and salvation. As though the entire world morphed into a massive hallucination. Sometimes, he would even speak as though someone was there or act as though they were at his side, turning to look up at them as he conversed. But no one was ever there. When Kanafinwë murmured or sang to him, Pityafinwë would not even blink in acknowledgment. When Maitimo approached, he would not turn and look to see who had come, but would ignore the older elf's presence and hum softly.

It was frightening. And Maitimo had _tried_ to stir his brother from these... these _delusions_ and _daydreams_ that seemed to have overshadowed the real world. That seemed to have completely removed his brother's sanity. Truly, he had tried _everything._

He tried talking soothingly and gently stroking his fingers through those russet curls. Tried singing and hugging and rocking the boy in his arms like a child. Tried crying and pleading and begging when the desperation for relief from anxiety and worry became heavy. Had even tried yelling and shaking and slapping when the frustration had boiled over and left him frazzled and nearly out of his senses with panic and terror.

Nothing worked. Nothing.

And, eventually, Kanafinwë had put a stop to his attempts.

_"Just leave him be, Nelyo. Please, just leave him be." The voice was cracked and tired. Completely worn through with grief and despair. Completely resigned._

_"Why? How can you not fight for him? How can you wish to_ leave _him like this?"_

Leave him empty and lost?

_"You do not understand. He cannot handle what has happened to us. What we have done. What_ he _has done! If this is the only way he can maintain any sanity at all, then you shall leave him alone."_

_"Cannot handle what? War? Murder?" Irrationally, Maitimo was angry—furious even. For he had suffered years upon years in the "tender" care of the wardens of Angband and their master, and he had crawled up out of his hole of self-pity and made something of himself afterwards despite the crippling agony and worthlessness that had tried to drown out his fire. That his brother gave up at only spilling the blood of innocents... "I do not understand, Káno. I do not understand at all."_

_"And I hope you shall never have to."_

_He really did not understand, but the way his brother said those words and the haunted, ashamed look in his eyes spoke for themselves. Whatever it was that had driven Pityafinwë to the edge of sanity, Kanafinwë_ knew _of and did not wish to speak of. Could not even mention for the sickliness it brought to his features._

Maitimo had tried to pry the secret loose—to understand—but the second-born had adamantly refused to speak of what exactly had happened to their youngest brother during their attack on Menegroth, telling Maitimo only that he had _found_ Pityafinwë like this, empty and shivering and beyond coherent thought or response. That he had called and called and there had never been an answer from their baby brother's lips. That he had tried everything Maitimo had and none of it had worked to rouse their younger brother from his reverie. There was simply _nothing to be done._

_"Leave him be, Nelyo. Leave him be."_

Eventually, he stopped trying to fix Pityafinwë. Eventually, he let the child be. Let the boy dream. Let him forget everything, if only just until they needed to, once again, set out to rend flesh from the bones of their kin and spill the blood of the innocent in sacrilege to reclaim their stolen birthright. This much relief, he could give his fading little brother.

Even though it was painful to stand watch over an empty shell that saw a world that was nothing but an opaque wall of willing blindness. Even though it was painful to be asked about baking cookies and camping trips outside Tirion and picking strawberries on the grounds at Formenos, as though this nightmare of an existence were the fantasy and the past that Pityafinwë surrounded himself with was the reality. Even though it was painful to hear his baby brother speak to apparitions that were not present and reach out to touch a flawless and ideal Maitimo of the golden shores who no longer existed, who floated in the air at the older brother's shoulder like a ghost.

Even though it was painful to face the reality that he was not _losing_ another brother to this hideous, pointless endeavor of a war and an Oath, but that he had _already lost_ his sweet little brother to its merciless curse. That, in truth, it was just Maitimo and Kanafinwë left behind to suffer more punishment. Pityafinwë might as well have been dead.

That it might have been more merciful if he _had_ been.

Because no matter how deeply his baby brother immersed himself in memories—floating in a sea of them until they cut off the bleak sights marking the world with infectious rot of sin, covering the truth of the heinous and unforgiveable crimes committed in Menegroth in the name of vengeance and justice—it still changed nothing. This was still the real world. It was no daydream.

One day, Pityafinwë would have to face this reality. And, as painful as it was for Maitimo to watch his little brother struggled in the haze of his own madness, he could only imagine what the pain would be like for the sweet little boy he had once rocked to sleep when, one day, those green eyes cleared and blinked open to find that that golden reverie protecting his mind from the horror of the world was the dream, and the nightmare from which he hid was the true reality.

He could only imagine how painful it would be to see the destruction of feeble and intangible hope burning away as dew beneath Arien's scorching, cruel rays.

Could only imagine the broken pieces that would be left in the wake.


	179. Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slightly unconventional wooing of Lindalórë of the Noldor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy romance. I really mean it: sappy and marshmallow-y. It's got the usual undertones of indoctrinated sexism and political humdrum and sleazy men, but it's mostly fluff. Take my word for it.
> 
> Takes place before Secret and Fantasy (Chapters 171 and 173) and utilizes the same OFC. I thought Lindalórë deserved a break from all my angst-fest-ing as of late.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë, Atarinkë

Never before had Lindalórë been courted quite like this. And never by a man quite as unusual or distractingly perfect as Curufinwë Atarinkë.

Oh, she'd had her fair share of admirers. By no means was her family the most powerful for influential in Tirion, but, with her father serving as one of the King's counselors, her family merited a certain measure of respect and envy for their status. Thus, never had she been in short supply young men of court searching for a wife with not only a pretty face, but with good political ties.

Most of those young men would flirt with her at the parties. They would complement her dress and shoes and hair as though they knew the difference between taffeta and silk or sapphires and aquamarines. As though they actually cared either way. They would tell her how pretty her eyes were— _like emeralds_ , they said so often she now tuned the compliment out entirely—and how lovely she was when she smiled, never mind that rarely did she actually plaster a feigned look of enjoyment upon her painted face, _let alone smile_ , at a high society event.

They would fetch her drinks even if she said she was not thirsty. Then they would ask her if, after being refreshed (like a horse that needed watering), she would like to dance. Of course, she was obliged to say yes to avoid offending the admirer and then she spent at least two or three dances per suitor embraced just a hair to close with the hand at her waist just a few inches too low.

But, in the end, she had learned quickly not to take at face value any advances of these sorts. Some of these young men were just looking to establish themselves should they need to fall back upon her as a possible wife. Some of them truly _were_ looking to marry her, knowing the power of having her father's ear in which to whisper. Some of them still were only looking to seduce a young, naïve girl of court, whether for bragging rights or simply because they thought they could and were interested in a night of passion.

She would turn and find that the last sort of men would be across the room a mere fifteen minutes after her rejection, wooing and seducing some other poor giggling girl from behind her frantically fluttering fan and straight out of her expensive dress and silk undergarments.

But Lindalórë was used to this sort of courting. It happened every time she appeared in public. The occasional poetry was read or verses of song sung, but it was nothing special. Nothing _noteworthy._

However, Curufinwë was as far as one could get from ordinary.

The fifth son of the crown prince literally swept her off her feet.

He didn't need parties or flowers or poorly written songs to grab her attention. Instead, he would merely come to her home and steal her away, sneak her out into the city for a few hours of poking their heads into every shop that caught their interest or of time spent together in obscure little bakeries or restaurants sampling the fares. They went for lengthy walks and actually talked about things other than her hair and her dress and what her father was working on for the King. He asked her what kinds of activities and trivial things she enjoyed and _listened_ when she answered. Asked her what kinds of things she wanted to experience with his riveted silver eyes locked upon her face.

She had told him about the beach.

Or rather, that she had never been there. Even if she was considered part of the nobility, her father did not appreciate the Teleri and, thus, would not take her to Alqualondë where she could wander the white shores looking for seashells and feel the sand dip between her toes. Her mother would have been horrified at the _idea_ of getting sand between her toes, but Lindalórë wanted to know if it was soft or gritty, no matter that she might have to wash her legs in the ocean to get the dirt off later.

Honestly, she had not expected anything to come of it. 

\---

But then this morning he had shown up before the sun even rose, like one of the roguish gentlemen from one of the romantic stories she keep hidden under her mattress, and had literally kidnapped her (and she had giggled all the way, wearing an old, fraying gown without a corset or petticoats beneath) out her own window. It wasn't nearly as romantic as it had sounded in those fairytales, but she thought it funny nevertheless and relished the chance to put her arms around his neck as he carried her with ease.

"Where are you taking me, Prince Curufinwë?" she asked, still half-laughing in the midst of the silvery night-glow of Telperion.

"To the beach." As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And two hours later, as Laurelin began to wax and Telperion nearly completely waned, they were out on the vast expanse of sand—completely alone.

None of her other suitors would ever have done something like this for her. Not only because it was unconventional and compromising should they be caught, but because they didn't even know her favorite color or favorite dessert, let alone that she dreamed of walking down the shoreline with bare feet.

"It's beautiful," she told him. And it was. The sand was pale and burnished with gold. And it _was_ soft, like walking on flour, getting everywhere, powdering her bare feet up past her ankles where she kicked it into the air. And then there was the ocean stretching out in a dazzling miasma of gray and blue and green. She hadn't ever seen anything like it before, going on forever and ever, softly roaring and singing each time it rose upwards and crawled gently up the sand, leaving behind writhing designs of darkness to clash with the white.

Cold, misty wind parted around her when she turned, her loose hair whipping up around her face as she beheld Curufinwë standing behind her sans his cloak and boots. He hadn't bothered with courtly attire either, and his hair was a complete mess as the wind's fingers tangled the midnight tresses. But it didn't detract at all from his natural beauty, or the sinful sultriness of his crooked smile and admiring eyes.

"It certainly is," he replied. Looking straight at her.

A flush worked its way up onto her cheeks. Somehow, she doubted he was talking about the sea or the sand. And yet, she hadn't the heart to be upset at such a blatantly inappropriate comment that, from anyone else, would have sounded more like an intimate proposition. How could she be angry when it was the most honest and heartfelt compliment she had ever received? Especially when she could hear the sincerity on his voice where so many voices before had fallen short and false.

Hesitantly, she grasped his hand and pulled. "Let us go looking for seashells. What say you to that, Prince Curufinwë?"

"Whatever you wish, my lady." They started walking together out onto the damp sand, feet sinking into the silt. She hardly noticed that she never released the long, graceful fingers twined and imprisoned within her own.

"You can simply call me Lindalórë."

His smile made her knees wobble. "Very well... Lindalórë. You might as well call me Atarinkë."

And his words made her heart throb.

\---

It was hardly the last time they went down to the ocean together in the morning. Even though she was fairly certain that everyone living east of Valimar (including her parents) was aware of the trips to the seashore without a chaperone, Curufinwë did not bother to stop stealing her away for propriety's sake alone. To be truthful, Lindalórë thought it was the sweetest thing. They could get away for a while, be alone together without interruptions and without the limitations and prejudices of court. Just them.

Eventually, her pool of available suitors dried up. She didn't care.

He was definitely the One.

And this day, like many days before, they sat together on the beach, damp from playing in the water—looking for shells, splashing one another, romping like joyful children—and gritty from sea-salt and the soft sand that managed to writhe its way into their clothes and hair. Now they just lay still as Laurelin waned again and the beach turned silver-white. Holding hands. Talking and joking and laughing to pass the time.

"We should get married."

It shouldn't have been as surprising as it had seemed at the time, but it had come from between his lips purely out of the blue, caught in one of those heavy silences that rested so comfortably between their bodies. Her eyes searched out his silvery orbs, locking. Questioning.

"Will you? Marry me, I mean." He sat up, shoving back his curtain of dark hair, face becoming suddenly serious, suddenly so very much like the High King's and the Crown Prince's infamous profiles. "I may not be the heir—the fact is, I will never sit on the throne—and I may only be a craftsman, but..."

She should have felt insulted, but she knew he didn't think _lowly_ of her or her intentions. They were friends— _more than friends, for certain_ —but he felt obligated to give her a way out of marriage if she truly desired. Many times, he had told her she could do better than him, the wild and reckless fifth son of a hot-tempered prince. A doppelganger of the father he despised.

Sometimes, she hated his father. Hated how fake all her Atarinkë's confidence truly was in the end.

But Lindalórë pushed such thoughts aside. They weren't important right now. Not nearly as important as the searching look upon his face, anxiously awaiting with little starlit glimmers of hope. And with equally dark spider-webs of dread. As though she, like his father, might somehow find him a pale reflection and turn him away in the end.

"I do not care what you are or what you become," she answered truthfully, watching his shoulders relax and his eyes brighten to the sheen of the stars with a lump in her throat. Loving the way his lips began to curve upwards despite their faint tremble, exposing entrenched laugh-lines on his cheeks. "I would not care if you were the Crown Prince or if you were lesser nobility or not nobility at all. You are still my Atarinkë, are you not?"

"Of course. Always." Not a droplet of hesitation.

"Then you know my answer already."

Somehow, the entire affair was so much more romantic than any of the classic proposals done on bended knee in the novels and tales she fancied reading. Somehow, the fact that he wasn't rigid with confidence and speaking like a knight in shining armor was so much more endearing. Somehow, the fact that he swept her against him and laughed aloud with joy when their lips brushed together was much better than a long-drawn, seductive kiss. And then he toppled them into the sand, leaning over her, damp tangles of dark hair falling about them.

"Should it be here?" _On the beach._ "My father would probably protest, but I _am_ only the fifth son of the Crown Prince, so there really is no need for a fancy ceremony at the palace with all that mayhem and tradition."

Her parents would probably protest as well, desiring a large and fanciful ceremony to compete with that of the second-in-line and the Princess of Alqualondë for their only child and beloved daughter, but Lindalórë didn't think that she cared all that much for a fairytale wedding with thousands of well-wishers cheering at the gates of the palace. With a giant marble room filled with cold-eyed politicians watching impassively as she spoke her wedding vows. Rather, the idea of something small and private—of wearing a dress without all that complicated lace and trimming and jewels, of foregoing shoes so that she might feel the soft sand underfoot—was more charming and special.

"I think I would like that," she whispered. "Right here, on the beach."

"Right here," he agreed. "Right here."


	180. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eluréd and Elurín were closer than Maedhros ever suspected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Kinslaying. Childish descriptions of death. Mistreatment and abandonment of children.
> 
> In this story the twins are physically probably between two and three years of age. Because elves develop faster mentally, however, they act a bit older than that. I don't claim to know anything about child development and couldn't say what age children become aware of "danger" at, but they've gotten there. Just barely. Once bitten, twice shy.
> 
> Related to Harm (Chapter 69) and Reap (Chapter 61).

It was scary.

Scary in a different way than all the shouting and all the red all over the walls of their home as it descended into sound and terror. Different than the strange armored monsters with the bright, terrifying eyes and the eight-pointed stars and the long, gleaming swords who made people scream and cry and lie down still and never get back up. Different than pleading over and over for their mother, who would not get up from her pool of red and hold them and protect them as the strangers captured them and took them away.

Dragged them from the confines of the city like ragdolls, heedless of their wailing and tears and tripping upon the hard stone. Took them into the trees that stood as silent sentinels, quiet and imposing and shadowed. Dropped them unceremoniously in a clearing surrounded by unfamiliar dark, swaying branches and hunted them while they ran and ran. Until they were alone.

They had never been away from their mother or their nurse for any long period of time before. They had never even left the confines of the royal wing of the caves, let alone the underground city of Menegroth itself.

They had never been _outside._ And they had never been _alone._

And Elurín did not know _where_ they were. Somewhere out in the woods in the dark without even knowing which direction they had come from. All he remembered were the scary invaders all covered in red with their harsh, low voices and their strong, bruising grips carrying him and his brother, tossing them down into the dirt and yelling furiously until they scrambled upwards. Telling them to be gone and snarling threats and harsh curses until they were fleeing for their lives...

Chasing them until they lost track of which way they had turned and which trees they had passed. Until they were scraped and covered in dirt, their palms aching from catching their falls as they stumbled and tripped through the thick, tangled underbrush. When they finally heard no more of the clash of armored boots on the earth and the shouts and snarls in malicious voices, Elurín had turned to look behind and seen only blackness. The light of torches did not penetrate the thick curtain of ancient trees and trembling, low-hanging branches that closed off all paths of return.

Lost and alone, they wandered with no idea where they were going. And it was so, so scary.

It was cold and damp and he was hungry and Eluréd was shivering and bleeding from a cut on his arm. But Elurín did not know what he should do about any of this. Usually there was just a _time_ for eating when food was delivered and blankets were readily available at all times for warmth and soft, safe arms appeared to carry them to and fro whenever they were hurt or tired. But out here there was nothing. Nothing at all.

"Eluréd! Pitya, are you there?"

Both twins jerked towards the voice, but Elurín did not recognize it. It was not Nana or Ada or their nurse. The voice was low and hoarse and masculine. The rough voice of a stranger.

Elurín felt his skin break out in chills.

And then there was a light in the shadows, breaking orange and gold, flashing against the craggy bark of the trees and lighting up the forest floor. It brought back thoughts of those frightening strangers and their sticky, unyielding red hands and their crimson torches as they chased the skittish, terrorized elflings deeper into the woods, heavy footsteps pounding into the earth. Before his swaying, hazy-eyed brother could call out in return at the sound of his name, Elurín grabbed his twin's hand and pulled them farther into the shadows of the thicket, heedless of the branches cutting at their cheeks and leaving behind stinging wounds.

From the forest's darkness emerged one of _them._ His head was not covered with a silver helm like the others, but instead with curling waves of fire and blood. And his eyes outshone all the other eyes, glowing demonically out toward them, sharp and bright and hot. Upon his chest, emblazoned across tattered red fabric stained rusted brown with drying blood, rested an eight-pointed star that once might have been pristine white, but was splattered and sullied.

Sullied with red. Everything about him was red and burning and scary.

And Elurín did not want him to find them, no matter how lost they might be.

"Elurín!" His own name was called, and those eyes flashed back and forth searchingly, waiting for them to give away their position. So fearful was the little elfling that he drew back when they darted in the direction of the hiding place, for that gaze seemed like it could pierce any amount of darkness with its scary light and find them even in the deepest of shadows. "Please, if you are here, come out! I... I will not harm you..."

Neither of the elflings moved. Still as a doe blending into her thicket's camouflage, they sat and waited with widened eyes and bated breath as the stranger drew closer and closer, his footsteps soft in the dead leaves, only a faint crackling beneath the sound of his shouts. Until he was within feet. Within _inches._

But he walked right past them and did not look back. Did not find them.

And a few minutes later, he disappeared entirely from sight, swallowed up into the forest just the same way he had appeared. Leaving them alone again.

Beside him, Eluréd was whimpering. Both of them wanted something to eat, but they could not go back home—and did not know how, even had they been brave enough to face the invaders. For a moment, Elurín almost considered going after the red stranger who had promised not to hurt them, of begging for him to take them back home where it was safe and warm and where there was food and comfort so that they might again hug their mother and curl up in her embrace.

But then he remembered the other pale faces in their silver helms with angry, glowing eyes. What if it was a trick? What if those crazy, vicious strangers wanted to hurt them even more and were only being nice to lure them out so that the strangers could—?

The tiny elfling shuddered violently.

It had been the men with the stars on their chests that had thrown them out into the darkness first and hunted them with gleaming, crimson-streaked swords. That had left them outside, alone and terrified and exhausted. And no matter how much he wished they were not surrounded by the silence of the ancient forest—with only the creaking of the old trees and the rustle of unseen creatures crawling by to break the eerie stillness and silence—he did not dare trust in the invaders who had hurt Nana and taken him and his brother away.

He remembered well the red that came from being hurt—that came from pain and bright swords and rough hands. This stranger was just as covered in it as the others had been. He could promise all he wanted, but he was no different than the others. Only maybe he would spill _their_ red, too, if he caught them all by themselves in the dark, instead of only chasing them and hunting them.

When the man's voice finally faded completely, Elurín sat still with his brother, huddled close, knowing not what to do now or where to go or if they would ever manage to find their way back home again.

All he knew was that lost and alone was better than found and hurt.

He had seen what those star-people did to elves.

He had seen the red. And it was that fear—at knowing they were utterly unsafe—that gave him the strength to sit still and not cry. To brave the blackness for just a few moments longer and not turn back. To stay lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Pitya = little one
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Ada = Daddy or papa  
> Nana = Mommy or mama


	181. Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death of Oropher, King of Great Greenwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death scene, semi-graphic. War and violence, also semi-graphic. This is the Battle of Dagorlad, so the death and bodily fluids are to be expected.
> 
> Basically written for personal satiation of a random daydream in which two OMCs (Valthoron from Shame (Chapter 109) and Ilession from Morals (Chapter 142)) interact on the field of battle. Because I can make it so. And it's got a shitload of dramatic irony.

Never before had Valthoron experienced true battle.

Oh, there were scouting parties and sentry duties in the forest in which he took part. He had slain more than his fair share of spiders and orcs in the many years his grandfather had ruled over the Greenwood. But the chaos of a small, isolated fight between an eight-legged monstrosity and an elf or a dozen rotting orcs being turned into pincushions by merciless arrows was different. So much different. Nothing like what was whirling uncontrollably into a miasma of confusion around him, swallowing the entire world whole.

Everywhere he looked, there was more _death_. They were outnumbered by the Dark Lord's forces, and in every direction their warriors were falling beneath heavy blows, their skulls broken open to release blood and brains, their limbs crushed and dismembered as they were beaten into the slick mire and their unraveling insides spilled down into the sludge. Into the mud that was comprised only of scalding black dust and a mixture of bodily fluids, both of the allies and the enemies, mixed into a sickening, putrid muck.

Like him, many warriors were white in the face and filled with primal terror. Every instinct urged the young elf to flee from the advancing forces, to save his own life in the face of overwhelming hopelessness. His fingers trembled and his legs were locked and he couldn't _move._

Everything about this reality was horrifyingly, transiently _corporeal._ A nightmare he wished that he could awaken from. That he might blink open his eyes and find himself back in the Greenwood. Back _home_ with his ada smiling warmly in welcome and his daeradar sitting proudly upon his throne.

But this was no dream.

Did it make him a coward that he wished to turn and run away? That his stomach turned as he cut through another enemy, splattering his own body with blackened blood, ignoring its death screams as it fell at his feet and convulsed into silence?

He wanted to go home.

But on this vast open field of battle, he could not even tell which way was toward Mordor or back the way they had arrived. Only that there seemed to be enemies on all sides closing in, pushing his people back, picking them off one by one as they were surrounded and cornered. And there was the fear and the panic, the blurring of his vision as everything seemed to both slow down and speed up into a dizzying tessellation.

It was only the sight of his king appearing before his very eyes that kept Valthoron from losing himself entirely to visceral emotion. Oropher, in all his might and glory, was stained with the blood of the enemy and bleeding himself from a cut upon his arm, but showed neither signs of fear nor fatigue as he plowed through his enemies. Around him, the remainder of the elves amassed, of Greenwood and Lórien alike, holding back the advancing line with a spark of hope in their eyes.

Oropher was every inch the perfect leader. Fearless with his twin knives. And equally ruthless, never even pausing at the sight of friend or foe felled. Lithe body running purely on instinct as it swerved and darted between wild swings and blows, weaving ceaselessly. Grace leaving steely resolve in even the weakest of hearts.

But he never even saw it coming.

The blow that threw him down had been swift and unexpected, a mere gleam from the shadows. And it came not from any orc that Valthoron had ever seen. Perhaps a human, black-helmed and armored, covered so completely that not even a face was seen from between the plates of metal. Still caught in that strange place between delusional and hyperaware, Valthoron lunged forward, but he was nowhere near close enough to halt the blow, or for his scream of warning to penetrate the din of the dying and fighting and killing from all directions.

The dark sword slammed into the juncture of shoulder and neck, carrying the king's body down with it, collapsing it like a flimsy structure of twigs and leaves. The king fell, and the remaining elves scattered away from his feller.

And Valthoron almost did not notice the taste of salt on his lips as he shouted and ran. Was too far gone to think that he should run in the other direction, away from Oropher's killer and not toward. But the helplessness burned, scorching like acid across his psyche. Urging his legs forward though they screamed in protest. He _needed_ to reach his daeradar. _Needed_ to save him. _Needed_ it like he needed to breathe.

It was foolish. So foolish. To think that he could defeat a warrior who so easily batted aside a king with thousands of years more experience than he, the barely-blooded prince on the field of battle for the first time. When Valthoron had only ever killed spiders and stupid, disorganized and untrained orcs, never facing a truly skilled foe.

He barely had a chance to raise his knives when he stepped between the dark figure and his fallen kin. Barely even clashed metal upon metal with that broadsword. A hand already had him by the arm, clutching so tight it hurt, and was already spinning him out of the way, downwards onto the ground. The taste of blood and foulness exploded upon his tongue as the filth splattered everywhere, soaking him through and trickling nauseatingly against his flesh. Shuddering, he looked first upwards at his attacker, half-expecting that long sword to stab downwards through his heart and end him.

Instead, an armored foot slammed downwards on his lower right arm with a jolt of shocking pain and a snap. Like a puppet with its strings cut, his hand fell limp, one of his knives falling from between numb fingers. And he was too shocked to even scream at the sight of bone protruding from skin.

Too shocked to do anything but look around at the bodies with wide, stricken eyes. And right beside him, Oropher was lying there, blue eyes fluttering, crimson spilling downwards in an endless tide that joined the mixture. But still breathing. His chest was still rising and falling rapidly, body still trying fruitlessly to rise from where it had fallen.

"Stay down," a harsh voice ordered. And Valthoron knew who it was.

Watched the attacker step over his prone form toward the fallen king and knew what was going to happen. Felt his body shudder in horror. Felt the shameful tears that blurred and stung and spilled over hotly on his cheeks.

He _couldn't_ stay down. He _couldn't_ just lie here like a coward and watch his king and kin slain without mercy.

And how he found the strength to stand and lift his remaining knife despite the whitening shock of pain and debilitating terror, to throw himself at the enemy's exposed back with a battle cry somewhere between a scream and a sob, he could not have said. Only that, this time, his blade did not even connect with metal. He did not see the hilt that slammed into his head and knocked him senseless, but felt only the loss of balance as his legs turned to water and gave out beneath his weight. Carried him back down to the unforgiving earth as deadweight.

"I told you to stay down, child."

Eyes were staring at him from behind that helm, dark and glistening and cruel without even a hint of remorse or compassion. But, again, he was not struck down as he feared he would be. Rather, he was left where he lay. Left to live in a twist of fate more merciless than any quick death, dazed and sobbing furiously with shame and fear. Trying desperately to find his bearings through the sudden loss of balance and the churn of his gut that brought bile up his throat. Trying to stand despite the pain and spinning reality as he heard the chink of armor and heavy footsteps drawing away.

But he couldn't do it. Each time he moved to rise, his body revolted and sent him twisting back down like a helpless newborn kitten.

He couldn't do it.

Looking toward his daeradar—toward Oropher, who had never been overly affectionate but whom he loved dearly all his life nevertheless—he caught hazy, distant blue eyes, pained and fast-fading. But soft also. Holding no blame. Piercing straight through his being.

Resigned eyes. And forgiving eyes. He could not have said which was worse.

Because he couldn't save his king. Couldn't save his daeradar. Couldn't even _stand._

"Please, no..." It was a soft cry, pleading, but the enemy did not turn to look. Did not seem to hear. Or did not seem to care.

A towering shadow converged over the other elf's body, and then a boot rose over the helpless, prone form bleeding out so swiftly. Valthoron heard only the sickening crack of a snapped neck and saw the king's body fall slack beneath one of those armored feet. The blue eyes that, moments before had been gleaming with _life_ , were now dull. Empty.

"No..." Nothing but a whisper of denial.

And all he could do was lie still, aching and bleeding, and cry into the mud like a frustrated, terrified child. Unable to move. Unable to fight. Unable to even speak or look away from the broken body mere feet away, cooling and dead. The screams and shrieks of battle faded all around, and there were only the bodies and the pungent reek and the bitter sting of fear surrounding and embracing his trembling body.

And the _why_ that burned through his mind as he stared wide-eyed at his dead kin. _Why_ was he still alive when he had been so weak? _Why_ was this happening to him? _To them? What was the point of this fighting in the first place?_

It seemed only to be destruction. Offered no direction or reason. It was just senseless death.

_Why?_

Even had he tried to ask through his choked weeping and aching throat, the figure was turned away already, marching off into the mass of fighting and dying with his crimson-painted sword aloft as though nothing had happened. Leaving him there on the ground as though he weren't even worth killing. As though he weren't even worth _noticing._ As if he was not even _there_. Nothing but useless child that didn't belong on the field of battle, who had failed his family and his people.

Who did not even have the strength to dry his tears and take his king's place as was the duty of the prince. Who did not have the fortitude to rise again and strike down he who dared murder their sovereign, his daeradar. Who did not even have the will to do anything more than shiver in the cooling mire, even after the ringing in his ears and the shooting pain in his skull gave way to a dull ache and the dizziness faded to clarity.

Who could only cry. And wish his dreams would take him away from this world and swallow him whole. And never allow him to wake back up to this nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> ada = daddy or papa  
> daeradar = grandfather


	182. Aloof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilession crushes Oropher in the Battle of Dagorlad. But he leaves behind the young prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death scene, semi-graphic. Mentions blood, gore, death and violence. Basically, this is just Cry (Chapter 181) written from the POV of Oropher's killer (Ilession from Morals (Chapter 142)). The dramatic irony was too much.
> 
> Erestor is non-canonically Ilession's younger brother, just a reminder.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Gil-Galad = Ereinion

Fighting on the front lines had never been one of Ilession's favorite chores. Before or after he had become a servant of the Dark Lord.

Well he remembered the days of old in the First Age when his sword had felled many a foe in the name of glory for his kin and House, but those days he had been slaying orcs and demons only. Splattering their black blood across the earth until they feared to step within range of his long sword and savage fists, knowing that he would neither hesitate nor flinch at the idea of dismemberment or disembowelment. That he would rend them apart with the same vicious fire and hunger that they tore apart their own prey. Ilession had never been queasy, and he had never been particularly merciful either.

But it was not the same. Under the Dark Lord, it was not orcs that he slayed as he ravaged the field of battle, slaughtering all in his path, but elves. His kith and kin, bright-eyed, fierce and full of brilliant life, fighting back against the tyrant trying to crush their world beneath his heel with admirable courage.

Here, Ilession could not _afford_ mercy. No matter how much he might which to grant it (because he was no Kinslayer and hated their blood upon his hands and sword), no matter how much it hurt (buried very deep down, so deep that he barely felt the twinge each time his blade struck down friend rather than foe), no matter how much the guilt burned (only when he was alone and well away from iridescent, dangerous eyes full of condemnation and sadistic glee), no matter how much he regretted (and those who believed he never did were fools full of their own ignorance), he simply could not allow those flimsy weaknesses to distract him from his goal.

Because if he was caught saving an enemy, he was as good as dead. And his job was to stay alive and keep intact the flow of vital information to the High King's armies. Such as the information advising Ereinion to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike this advancing force rather than leaping forward early on to be cornered, cut off and picked off bit by bit..

Why the woodland kin had struck so soon, he did not understand. Ereinion would not have been so cruel as to send them to their deaths, no matter how convenient of a distraction their failed, hopeless onslaught might provide, no matter how much the dark past of the Sindar and Noldor sat heavy between their peoples, and therefore Ilession balked at believing it was intentional. Still, it left few options for his forces but to march forth and rend them apart without hesitation for the foolishness of their charge.

No mercy or kindness. These warriors were, until he departed the field of battle, his enemy.

He had to remain aloof. Detached. Had to remember that they were of no importance, no matter their rank or race or kinship. If he crossed the path of the king, he would kill even Ereinion to keep safe his secret and, hopefully, give his allies a way to defeat this nauseating Dark Lord and his pure, flawless adamantine cruelty.

It was difficult. He would not lie and say he felt no regret that his actions were a necessity. But now was not the time.

He swept forth instead, a tourbillion of malice and ferocity, burning through the near-helpless, poorly-armored woodland folk without even trying, felling left and right with frightening ease. Why were these warriors, many of them never having experienced the full-out chaos of true open battle and frozen in a shock of horror and primal fear, even _here?_ Why would their ruler bring them here to be slaughtered? He could not help but wonder with slight disdain.

But then, while Oropher might be a skilled leader, he was also a prideful man and king. And pride was the first stepping stone paving the path to utter ruin.

Still, it was wasteful and disappointing to see the wideness of glazed, terrified eyes just before he cut down their bodies and watched those little lights go out. Watched them fall limp at his feet and bleed an ocean of red to combat the thick layer of black and innards already crusting the rocky slopes. It was a _shame_. They had not stood a trifling chance.

Even the most skilled of warriors would have difficulty defeating an experienced Fëanorion, an elf who had spent his entire life indulging in the rush and peril of true battle and the glory of the kill.

Even _Oropher_ would have difficulty.

And, when Ilession finally found the king amongst his most skilled and courageous warriors, he did not doubt the identity of this vision. The fierce blue eyes and the stubborn set of the jaw. The pure fearlessness of a warrior who had seen battle many times and let himself flow into instinct, body flexing with swift and deadly grace. It was pure luck that the king was turned the other way, that he did not even see the dark phantom falling down upon him until it was too late to counter.

Until Ilession's sword was buried deep into the shoulder, easily cracking bone and slicing through veins, spilling and spilling and spilling forth blood until the proud ruler crumpled. Standing over the fallen body of his foe, he watched as the king struggled for breath, one hand falling limp from trauma of the pain and cut nerves whilst the other released its knife to clamp over the wound, to attempt to stifle the flow of life-giving scarlet.

To no avail. Impassively, Ilession observed the struggling ruler. Knew he could not merely leave the king alive. Knew that he needed to _see_ the ceasing of that jerking body and the darkening of still bright and defiant eyes.

He raised his sword at the ready.

And was attacked. By nothing more than a child with the fiercest vibrant red curls and wide, glistening blue eyes. Oropher's eyes. And Fëanor's fire.

So shocking was the sight that he almost hesitated. Had those eyes been gray or green rather than blue, he thought he might have been looking upon one of his uncles in their youth, untried and barely blooded on the battlefield for the very first time. There was the cleft of the chin and the sleek, sharp bone structure half-hidden beneath tangled and dirtied hair. And then there was the _fire_ , the burning fury and wildness inherent in all of his grandsire's blood.

This boy did not even look like a sinda. He looked every inch a noldo. Kin.

And he was weeping. Weeping and terrified and fighting on pure instinct, his lack of experience all too blatant. Perhaps it was the eyes— _they were the wrong color, but by the Valar! how they did remind him of his younger brother!_ —that brought about the whimsical fancy, the all-too-personal weakness, but he did not slash apart the young elf as he so easily might have, instead throwing him down into the mud. Crushing the main sword arm beneath his heel until the bones shattered. Watching as the little one choked on a scream, shocked and hazy eyes darting around as a terrified prey animal searching for the predator stalking at its back.

So very young. So very innocent and naïve in that endearing and heartrending manner that invoked only the instinct to protect. To save.

"Stay down," he snarled. It was against the rules. It was too close. But he did not want to have the memory of silencing those pleading sobs. Of watching the light leave those eyes. And thinking of his little brother beneath another merciless foe's sword, crying and shivering and falling still in death.

Of the nightmares that would follow.

_Of Erestor and his pretty face shining with tears, streaking through the layers of grime and gore as he looked up at Ilession's blank and unforgiving features wrought of iron and stone. Of Erestor pinned down like a bug beneath his firm foot, crying and squirming instinctually, fighting the incoming death. Of Erestor's lyrical voice rising in terror, breaking as he lifted his sword and brought it down to release a fountain of the blood of kin upon the land..._

He could not kill that inexperienced child.

But it was still foolish to turn his back on even said inexperienced child, to attempt to ignore the young warrior. He should have known that the fire would burn hot, writhing under the skin, for the same flame ate away at his insides and surged through his veins. The same determination and stubbornness and pride.

The same visceral fury that brought the young warrior, armed only with his left side knife, back to shaking legs, still streaked in mud and unidentifiable filth. Screaming and crying all at once as he threw himself into hopeless battle. This time, Ilession did not hesitate.

Did not even blink as he smashed the hilt of his sword into the boy's head— _thankfully not hard enough to shatter bone and spill brains_ —and sent the child back down to the earth, limp and trembling. Dazed and most probably concussed. Ilession needed only look down for a moment at that shivering, mud-slicked form to know that the redheaded spirit of fire was not getting back up without help.

"I told you to stay down," he snarled, voice low and venomous. For he could not pretend to kill the foolish martyr a third time should the boy still attempt to rise. Even his supposed allies—the filthy, monstrous and stupid orcs under his command—were not so dense as to believe in luck and coincidence over treason of the elven-kind.

"Please, no..." In his peripheral, he heard the whimpered plea. Ignored it.

Shoving aside all concern— _all brotherly instinct and remorse_ —from his mind, he turned back to his prey. To the king whose light was fading fast, whose fingers could not staunch the heavy flow of blood joining all the other thousands of gallons in sacrilegious sacrifice.

To the blue eyes that stared upwards into the shadows of his helm. Eyes that, while they were dark with ash and pain, still seemed to pale in realization. In knowledge. And disgusting gratitude.

Oropher knew that he was going to die beneath the shadow's blade. But he also knew that Ilession had been unable to uphold his façade of aloof cruelty. Had not been able to kill the young warrior—the prince. For that alone, the king needed to die.

Without so much as a twitch or a frown, Ilession pressed his heel down on the pale, fragile throat of his prey and threw down his weight, watching the form bend grotesquely. The crack of a broken neck echoed in his ears. When he pulled away his foot, there was beneath him the pale sinda and his twisted body, head and neck turned at an impossible, sickening angle. Dead and still.

And the child was still crying. Still mouthing "no" over and over and shaking his head and trying to move to help his already vanquished kin. But he managed only to shudder and twitch even with all the strength that remained and all the heat that flourished.

Had he been able, Ilession would have felt sorry for the boy. Would have tried to comfort the distraught child who had just watched his family die. For he knew the pain of sundering and death—of watching those you cared about fall. But Ilession could not afford any more weakness this day. Could not afford to let himself become even more attached to the boy who looked like close kin but could only have been a dangerous fluke. Could not afford the association between sniveling little un-blooded and sobbing Sindarin children and his own sweet and kind-hearted baby brother.

He needed to be aloof and cold. He was a warrior and a traitor and a kinslayer. A torturer and a murderer. And, until the day his master was lying in ruins and fading away into dusk, that was all he ever would be. Could be.

When he walked away to the symphony of heartbroken cries ringing shrilly in his ears, he did not dare turn around and glance at the boy. He did not dare to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor (refers to his being part of his grandfather's House, not actually Fëanor's son)
> 
> Quenya:  
> sinda = a Sindarin elf  
> noldo = a Noldorin elf


	183. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor does not react well to the discovery of his father's mangled corpse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-death scene. Traumatic head injury and lots of blood. Borderline insanity and a father complex higher than the Pelóri.
> 
> Heavily related to Muse (Chapter 168) and Waste (Chapter 87). Probably Vehement (Chapter 30) also.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Fëanáro had seen blood many times before. One did not work in the Mansions of Aulë without witnessing the occasional accident at work. Lacerations and puncture wounds were common for those working with any type of sharp tool or crafting any sort of sharp or pointed weaponry, both of which were arts that the Crown Prince had dabbled in on the occasion.

He had seen smiths lose fingers, blood spilling out from the veins attempting to pump the life-giving liquid into the unintentionally amputated digits. He had seen skin cut and accidently peeled back over muscle, watched the crimson pour down like a layer of thick paint over pale skin. He had even once seen a hand punctured all the way through, splattering red droplets all over the forge and the floor and the clothing of anyone nearby.

It was simply there. The hot liquid lowing through all bodies. There had never been a reason to despise the coppery tang that came from injury, only to feel cautious and remember the danger posed by the delicacy of mortal flesh in the presence of metal and inattention.

But in all his years as a craftsman, he had never seen anything like this.

Anything so utterly intentional.

So utterly _sickening._

All over the steps and all over the porch and splattered across the door like grotesque artwork was spread the deep burgundy of drying blood and gore. Fëanáro felt his stomach turn, for though he had seen injury before, nothing had ever bled _this much. Was there even this much blood to extract within a single body?_

And at the center, layered thickly in the pungent metallic odor that brought the sensation of gagging to the back of the Crown Prince's throat, laid an unmoving and familiar form. Layers of heavy robes, soaked all the way through, could not hide the waves of inky-dark hair that spread and tangled with the thick liquid, flowing downwards over the steps.

Heart in his throat, pounding harshly until he struggled to breathe, he darted forward and, without thought, Fëanáro knelt in the mess to lift the limp form upwards from where it sprawled haphazardly. The blood was still warm to his flesh, so recent had been the attack, such that a small tendril of hope hung on by the skin of its teeth in the back of his mind as he turned over the body and peered into the slack, stained face.

But Finwë was not breathing. A wave of dizziness and nausea bombarded the Crown Prince as he beheld the wound which had bled out an ocean and dyed the front of his home with the death of close kindred. Gray eyes were half-open and lifeless, the glimmer that marked the presence of the soul and spirit long-departed. Lackluster skin was gray and cold beneath his touch as his minutely shaking fingers— _on his hands which never quaked and were always steady as the stone foundation of a mountain_ —pressed to the unmarred cheek.

The other half of his father's face might as well have been torn off. He did not have to— _did not think he could stand to_ —move back the soggy mass of dark curls to see the concave fracture of the skull. The temple and the cheek were cracked and misshapen, brown and scarlet with blood that had spilled and spilled and spilled when the heart still pumped frantically to give life to a dead body.

But he knew that Finwë had died instantly from this blow. No one could survive such an attack.

And he also knew the culprit.

Even as the world spun around him— _his father, the only parent he had ever really known, who had loved him all his life, was dead, dead, dead_ —his eyes trailed upwards, focused on the bloody footprints that were splattered across the floors of his home. He was too late to confront the murderer, for an identical set of prints was departing, marked in brilliant red.

Without even checking, Fëanáro knew the Silmarilli were taken from their vault. Within his veins his blood— _the same blood which had been spilled this day in cold-blooded murder!_ —turned to ice and flame.

_His father was dead. And he could not let the king's murderer run free. Could not bear to see this travesty allowed uncontested._

_Could not..._

Many said him to be eccentric and ruthless. He had threatened his half-brother's life for less than this mighty slight and did not regret or recall his actions. Now, upon the steps of his _own home,_ his kin had been slain mercilessly and his family's riches pillaged. And he could feel in the most visceral core of his being the twining of horror and fury, the scalding mixture boiling uncontrollably beneath his flesh. The brand of _hatred._

No more could he have halted his violent and impulsive actions than he could have stopped the Valar in their tracks or bidden Eru Ilúvatar down from the Timeless Halls.

Ignoring the lurch of the suddenly blurry world and the stickiness of the ocean of red and the salty taste of his own lips, Fëanáro pulled free the knife tucked within his boot, held the silvery blade upwards until it reflected the firelight that kept their eternal night ablaze. Until it burned red to match the spilled blood of close kin—of his father and sovereign. Until he saw his own star-eyes reflected back, wide on his tear-stained and blanched face.

And then he slit open his own palm. Bled to match his sire, the fiery liquid mixing with the puddle already soaking slowly into his leggings and robes.

"Morikotto," he snarled, with every ounce of fury and pain and grief curdled into a rage that left him shuddering. "Black Enemy of the Noldor—of all of the Eldar—I swear it by the on my blood and the blood of my kin, slain and living alike, Manwë and Varda be my witnesses..."

He barely noticed that his voice shook and hitched. Instead, he looked down on the beloved face and imagined doing the same to the skull of he whom had violated the sanctity of Fëanáro's home and family. Imagined the _justice_. Imagined gallons of blood to match spilling down his front and splattering across his face as he watched his foe collapse and bleed out like a skewered pig at his feet.

"I swear I will have revenge for this savage act of bloodshed thou hast committed."

He pressed his hand to that unsullied cheek and stared at the vivid print left behind. Closed those dulled eyes and ignored the rubies caught between thick, dark lashes resting on pale cheeks. Pressed his lips to his father's brow and hugged the limp body close, cheek drenched. Ignored the painted scarlet across his own skin and the nauseating tang worming its way across his palate and coiling in the back of his throat.

"I swear it, Atar. I will see you avenged."

The Crown Prince knew what had to be done.

_"I swear it on my blood and honor."_

And no one was going to stand in his way. Manwë and Varda as his witnesses. Whatever he needed to steal or take by force, he would take. Whoever must be sacrificed for the sake of success, he would sacrifice. Whatever trials and tribulations might come, he would face them all. Whatever obstacles might put themselves in his path, he would raze them to the ground.

The Crown Prince cradled the body of his father close and breathed in the dying scent of comfort and love. Ignored the burning sting in his eyes as he clenched them tightly shut. Thought only of the blood he would spill in order to assuage this horror and crushing despair.

Whatever the self-righteous Lords and Queens of the Valar might say against such hasty and vindictive action, he would scoff upon in disdain and disgust and hatred. He would take this road and he would not cease or relent even unto death.

He swore that he would see the Black Enemy brought low as a starving dog and bled dry. And revel in the dark pleasure of the vengeance. And taste the sweet flavor of his personal brand of justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father  
> Morikotto = translation of Morgoth (Chose this one because I feel like the nasal mutation of k to ñg in Moriñgotto would come later, possibly after exposure to the mutations found in Sindarin (which include a k to g mutation after certain vowel sounds) and because -ñgotho sounds Sindarin as well. The "th" sound isn't all that commonly used (if at all) in Quenya, so it seems odd to have it. And, finally, because he just made it up off the top of his head by crushing together the adjectival dark, "morë" (changed to mori as in the beginning of Caranthir's essi), with the word enemy, "kotto", and I doubt even the great Feanor is thinking about linguistic mutations at a time like this. Maybe it gets changed to Moriñgotto or Moriñgotho later in Gondolin or Nargothrond (more likely Gondolin; Finrod would probably have held to Thingol's ban on Quenya in Beleriand), where Noldor and Sindar might have cohabitated, and Quenya and Sindarin may have mixed into a new dialect that introduced the nasal mutations and foreign consonants? Yeah, I really am this much of a nerd.)


	184. Painted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the First Kinslaying and the resolve of the House of Fëanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murder (First Kinslaying) with a _lot_ of blood imagery. Also, Fëanor is pretty much a certifiable psychopath in this one. With massive father and mother complexes.
> 
> Basically the companion piece to Blood (Chapter 183), but if you haven't read Muse (Chapter 168) then at least one line will make no sense whatsoever.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Morgoth = Morikotto

It was one thing to speak a promise in the heat of passion.

It was another thing to mean it with every drop of blood in your veins.

Fëanáro meant his promise. _With every last drop of blood in his veins_. Unto death or unto glory or unto utter shame, he would keep to his oath. He could never take back his words. _Would_ never take back his words. Did not _want_ to take back his words. Rather, he would hold them close until the moment his spirit ceased to burn in a resplendent inferno. Until the very essence of his being was unmade at the end of time.

_He could not forget them or foreswear them._

With crushing vividness, he remembered his father's face painted in the scarlet of their kinship, remembered the half-open, empty gray eyes, and felt the curl of scalding fury in his gut. The overwhelming urge that brought his hands into tightly clenched fists and left gooseflesh breaking out across his itching, burning skin. The unyielding _need_ to rend and tear and assuage the horrible stretching and twisting of his insides into knots.

To uphold his words. No matter to what hell they ultimately led.

_Because he had to avenge his father. Had to reclaim the silver butterfly that had escaped her jar._

_Had to, had to, had to..._

No matter what, Fëanáro pledged that he would not regret his Oath. Would not regret doing whatever it took to reach his goal—to tear apart his father's murderer and recover the Silmarilli. To make sure that his fragile and mangled family could be somehow pieced back together.

These people were just the first casualties.

And he did not regret.

Did not cringe at the feeling of his sword tearing through flesh to down the bone, slaughtering in the cold blood. Did not shy from hearing the screams and cries and pleading of his helpless victims as they were hunted down. Did not feel ill watching their blood and innards splattering the ground at his feet. Did not wallow in remorse as he stood watching as they bled out before him— _as his father must have bled out, oh so quickly!_ —whilst they squirmed helplessly in agony and terror.

He had ordered their deaths. Ordered that none be spared. And he did not regret.

They might be distant kin, but they were mere obstacles in his path. To be removed. Sacrifices on the altar of the Oath to be offered to a higher purpose.

And now the Crown Prince—the High King—was painted with the blood of kin.

And smiling. Reveling in the slickness of hot red liquid soaking down to his bones.

Sinful, the Valar called it, for one elf to kill another elf. An act of evil and betrayal. But the Valar and the One had little leverage over him or the people they had ultimately failed. Fëanáro did not care what they thought, for they were both hypocritical and superficial in their concern, naïve to the realistic need for sacrifice and ruthlessness. Was it not _their kin—their mercy_ —that had destroyed Valinor in the first place? _That had ruined his life and slain his father?_

He remembered well the taste of his sire's—his king's—blood upon his lips and tongue. And remembered that enemies could not be left to live. That mercy, in the end, was the road to failure and betrayal.

Now he stood before his ships, looking over the gracefully sweeping necks and intricately carved wings of his prize. About his boots dripped more thick globs of red— _red, red, red, everywhere he looked it seemed to follow_ —collecting into a pool until it began to dribble into the unsullied water and dye its transparency into a sickening hue.

And at his shoulders were his sons—all painted likewise with the blood of kin.

Hair streaked and matted. Clothing torn ragged and splotched with dark patches of burgundy, sticking wetly to the flesh underneath and clinging. Faces streaked with crimson splatters— _how it reminded him of his father's face, decorated in blood_ —brilliant and burning against their pure white skin. Hands drenched completely, blood under the nails and sunken into the ridges of broad palms. And swords gleaming in the light, the unmistakable tint of copper tang in the air and on the roof of the mouth settling over their gathering.

His children, all seven of them, were blooded. Newly minted Kinslayers.

And still, he did not regret.

For they had proven their loyalty to his cause. Were any of them to falter, it would be here, in the midst of the first trial of conflicting morality, hegemonic ideology and sheer determination, that they would give up and turn their backs in fear and faint heart. But not a single one—not even his gentle-hearted second-born or his young twins, barely out of childhood—had backed down from their duty to uphold their Oath.

They had done as he had ordered. They had slain all who stood in their path. And together, his family would be an unstoppable force. Together, he did not doubt that they could make Morikotto tremble in the deepest, filthiest pits of his layer. Could crush the vast armies of the enemy beneath their heels, take their revenge and reclaim what by right was theirs.

Before him they stood, almost the image of their grandsire in his last moments defending his home. Marred with the spilled blood of kinship.

Many would consider the image before him—of innocence destroyed and left in ragged tatters beneath the onslaught of such atrocities—one of wickedness and lost hope. Of sin and betrayal utterly and completely.

But to him, it was a portrait of hope, worthy of pride and rejoicing.

Their family was blooded. Painted with the blood of kin. Painted with supposed wickedness, their hands unclean—the sinful hands of murderers with shadows growing in their hearts and ruthless cruelty branching out into their minds. Irredeemable Kinslayers. Painted red with their Oath.

Though, when Fëanáro looked to them—and to his own reflection in the dark mirror of still waters below—he saw neither taint nor evil nor horror. Saw not something at which to cringe. Lifted his hand and pressed the bloodied palm to his bare white cheek, pulling away to watch the crimson dripping downwards. His smirk never faded and his eyes never darkened at the rippling image.

He saw only his family painted with the crimson hue of _resolve._


	185. Prodigal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir does not make a good first impression on his soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was annoyingly ordered to use a specific denotation of this word, and thus this is the direction the story took. Poor Caranthir... I love Haleth, but she is a stubborn and prideful woman and he just doesn't go about convincing her right.
> 
> Related most closely to Transparent (Chapter 6) and Addicted (Chapter 9), but also to Ballad (Chapter 75) and all related Modern!AU pieces with this pairing. Also, I suppose by association, to Storm (Chapter 176).
> 
> *quotes taken almost verbatim from "Of the Coming of Men into the West" from the Quenta Silmarillion

Honestly, her first sight of the Noldor—who had supposedly laid claim to these lands and governed the peoples who made their home here like a master governs his servants—did not leave a good impression in her mind. In fact, as Haleth watched them canter up to her exhausted, battered and starved people, they left a rotten, tinny taste of disgust in the back of her mouth.

It was in every ounce of their beings, that mockery.

Their horses were large—warhorses bred and born to carry heavy armor and their riders both into battle without tire. Sleek, they were also, and so well-groomed that she couldn't help but wonder with no small bit of malice if these elven warriors had stopped just this morning to brush and trim these beasts so that they might outshine polished marble in the light of the sun. Not only that, but the saddles were of hideously fine make—good leather wasted on something that looked more decorative than practical, covered in brilliant stones and inlaid with silver designs. And beneath that was a rich saddle-blanket, each horse's attire was easily enough to clothe a fully-grown man or woman.

She supposed it was meant to be an impressive display—like a colorful male bird preening his vivid feathers or a stag brandishing his large, sharp antlers before an opponent. To her, it simply appeared wasteful and insulting. As though they were smearing in her face the poorness and paleness of her people in comparison. Making clear exactly how far apart their peoples were.

Yet, garish though their mounts might be, the horses compared not to the procession of the elves themselves, heads held high with self-importance from their perches upon their saddles. Mockingly inclined. The masters sneering down their noses at the dirty, flee-infested slaves.

It was in their glistening, cold and arrogant eyes.

Their trumpets blew deafeningly as they returned from chasing off the remaining orcs—as if an announcement was necessary to see them galloping up the barren turf, dark locks flowing from beneath metal helms that glistened blindingly. Even as they drew nearer, she noticed that their clothing was worse still than their flamboyant saddles. Brightly arrayed, they were, in the visage of greed; and their leader not the least of them, dressed more for a festival or ceremony of ludicrously great important than for messy, dirty warfare. His outfit alone, sold in the east, could have fed her entire village for a week if she judged true the amount of encrusted silver and stones laid onto finely-woven fabric. And above his head rested a crown, fine vines of twined moonlight, woven into glossy black hair. A symbol of his supposed superiority, no doubt, to match the rest of their extravagant procession. Just looking upon them, Haleth was leery and angry, almost ready to turn on her heel and march away before they had even arrived.

But her pride would not allow her to show any sort of weakness before these disdainful creatures in their shining armor with their perfect faces. It would not allow her to act like an immature filly before these prancing stallions. Nor would it allow her to be grateful or thankful for their intervention on behalf of her kin. To show any sort of empty gratitude would be to lower herself before them.

Instead, she stood her ground as their leader—the only elf whose face was not bracketed in gleaming, design-laden silver—rode right up to her and did not even bother to dismount his gem-encrusted steed before parting his lips to speak. Immediately, she disliked him to her very core.

"My lady," he greeted, voice deep and somewhat rough. "Forgive our lateness. Would that we could have arrived sooner. Perhaps more lives could have been spared."

She might have made a noncommittal noise rather than an affirmation. Better that than the insult she immediately wanted to spit in his direction for daring to imply that her valiant people _needed his help_. As though it was his arrival alone that facilitated victory after near seven grueling days of battle. As though they, stupid _Men_ that they were, could not take care of their own without the help of their _betters._

(Never mind that his forces had been instrumental in the defeat of the enemy. The mere thought of admitting such a travesty aloud, let alone thanking them for it, left her feeling sick.)

The very timbre of his voice made her bones _ache_ in fury. If their looks—the stars of their eyes glistening in the shadows of their helms—had been mocking, his voice was thrice and tenfold as such! Such remorse could only have been feigned, for she _knew_ he cared not about her kin.

"It grieves me to see such loss," he blatantly lied, his face betraying not a droplet of sorrow. His unblinking dark eyes swept across the bloodied grass covered in the dismembered and half-eaten bodies of her more unfortunate kin—her brother and father amongst them—mixed with the rotting corpses of those monsters which had been slain in defense of their homes. "Nevertheless, I must congratulate you and your warriors. Such valor rarely have I seen even from my own men. You and your people are most impressive."

It took every ounce of power to grind out a "Thank you, my lord," in response. Not in a thousand years would she admit to being even _slightly_ flattered. Because she _wasn't._

His head bowed, eyes meeting hers from where he towered above her. A perfectly symmetrical face prettier than that of most women stared blankly down at her. She could not tell if he had been sarcastic or was merely trying to gain her admiration with his distant, courtly gestures and soft-spoken, empty words.

"Please, call me only Caranthir." His smile was but the slightly upwards twisting of the corners of his thin lips. "And would you honor me with _your_ name?"

Judging by the way his eyes strayed over the _rest_ of her, she would have guessed the latter.

"Haleth, daughter of Haldad."

"Are you the leader of these people, my lady Haleth?"

Not only was he arrogant, but a misogynistic pig. She could _swear_ that she heard a scoff of disbelief in his voice. A greater insult, he could not have offered. Not even by riding in like an egocentric, arrogant and spoiled prince on his mountain of gold and jewels and ceremony, flaunting himself before those he considered lesser than his greatness so that they might _know their place._

"My father, our chieftain, and my only brother were slain in battle." Haleth raised her chin, jutting it out in defiance as she held his gaze solidly. "So I suppose I _am_ the chieftain now."

Surprisingly, this did not seem to deter the elf in the least. Anger did not sizzle to life in the depths of his narrowed green eyes. Instead, it only seemed to greater capture his attention.

"If that is so then I have an offer, my lady—In recompense for the lateness of my host in defending our lands." Our _lands, not_ your _lands_ , her inner voice snarled. _Who gave you the right to claim these lands as your own and hand them out as if we require your blessing?_ "If you will remove and dwell further north, there you shall have the friendship and protection of the Eldar, and free lands of your own."*

He might as well have stabbed her dignity in the gut and twisted his sword until its innards were reduced to mush! Their _protection_ and _friendship?_ These creatures no more wanted to befriend her kin than they wanted to spend time guarding them! Just the way they looked upon her sweaty, filthy people reminded her of the way nobility out east looked upon vermin scurrying across the floor. And to think that this... this... _man_ also thought that _she needed his protection!_ Haleth felt her stomach positively _churn_ with the acid of intense dislike and disgust.

Disgust at his perfect face and his perfect skin and his perfect horse. Disgust at his waste of treasures—treasures that could feed dozens of families—on mere tack when a simple woolen blanket would serve just as well. Disgust that he rode in like some sort of deity to rescue her people and expected them to bow down before him in supplication as servants of his rule over this land.

Everything about this man was exactly the opposite of what she admired. Wealth and power were his forte, but he had done nothing to earn her respect or admiration beyond flaunt and cajole and flick his pretty hair back in the wind.

She barely gave thought to her response. "Thank you, _my lord Caranthir._ However, my mind is now set to leave the shadow of the mountains, and go west, whither others of our kin have gone."* _Rather than stay here beneath your thumb so that you might taunt us with your lavish wastefulness and rule over us like a king!_

His eyes darkened, but seemed hardly deterred. If he sensed her fury, he made no motion to soothe its scalding inferno. "Peace, then, my lady Haleth. I will not keep you here against your will. But give it some thought, for it is not an offer I made lightly or in jest, but in admiration. It is a great honor."

And his words only stoked the flames.

She should be _honored_ that he wanted to usurp her authority and scavenge her people into starvation so that he could decorate his saddle with sapphires and rubies and silver?

She had met enough men of this ilk back across the mountains to know better than to accept _fiefdom_ from any self-appointed local ruler. Knew that giving her people over into the hands of such a prodigal creature of wealth, beauty and selfishness was _asking_ to not only be shamed and humbled, but to be used and taken advantage of until all resources were bled dry.

Until they were little more than his slaves.

And Haleth, daughter of Haldad, was as strong-willed and free as any of her male kindred. Perhaps more so than any of those before her. For she _would not_ be governed by _this_ man or any other!

"I will think on it," she spat, "but I will not change my mind, _my lord Caranthir."_

Venom could not have been more potent upon her breath and voice, but he seemed not in the least poisoned by her bellicose manner. Instead, he reined in his steed and, without so much as a fare-thee-well, rudely rode off to rejoin his hosts in their gleaming silver armor and dark clothing inlaid with jewels. She watched him ride away, her incisive gaze piercing between his tense shoulder blades, hoping her message to _stay away_ was loud and clear.

But, in truth, she knew this would not be the last she saw of _him_. Lord Caranthir would be back.


	186. Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros fails to find Dior's twin sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Child abandonment. Mentions murder and insanity. Death scene sort of.
> 
> Most closely related to Reap (Chapter 61), Obsessive (Chapter 28), Panic (Chapter 83) and Lost (Chapter 180).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Nelyo  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno

_"Please... please protect them, Nelyo..."_

_Fast-fading silver eyes were staring up at him, cutting him open with razor-sharp edges. The words were choked out from between blood-striped lips, a death rattle on their softly whispered breath._

_"You know I can promise nothing, brother."_

_"Please..." It was so very soft, lacking the innate firmness and surety of his younger brother's implacable confidence. Maitimo did not think he had ever heard Turkafinwë sound so lost. So shattered and drained of fire. So_ doused _. There was not a hint of laughter upon his voice now._

_Nor a hint of insanity._

_"I will try." It was all he could think to promise._

_"Thank you..." Turkafinwë was smiling at him then. But his eyes were empty. And Maitimo could only grasp tightly the now-limp hand clutched in his own fingers._

_"I will find them."_

He should have given up hours ago.

Long since had dusk fallen into deep, soupy darkness, shrouding the world in a blanket of morose silence. Even with a torch, Maitimo could barely see more than a couple of feet in any direction in this labyrinth of wood and shadow. He certainly could not easily find two hiding elflings in this thicket, not unless he stumbled right over them lying in the middle of the ground at his feet.

It was a useless venture and he knew it. He did not have any more time to waste on hunting for victims of their assault on Doriath, victims that should have had their throats slit the moment they were captured. Had their misery ended before it had even begun. It would have been easier for Maitimo— _he needn't have thought at all about them, about their ruined lives, about the fact that they were hardly more than infants and on their own, left to die_ —and more humane. Kinder for all parties involved.

But he was not even out here to end their suffering. He was out here to _kidnap_ them.

What in the name of the Valar did Turkafinwë even imagine him _doing_ with two frightened, toddling Sindarin princes? Carrying them around on his lap as they rode off to battle and fought orcs? As they chased after the Silmarilli and slaughtered hundreds more in the name of their Oath?

It was a ludicrous idea, fostering the enemy.

Yet, despite the logical, cold-hearted thoughts poking at the back of his mind, Maitimo just could not make himself cease his search. He had _promised._

_"Please..."_

And Turkafinwë had never begged for a single thing in his entire life.

Maybe it was redemption. Maybe in his last moments, the third brother had been searching for something to ease the guilt that could no longer be stifled under a mountain of sadistic distraction in the wake of his passing. Maitimo knew plenty about guilt and remorse and necessity, knew that he must steel his heart against sympathy with his slain kindred as they fell beneath his sword. Knew that he could not back down, not with the Oath hanging over all their heads like a black noose ready to fall about their bared throats.

Knew that he should not care about two elflings, no matter how much his brother had pleaded for their safety. Knew they should not be important.

Yet his feet carried him on. And his voice continued crying their names.

Maybe...

Maybe... maybe he wanted that redemption, too.

Maybe it would soothe the writhing tangle of poisonous thoughts that had overgrown all sense of true right and wrong, leading him to become every bit as fey and obsessed as his sire had ever been. Maybe, if he could save them—two simple little children—it would take away some of the sheer weight (of sin and despair and treachery) heavy upon his shoulders. Maybe it would put a stop to all this horror that seemed to encompass and overwhelm his life now that all the hopes and dreams of his people were crumbling to dust.

Maybe he was searching for the same thing as had been his brother. Maybe he was searching for a way to escape. A little ray of hope in the darkness, that he could do _something_ right. That he wasn't the same as _his father..._

Throat aching and voice hoarse, he called for them well into the night, tripping over raised branches of ancient trees and yanking his hair loose from grasping fingers of branches. Growing more and more frustrated and weary with each passing moment lacking in success and relief. Until first light was creeping up upon his back and his torch burned low. Until the clawing of exhaustion at his body and mind began to prevail and any small glimmer of hope gave in...

Was crushed...

Resisting the urge to scream— _and ignoring the burn of his eyes_ —he turned around and began to move out of the dense tangle of the woods. Blocked out the despairing voice screaming at the edges of his mind. That there would never be any redemption or salvation, never be any turning back from damnation. That everything he had ever worked for had culminated to this moment.

How disappointed Findekáno would have been to see him brought so low. How disappointed Turkafinwë would have been to have put his faith forward in vain.

They put their trust in him.

And he had failed them both. Failed them all.

He never did find what he was searching for.

And as he departed the woods, dirty and smeared in the blood of close kin, Maitimo knew that he never would. There was no longer a path back to the light.

Nowhere to go but forward, into the darkness.


	187. Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin takes Lindalórë to the beach for the first time after returning from the Halls of the Waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messed up relationship. Curufin might be leaning just a bit towards being a sociopath, but he's not quite there. Other than that, some references to sexism and the evils of supposed civilization (of which Valinor is not exempt). Mentions deception and murder.
> 
> Lindalórë is, of course, my OFC from Locked (Chapter 35). However, this story is a companion to Beach (Chapter 179) and intentionally utilizes some similar dialogue. I considered giving this a tragic end, but figured I've been too mean lately.
> 
> Inspired in part by the song Kurenai (by Tsukiko Amano) which I have fallen in love with.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë

"Do you still come here?"

He did not sound curious. More than anything, he sounded as though he couldn't think of anything else to say. The silence between them was not comfortable or companionable.

_Not like it used to be, when they could stare at one another for hours and never need to speak._

"No." Abrupt.

It was not a lie. Why would she when he wasn't there?

More even than her home did this place remind her of him. Of them. Before the tragedy of the Darkening and the Kinslaying and the Exile. Before everything had torn them apart. Before her life had tumbled downwards into a dark spiral from which there was no true escape. It reminded her so much...

_Of actually being happy. Of being excited for her future. Of being able to walk down the streets without those stares boring between her shoulders._

So much that she could no longer bear the feeling of soft sand between her toes.

_Because all she could think of was how it felt beneath her feet as she leaned upwards to kiss him. Of how bright his eyes had been when they married—filled with wonder and awe and adoration—and how broad his smile stretched and how his stony face softened into that languid, dreamy sort of beauty and joy._

Or the sound of the ocean.

_Because it reminded her too much of his laughter, deep and rolling through her in great waves, pulling her towards him helplessly. They used to lie here on the sand with only that deep rush of water against the shore for company and his voice ringing in the air, entrancing..._

No, she had not visited this place. Not since he had gone from her life.

But he was back.

And walking upon the shore felt like tearing open an old, half-healed wound, letting it bleed freely. A dissonant reprise of some long-lost aria of passionate love that they had shared once upon a time in a dream. Because he wasn't the man she remembered at all, nor was she the woman he had once courted so sweetly in the twined light of the Two Trees. Before everything had gone so wrong.

Just looking at him now, she could see the differences starkly. The small scars on his hands and on his once-flawless face that cut up any illusions of memory. Gaunter were his cheeks and sharper the corners of his set, uncompromising jaw. Around his mouth there were no laugh-lines anymore, but heavy marks of frowning and scowling. And not once had she yet seen his brows relax from their permanent frown or his eyes widen from their narrowed glare.

Everything about him was harder and less forgiving, something dangerous. The way he looked and talked and acted. Crueler.

His voice was not soft anymore, not even when he spoke quietly and intimately in the silence. There was always that undertone of harsh reality, a man who had lived through things she couldn't even begin to imagine. More confident and most powerful in spirit, brighter, but with less that sense of sweetness that always had enchanted her.

Lindalórë knew not what to think of this strange man who was no longer her wild, charming Atarinkë.

He looked at her, and his eyes did not soften and glisten in love and devotion. They might as well have been carved from the stars themselves for their coldness, untouchable and distant. It seemed that he did not recognize her any more than she did him.

"Do you hate me?"

The question was flat. She could not hear even an ounce of anxiety, remorse or sorrow. Just empty curiosity. An enquiry to a stranger.

Did she hate him? She had never really thought much on it.

She had forgotten him out of necessity. But could she hate him? After all, he had left her by choice, but she had stayed behind by choice. Lindalórë would not lie to herself and say that she had not loved him all this time apart, no matter that she locked him away in a dark room to drive his ghost from her mind. Nor would she place blame solely at his doorstep for their separation and tragedy, for equal parts had they both shared in deception and in wickedness.

"Do you hate me?" she mocked in the stead of her answer.

A smirk came upon his face, and it almost made her shudder. There was nothing kind about the icy amusement, a pale phantom of his crooked, charming smile.

"Of course not. I could not hate you."

"Not even for keeping your son from you?"

A flash of pain came and went. But it chased away the smile, leaving something broken behind. "You... you did right by the boy in the end. No matter how much I would have liked to know him and raise him, I will not blame you for your deception. I understand why you did what you did and hold it not against you. You _saved_ him. But I would know..."

A strange look came across his face as he paused. Thin lips parted diffidently, as though he were almost afraid to speak. A flicker of uncertainty broke the shell of arrogant confidence in which had been encased his fire. A flicker of something _familiar_ and heart-wrenching just barely visible through the cracks.

_An image of his downcast eyes and hunched shoulders. Of his too-serious features and his fidgeting hands curling in the sand._

"Do you remember," he began, "when you swore once that you cared not what I was or what I became. Right here, in this exact spot. Do you remember?"

"Yes." She had not thought of it in a very long time. But she _did_ remember.

Again, he seemed to pause. His tongue flickered across his lower lip and his eyes dropped downwards, no longer meeting her gaze but hiding instead behind dark lashes.

His hands were curled in his tunic until his knuckles were white.

"Can you love a Kinslayer?"

_Can you still love me?_

She _had_ sworn, remembered it vividly. That she claimed not to care about status in the least. That she claimed it would not have mattered had he been a poor commoner and she a noble's daughter, she still would have married him no matter the stigma and the slander and the scandal. Never had it occurred to her when she spoke that he might become a murderer and an exile, that he might leave her behind to go to war and return thousands of years later a changed man. That he might become infamous for his malicious cunning and ruthless slaughter of innocents but still somehow have that insecurity nestled deep in the corners of his psyche.

 _"I do not care what you are or what you become."_ It was her voice that echoed in her mind.

For the first time since he had appeared upon her doorstep, she looked without fear into his eyes and found them soft. Completely uncertain of her reaction. Lacking that intrinsic faith but still clinging onto gossamer tendrils of hope.

He did not believe that she could.

But, despite the changes— _and the voice in the back of her head that hissed subtly her greatest fears and doubts_ —she could see something there that reminded her of _before_. That reminded her of days spent in bliss upon the white-sanded beach, holding hands and laughing together.

Little glimpses of familiarity that, despite the webs of darkness that blocked her sight, shimmered with dazzling white hope from afar.

He was not the same man. And she was not the same woman. What they had between them would never be identical to their original melody, so innocent in its dulcet sweetness. It was darker now, tainted with loss and tragedy and separation, but it had not faded into silence.

Her love for him had not vanished. Nor would it ever.

"I do not think our love will ever be the same." And how she hated the sudden blackness of his eyes as they narrowed once more, hiding not cruelty and wickedness but instead disappointment and the sheen of tears. The way his entire body froze and his shoulders dropped in resigned acceptance.

That look she knew well. The look of despair and hope dashed against the rocks of rejection. Remembered seeing it on her reflection each morning that she woke without him beside her to light up her day. A look she never wanted to see again.

"But you are still my Atarinkë, are you not?"

Silver flashed upwards, clashing sharply with her vision, wide and shocked. All the cruel lines went slack, stripped away.

And the smile that followed, sad though it might be, was genuine and hopeful.

"Of course. Always."

So beautiful she could not help but return it with one of her own.

"Then you know my answer already."

It was the first time she had seen him look like _himself_. The first time his eyes were without a shield of ice and mouth without a sadistic curl. Grinning widely to spite the deep trenches and frown-lines at the corners of his lips. Brows relaxing over resplendent eyes until he morphed into something halfway between her hazy dream-lover and the frigid doppelganger that had returned from over the sea, something new but familiar. And it was enough. His arms came about her and pulled her close against him, caged her within the heat of his blazing spirit with gentleness that she could remember so clearly.

And Lindalórë was content to rest in that warmth, revel in the comfort and safety. Long had she missed his touch and scent, the smoky tang in the back of her throat and the softness of his dark hair falling against her face when he rested his cheek upon her head. He breathed her in, murmuring soft words of love that barely reached her ears, tangled in the sound of the water and the mist.

Long had she missed his closeness.

"Let us start again," she whispered into the dark curtain of his silken hair, even as she stroked her fingers through its wild tangles. "Let us go looking for seashells."

Slowly, he released her, his cheek leaving the cushion of her hair. They parted once again, but not so far away that his warmth did not radiate outwards into her skin. Not so far away that he could not grab her hand within his callused palm and kiss her knuckles coyly, his devilish smirk returning only a hint sharper and wilder than she recalled.

"Whatever you wish, my lady."

It would not be perfect, but Lindalórë did not care.

She had him back. And she would not be letting go a second time.


	188. Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Círdan's greatest desire was to see the light of Valinor. However, his greatest love stood between him and that desire. Captured him and never let him go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-sexual romantic interest in an inanimate object. Personification of said object. Mild sexual undertones if you squint. I changed canon. Whoops! ~~Not.~~
> 
> I used Círdan's original name (as in, his name before he renamed himself) because I felt like it. Can't decide if I like it or not, but I admit that I'm too lazy to change it. :3
> 
> Of Names:  
> Círdan = Nowë

A man never forgot the day he met the love of his life.

And Nowë was no different than any other man.

Except in the mere happenstance that his one and only love was not a woman or a man. Not even a person. And yet she captivated him completely and totally in mind and body, left nothing behind as she swallowed him whole.

From the moment he set foot upon the wide open stretch of white sand outlining her beauty in a halo and looked out upon the endless ocean writhing and twisting in constant motion, Nowë knew that he would never leave this divine creation behind. _Could_ never leave it behind. Before had he seen seas and rivers, but not even the starlit mirror of the Waters of Awakening could compare to the sight before him, gleaming beneath the stars with a gentle burn.

Thoughts of the light lingering beyond this obstacle waned beneath rapt enchantment. Every inch of his body seemed to pull towards the churning waters at all times. An attraction to something so purely breathtaking that had nothing to do with the way he'd seen his cousins and friends flirt and blush and babble around female companions. What he felt when he walked down the shores was nothing like that mixture of lust and love, but no less consuming.

No less wonderful.

He could have spent all the days of the world sitting in the sand, feet just close enough to the waves that water—cold but gentle inhale—brushed up and covered his toes, slipping between them as the ocean exhaled and drew back. The rhythm of her breaths and the rumbling crash of her voice were as alive as anything else in the world, washing over him as tender, violent music. A song all of their own, woven with a thousand voices from the smallest droplets of water hitting the surface to the cries of foam crests rising white and tickling his fingers.

Sometimes, he was hard-pressed to remember that other elves existed in mobile forms run through with divine light and life. That there were in this world other beings besides himself and _her_ and the endless, sweet music. So captivated was he that, sometimes, he even forgot about the far-off light promised by the Valar which he had once so yearned for with all his heart.

But, of course, not every moment could be devoted to her brilliance—to the Song of water and storm and cold that embodied his one and only love.

But he made time.

Rose before his brethren to run across the damp sand with abandon—throwing aside his clothes wherever they might fall, uncaring of their state—and to leap into the cold water, instantly swept away with the current pulling at his powerful legs to the sound of her giggling, joyful welcome. Long into the morning he would be swimming, damn the frigid temperature or roughness of her caresses, enjoying the soothing feel of liquid running over bare flesh, comforting and enfolding safely.

Crawling out of the depths, he would throw himself naked upon the sand and slowly dry to her roughly singing voice, closing his eyes at the cry of gulls that mingled with her melody and breathing deeply the smell of salt on the mist, cool wisps washing over his senses like tentative fingertips. Like that, he would lie for hours longer. Satisfied in his shivers.

For so long now had Nowë had been performing this ritual that he would feel incomplete without her touch and her voice encompassing his being each morning.

He still built havens to ferry his people forth upon the waves. Crafted ships beautiful and white to be carried away and rocked in the embrace of her arms that would one day carry him over to the other side. Moved along the shores with the tides of war and the shifting of the land.

Still thought about Valinor and its golden shores and evergreen lands, wondering what they would be like. Eager to see their beauty. But in the back of his mind, as he drew his fingers through the water washing up the shore, he would wonder if that light could compare to the sheer glory of that which laid before him, endless and ephemeral. So violent but capable of such gentleness. _Her_. 

Always she was there, and from her he could not stray far.

Truly, he doubted he would ever part from the jagged, imperfectly curvaceous shoreline from whence he could gaze upon her swirling, ever-changing beauty. One day might he sail across the sea to the Undying Lands and touch there the white sand burnished with gold, embracing the light which for so long he had dreamed where it sank into her waters and melded with her theme, but never did he believe that he would part from the waters forever. Mariner and shipwright he was named all too keenly, all too prophetically, and if one day he stood upon the opposite shores he doubted there would be a wife on his arm or children on his knee. Doubted he would be seen gray-garbed and waltzing down the pearled streets of Valimar. Doubted he could leave her behind even in the face of all the light and wonder of Valinor.

As long as he could dip his fingers beneath the waves, feel the spray of the mist against his face. As long as he could stand in the shallows and throw up his arms, allowing the water to break around his body in a chilly, welcoming embrace. As long as her laughter and sorrow and perfection continued on and on untainted forever.

As long as he had that, he would stay steadfastly with the only wife he would ever know. And he would live out eternity at her side.


	189. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amrod hides from the reality that has become a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible amnesia and delusions, but most likely a subconsciously intentional reaction to trauma. PTSD. Self-hatred and possible survivor's guilt. Past murder and non-con heavily implied
> 
> Follows Overflow (Chapter 131) and Reverie (Chapter 178) which outline Amrod's story during and after the Second Kinslaying. They are the twin-arc to Catatonic (Chapter 101) and Strength (Chapter 111).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Amrod = Ambarussa  
> Amras = Ambarto (variant of Umbarto used on purpose)  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë

It would have been nice to be able to dream forever.

Would have been nice to avoid thinking.

But Ambarussa knew it was inevitable that his reverie was swept away with the breaking of dawn like the morning fog heavily blanketing the land. Like a predator stalking through the shadows of his mind, damning thoughts crept up upon him with their haunches lowered and their jaws dripping, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike. Waiting to shatter the mirrored reality blocking his vision and leave him unprotected in the cruel elements of a merciless world. A world filled with nothing but pain and disappointment.

For the longest time, he could hide. But for how much longer, he could not say.

There were the endless green fields from his memory to cover up the scorched, charred landscape bleakly left in the wake of endless war and pillaging. Meadows from his childhood, so clean and beautiful, stretching on and on forever in a swaying ocean of blades and wildflowers, layered over the top of dead grass and blackened earth. They shielded him from the scent of rot and decay that hung in a rancid cloud over the land, overwhelming his senses instead with the smell of fresh blooms in the warm spring air, tugging ceaselessly that diaphanous curtain over his eyes.

_If he paid attention, he could taste the sourness on the back of his tongue and see black at the corners of his vision. But he pushed it aside, lest it burn red._

If he tried, he could convince himself that he was just on a hunting trip with his favorite older brothers in the Noontide of Valinor. They would ride through thick, lush woods—

_A shadow covering the naked and trembling skeletons of trees in a once plentiful landscape. It served now as a barren wasteland._

—and they would stop only to sleep beneath the stars in clearings where the canopies cracked wide open to reveal the vast expanse of the heavens beyond.

The silver glow overhead was so familiar, clashing with the pinpricks of light in their unfamiliarly familiar patterns spiraling and dancing in the sky. If he looked away from the floating orb of mercuric sheen, he could convince himself that, somewhere in the distance, Telperion was waxing to his full glory and Laurelin his companion waning into restfulness.

That this sheen of silver beauty was part of reality still.

A reality where there was no war. There was no reason to be glancing over his shoulder all day in paranoia and suspicion. No reason to believe that his brothers were dead—

_Never mind that he knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that Ambarto would always be wherever he was unless death had thrown them apart._

—and no reason to look up into Nelyafinwë's face and not see full and healthily flushed damask cheeks left unscarred by torture, and wide, gentle silver eyes gazing affectionately upon his face from their lofty height, not darkened with war and suffering.

_They were still so very bright and so very wrong, but inching in the direction of sin and wickedness left him cringing at the remembrance of splayed bodies..._

He would curl into Kanafinwë's side and enjoy sweetly sung melodies within the embrace of warm, tender arms. The soft touch of dark locks on his cheeks always reminded him of those days, so long ago, when the musician would perch beside the younger brother and sing tales woven from light and sound into tangible forms, figures that danced and spun over their heads as they were rocked into sleep.

Tales he could reach out and touch. Tales that carried into his dreams. Tales that always had a happy ending.

_His own tale would not end as such, his mind would whisper. In the end, he was damned just as all of his kin. More so through evil deeds done to—_

He had to believe that tales always had happy endings. Even if it was nothing more than a pleasant delusion. It was all that kept him sane, that precious mirror reflecting back his memories.

Because when those fleeting moments of clarity crept upon his psyche and shattered that reflection, Ambarussa shivered with the sudden chill of foreboding and his stomach roiled with the ache of nausea. In those moments he hid away, alone in the dark when his brothers were sleeping, and he looked out over the land and _saw._

Saw the death spread far and wide beneath the hands of the Dark Lord and despaired. Saw the curls of smoke rising like a bad omen in the distant forest, the marker of the massive pile of burned corpses left in the wake of destruction. They thought he was captured forever in a world of delusions and denials—a massive, complex hallucination—but his brothers were better off ignorant of the truth. Better off hoping that one day he might recover and return to the way he had always been.

But he knew it was a lie. Knew there was no going back without falling to pieces.

In the end, Ambarussa knew that clarity would be his undoing.

When he looked upon the world that had twisted and deformed beyond ugliness and desolation, all he could feel were the cold fingers around his heart squeezing and sucking out of him the inherent fire of his blood. Knowing that his time to fall would not be long off in the future and that their mission was doomed to failure before it had even begun, because never would they recover the Silmarilli through willful and cruel slaughter. Their fate was a massive trap gilded in silver and diamond. And they had paid for it and hundred times over. Paid in pride and blood and love and family. Paid for it with every drop of wealth they owned, material and intangible.

Until there was nothing left.

And it was then that horrifying red would creep in upon his vision, daring to remind him of pale flesh stained in blood and empty eyes staring at the ceiling from dead, limp bodies laid out upon unfamiliar beds. It was then that Ambarussa would look away from the awful, terrible truth of his life. 

_The knowledge of what he had done was simply too much. Too much guilt and hatred and sorrow for one forsaken soul to ferry._

He would block out the black with green and the red on white of ravaged beauty with turquoise eyes sparkling in sweet innocence. Would blink and see his brothers as they had been once upon a time in the bliss of their youth, troubled only with studies and politics and silly family feuds, but not weighed down by the atrocities of war, willful murder and...

And he would forget. Make hazy that transparent glass displaying his sins so openly, bricking them away so that they might not taint his mind with their plague. That window he would cover until it was frosted beyond sight, a translucent pane blending and bending colors until nothing could be perceived of that from which he hid so desperately.

Until it was all vanished into gold and silver. Until the dream was back and the happy ending was within sight, a brightly lit pathway traversing through the dark labyrinth of confusion and guilt to some better fortune.

Until the dream was all that had ever existed. For just a while longer.


	190. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finwë meets his first wife in the Halls of the Waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past sort of kind of suicide. Definitely past depression. Hints at cheating on a spouse and at a potential polyamorous relationship. Touches faintly on ideology of the Valar.
> 
> This is related to Exception (Chapter 66).

It had not been at all intentional. At least, not on his account.

Nothing but innocent wandering had been taking place. After all, not much was to be done in the Halls of the Waiting if one did not have complex emotional burdens to be dismantled and swept away or trauma to be carefully soothed into silence before release. He would admit that death was traumatic, but not enough for him to linger. All he needed was a bit of rest before rebirth. However, Finwë did not fancy sitting about in his small, rather dreary room for days on end, no matter how much rest would supposedly comfort his spirit.

So he traversed.

Though, admittedly, there was not been much in the way of company. It did not take very long for Finwë to remember exactly how many other elves had yet experienced death and the embrace of Námo as he cradled them close and ferried them away from their felled bodies. To remember and then wince.

There was only one other elf "living" here. And he knew her well. Well enough to avoid her.

Well enough to guess that she would not want to see his face.

They had, after all, not exactly parted on the best of terms.

_"I am tired, husband. Let me go."_

He could remember how dull her eyes had been. A once brilliant blue—a fire, the likes of which he had never found since and would never forget through the long ages—gone out like the snuffing of a candle. Flickering brightly one moment, but under strain failed. And its loss had taken with it a piece of his spirit. A piece of his incomplete puzzle.

She had no longer smiled. No longer held his hand. No longer wanted to kiss or hug. No longer felt the need to rock their son to sleep.

She just sat still as stone and stared into the distance, lost somewhere else.

Begging and pleading, he had tried to pull her back.

_Why had she needed so badly to die and leave him behind? What comfort did the Halls of the Waiting offer her that he could not?_

But she had gone. Things had changed in her absence. Their son had grown. He had remarried his sweet Indis. Had four more beautiful children and so many grandchildren he hardly knew what to do with them all. And then he had died and come here.

Part of him felt guilty. It was the reason he took such care to avoid those halls whose tapestries were still under construction, knowing well that she worked amongst the maidens of Vairë, laboring on those magnificent murals of history day-in and day-out as the world unfolded before their eyes. Though he longed to lay his gaze upon her once more—for she would always be his first beloved and he would never stop loving her as passionately as before their tragedy—he did not think she would wish to see him.

Wish to see the man who had replaced her with another woman, no matter his loneliness and longing for children. Though, now that he was dead, she could leave the Halls if she truly wanted to be away from his ghost.

Truly, he had not wished to infringe upon her privacy or make her uncomfortable. Certainly, he had no desire to force his company upon her.

But she had just been _there._

Her silvery hair falling around her shoulders and her painfully familiar heart-shaped face. Her expression not blank and flat, but staring up at her creation with in a vivid contortion of concentration that he could recall fondly in a haze of memory from the days of old. Days when she spread out fabric across their sitting room floor and turned it into a masterpiece of swirling colors and imagery that put professional seamstresses to shame. Days when she cut cloth into pieces and put them all back together into one of her amazing quilts flowing through a tessellation of shape—he had kept every single one of them for cold nights, still secretly imbued with her scent for longing days.

Their son had gotten his imagination from her, Finwë was quite certain. Because the expression she wore was a wonderfully familiar one; one that adorned the face of their only child all too often when he was immersed in a project, lost to all reality. Sunken completely into the world of creation.

So immersed was she that she didn't even see him standing there at first. Not until he stropped right behind her, staring up at her work of art spinning itself into corporeality right before his eyes.

"It is beautiful, darling."

Should he have expected any other reaction than surprise? She spun so fast he almost received a mouthful of silver curls as they whipped across his face. And then she bent away from his sudden apparition so violently that her slender form overbalanced, tipping backwards. Before he even thought twice, his broad hands circled her upper arms to steady her back to earth, very nearly pressing their bodies together.

He held her until she ceased to sway. And then let go as if he had been burnt. Or maybe he _had_ been.

They stood mere inches apart, so close that he could feel her _heat._

And then she looked up at him. And her eyes were on _fire._

This was not the Míriel who had been drained of all emotion and liveliness in the late days of their matrimony. This was not the woman who lost the will to live and laid down to sleep forever, leaving behind her mourning husband and child This was a creature hot enough to scorch with her ire, as radiant and brilliant as he recalled in the best of his wistful dreams.

_This_ was the woman he had loved and married in the days before his kingship and the light of Valinor. The woman with whom he had intended to spend his eternity.

But things had changed.

Their awkward meeting stretched into silence. Her eyes did not part from his, her stare penetrating deeply. Burning uncomfortably with scrutiny. But she still said nothing.

It was a dismissal if he'd ever heard one.

"Forgive me," he whispered, executing a low, stiff bow. "I shall leave you to your spinning, my lady."

He turned to leave—had every intention of refusing to look back no matter how hard his heart pounded at her sight and his mind screamed for her touch—but was halted by fingers upon his forearm, tugging unyieldingly. Glancing down, he saw them and felt a weight settle in the region of his stomach. White and unblemished, but fingertips callused beneath short nails. _Her hand._

"Wait, Finwë." Her voice was soft but firm. Just like he remembered.

What else could he do but obey?

Still, he dared not turn to look at her. Dared not hope for her company. For all intents and purposes, he was married. To Indis. Whatever he had had with this glorious woman no longer existed.

Yet... yet...

"You need not leave."

_But you must want me to leave. How could you want me to stay?_

He could not believe that she still loved him and needed him. Could not _allow_ himself to believe that. "I did not mean to intrude, my lady."

"You are not intruding." She sounded painfully sincere. Her hand did not leave his sleeve, at least, holding fast. But the uncomfortable tension between them did not abate as her words echoed upon stone into eerie quiet. Honestly, Finwë did not know how to respond. What to say.

He still turned to face her. It was a lost battle, the fight to keep his eyes from falling into hers and drowning. The struggle to keep himself from being drawn into her loveliness and spirit, a mere hapless moth too enchanted to see the danger so close and imminent. Indis sat heavily in the back of his mind, but he could not conjure her vibrant, golden beauty to chase away this ray of Telperion gleaming down so brightly and breathtakingly upon his face.

"I would not wish to keep you prisoner in my company," he finally replied, trying not to sound as weak as he felt. Trying to think of anything but _her._ Trying to chase away the ideas that had stayed tucked away for so long.

"I am no prisoner if I choose your company willingly." Her hand released him, instead curling in the heavy fabric of her dress. Finwë turned his gaze upon the deep blue in distraction, tracing the intricate embroidery with his eyes rather than dare to look into her face and fall. Her voice alone was nearly enough to undo him, with its pure ring of steadfast power, the ring that it had so lacked in the days of her waning and departure.

"I think it would be most unwise." _No matter how painful._

It _would_ be. Because one day he would be reborn and she would stay behind as a handmaiden of Vairë. Because one day he would hold Indis in his arms and think of how he betrayed his second wife's trust and love without a second thought to a mere memory of happiness. Because he loved both of them, and he did not know if he could survive choosing only one a second time.

And because he knew they would never understand that they _both_ fit together with his soul, edges perfectly shaped and positioned to connect and meld into One. Because he dared not risk losing them both to his inner selfishness.

She was looking at him again. And her eyes were still bright. But they were saddened in acceptance of his soft rejection. He could not help but look away.

"I understand."

Her hand cupped his cheek, lifting his gaze to meet hers once more. Finwë had not even the chance to protest before her lips brushed his in a chaste little kiss. Barely even a touch of breath to skin. A brief reunion of two souls that longed for the other for so long but were forever parted.

She released him then with only the soft trace of her fingers trailing down his cheek. And this time when he walked away he did not look back. And she did not try to stop him.

Yet, somehow, something had irrevocably changed.

Because, long into the evening, alone in his rooms, he pressed his fingers against his trembling lips thinking of her taste. Closed his eyes tight and glimpsed her in his mind's eye, so fiery and bright. Trailed his fingertips across his tingling cheek and flushed. 

Foolishly dared to allow a sliver of hope to infest his heart and make its deadly nest.


	191. Sunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel sails over the sea to the Undying Lands. And Celeborn chooses to stay behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically in the book (not the movie, which drives me up the wall) Celeborn does not sail to the Undying Lands with Galadriel, although it appears as though he did later. This is merely me trying to figure out why the hell he stayed behind. Mentions soulmates, but Galadriel and Celeborn _are not_ soulmates, yet still love each other plenty. The rest is mostly fluffy angst.
> 
> The only other story I've written with this pairing is Zeal (Chapter 46), but Stop Time (Chapter 13) could easily be related. Possibly Shining (Chapter 130) also.
> 
> Italic speech is telepathic speech. You know, Galadriel and her whole "I shall be mysterious and speak in your mind" thing.

_"We will see one another again, my Celeborn."_

Her voice, with its low and honeyed chords ringing purely, softly brushed over his mind as a fleeting, intimate caress. One he was all too accustomed to. One he relished for its closeness and tenderness.

One he was going to miss dearly.

They had known this day would come for a very long time. Ever since the first rise of Sauron. Ever since the moment his beloved wife had first placed Nenya upon her finger and felt its power bind to her own. His Galadriel, in all her ethereal beauty—her golden mane with its moonlit sheen and her deep blue eyes filled with wisdom and sorrow to last all the ages of the world—was a star burning out in the wake of destruction and wickedness. And she needed her home now more than ever.

He did not begrudge her need to return to the light of Valinor and bask. Though he had never been there or seen in the flesh that glory, he knew rumors of its charm, beauty and power. They were legendary, even amongst his supposed dark-elven kin, the many elves who had stayed behind and refused the call of the Valar in the days of old. He suspected that its light was as _her_ light, filling to overflowing with life and energy and heat, and that it might rekindle the fire slowly sizzling out within her spirit.

That, she desperately needed. No longer could she wait.

He held her slender, soft hand close and intentionally kept his gaze from falling to the mithril circlet set upon her finger, the adamant stone within its delicate flowering network of silver now naught but a dead star. Rather, he meshed their fingers tightly together in the last moments of companionable silence resting between them, pulling her close enough to breathe in all that she was and feel her form against his own. Pressed his brow to hers and looked into her eyes, imprinting the vibrant hue of her irises upon his memory, softened and glistening in affection—a sweet vision for the lonely and longing nights to come.

_"Not forever,"_ he agreed, feeling heartsick already.

Her fingers tightened comfortingly about his, thumb stroking the back of his knuckles. _"You need not stay, melethron. You may come with me if you so desire."_

Oh! but the temptation. To stay by the side of this amazing woman who had, for unnamed reasons, chosen him above all other potential mates when she could have had any man, or even woman, she desired. His feelings sung, his heart brittle and crying out with need. He did not _want_ to be sundered from her, breaking their well-forged bond through the separation of thousands of leagues. He wanted to go with her and see her home. Meet her family and see his daughter.

But he couldn't.

It was not that he did not want to, for Celeborn would admit to desiring and coveting her above all else. Their marriage may not have been the most traditional, and they may not have always gotten along as well as might two mates of the soul have done, but he hardly could love another more than he loved her. Still, for all that he would miss her terribly...

Not yet was he ready to depart Middle-earth. Images of his grandchildren burned his imagination with creeping nightmares. Of Arwen being left alone with the passing of her husband to fade away in the gray of a world of Men. Of Elladan and Elrohir growing apart, one taking his father's place as Lord of Imladris and the other falling to his ever-growing self-hatred and scorn. Of bitter Elrohir choosing the race of Men and disappearing without a word into the night, lost for all of time to mortality. Of no one ever knowing their fates, no spirit left to carry tidings—good or ill—of Celeborn's beloved kin back to the golden shores. Shores that his grandchildren and great-grandchildren might very well never touch. Those possibilities sat heavy in the back of his mind. Without their father, their mother or their grandparents, the three half-elven children would be completely alone in a world radically evolving and leaving them behind. So alone.

After all, Elrond was sailing as well. Because of Vilya, but also, in truth, to be reunited with his wife—with Celeborn's only child, his beloved daughter. And he would not blame his son-in-law for that small selfishness knowing that the half-elf longed for the comfort of his mate, had suffered alone with the burden of Middle-earth resting upon his already grief-stricken shoulders for far too long. Nevertheless, Celeborn could not allow his own thoughts to be so selfish when no such trap ensnared his spirit or weighed down his heart. Could not allow his personal feelings to take the forefront of his mind.

_"I will stay."_ He could not change his mind now. Closure needed to be had. Lothlórien still needed a ruler to keep its borders. His people still needed a leader to guide them forth in this age of fading. And Celeborn still needed to say goodbye to the mortal lands—the only home he had ever known—and to his small and shattered family.

_"Very well."_ Her voice was not resentful, but deeply understanding despite the inherent wistful sadness. There followed a single fleeting kiss of farewell. And then their hands parted. Sundered gently, but somehow still so violently it felt like a punch to the gut that left him unable to draw breath.

Because she was truly leaving. Turning away and gracefully stepping upwards onto the deck of a single gray ship, her white-veiled form angelic in the dying light of the sun sinking into the cradle of the waves. Those waves that would swallow his beloved whole and forevermore, for they would never bear her back to this shore.

He barely noticed the others boarding. Could not look away from where she stood, mere yards of empty space between them, watching him just as steadfastly. And yet it might as well have been the whole of the ocean resting in that emptiness.

A hand touched his shoulder. His kinsman Círdan stood beside him, face stoic beneath his grayed beard. He, too, would be staying behind for some time yet.

"Are you quite certain?"

Without looking away from her, he nodded. Watched the ship parting the docks with numb fascination, because she had begun now to move, a single hand raised in parting. Until there were yards of water between the smooth gray vessel and the jagged curve of land in which was nestled Mithlond. Until he could make out her form only as a vague shape.

Still, he could feel her at the edge of his mind, a comforting and familiar presence. That beloved little feeling of never being alone that he had cherished for more than six thousand years. Logically, as he watched the ship shrinking upon the rocking waves, a mere black mast rising as a shadow over Arien's golden brilliance as she slipped through the Door of Night, he knew that his Galadriel was no longer beside him. Yet it felt as though he could reach out his fingers and touch her hand.

Always she had been there. Always, he would feel the brush of her fingers and turn to find her smiling so fairly into his eyes. But when he grasped there was naught but empty air. The warmth of her palm did not greet him. And he dared not turn. Dared not look away from that toy ship drifting farther and farther...

_"When next we meet, my Celeborn."_

_"When next we meet, my Galadriel."_ If his smile was shaky and his eyes watery, the Lord of Mithlond said nothing, but merely patted his shoulder and left him alone on the shore. Watching and watching as the distance grew and grew, as the sun sank lower and lower beneath the horizon.

Watching until even his elven sight could not see the speck that had been the gray ship. Until it had altogether disappeared.

Watching until Arien had vanished entirely, her shimmering glow rippling on the water's surface unto complete darkness, a dusk with the company only of the stars. For this night there was no moon. And the world had never seemed so much like home. So much like the days of eternal night when there had been only the heavenly dome above. When the trees were so tall and the mountains jagged teeth piercing the sky.

With her presence at the edges of his mind. Like fingers carding gently through his hair. Like the brush of her soft curls against his cheek. And the touch of her lips across his in a whisper of a kiss.

He stood on the shore and watched. Until he felt her no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mithlond is more well-known as the Gray Havens.
> 
> Sindarin:  
> melethron = male lover


	192. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the realization and death of Amrod Fëanorion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major character death (semi-explicit). Dead bodies and blood, but little gore. Implied past non-con and murder. Possible insanity/hallucinations. Avoidance and denial. PTSD. Lots of self-hatred and guilt. Third Kinslaying story.
> 
> This is the continuation of Overflow (Chapter 131) Reverie (Chapter 178) and Clarity (Chapter 187), the companion arc to Catatonic (Chapter 101).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Amrod = Ambarussa  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë

There was the dream. And then there was the world.

And between them, Ambarussa knew which one he preferred. For who would prefer a world where all of their hopes and dreams were crushed, where their future was decimated and where their family was plunged headfirst into a downwards spiral of chaos, hate and ill fortune?

It was not exactly a difficult choice.

Part of him had, for the many years of unstable peace since the dream began, shoved aside all thoughts pertaining to the destruction of all that he cared about and all that he lived for. Thoughts that led down a path he did not wish to follow and memories he did not wish to unlock for their bitter truth. Only when his mind was clear of that shadow could he open his eyes and pretend nothing was wrong.

But it had always been there. Lurking in his peripheral. That red haze of horror. Of _knowing._

Day by day, the glass window he kept between himself and the world became thinner, grew more transparent. The moments of stunning and terrible clarity grew stronger and increased in frequency. Truly, Ambarussa now new exactly what was happening around him nowadays and merely chose to turn his back and ignore the signs.

It was all a matter of choice now. And cowardice.

Of pretending that nothing was wrong.

Yet he had known from the very beginning— _the moment he had turned his head away from his One and driven the image of that splayed, bloodied form from his mind_ —that it would not last. No matter how much he wished otherwise and no matter how much he feared and no matter how much he begged and pleaded silently with a Power far greater than his own, he knew that the delusional dream that served as a thick comforter and cushion protecting his mind—as a shield sturdier than diamond and sharper than any blade—was _not real._

His brothers still thought he was hallucinating constantly. Still thought his mind was broken beyond repair. And perhaps it was. But not so much anymore than he did not realize what was taking place around him. Not so much that he could not hear their raised voices or see their stricken, darkened eyes. Not so much that he could stay in his complete and utter denial, languishing in blissful ignorance.

Slowly, perception was coming back. He simply chose to ignore its insistent call in the corner of his head, a nagging little voice that screamed for him to turn his head and _look._

He had heard news of the Silmaril in the Havens of Sirion and driven it away. He had heard his brothers arguing over an Oath forsworn in his name and forced himself not to recall the worlds. He had heard the planning and the yelling and the crying and did not pry into the source.

He had heard Nelyafinwë make up his mind and snarl Kanafinwë into silence, but refused to acknowledge _why._

Part of him _knew_ where they were going. _Knew_ what their purpose was. _Knew_ that that nightmare from which he so desperately fled was once again encroaching. But until he stood on the field of battle itself, he could not have remembered for the sake of his own life where it was to which they marched across barren, scorched ruins of a once plentiful land and for what purpose.

Until he looked out over the havens, draped as they were in dollops of sweet sunshine, looking so innocuously peaceful, and thought back to the vivid words in his oldest brother's uncompromising, hoarse voice. From a distance the white houses and streets looked pearlescent, set in a crown of writhing waves wreathed in light, the people naught but ants scattered across the landscape below. Yet even from afar he could hear the screams.

Could smell the blood. And see the red.

Could not turn away. Part of him cringed back in revulsion. And part of him drew closer to the hazy window of reality and pressed his palm to the cold glass.

And if his feet carried him forward, Ambarussa could never have said why, not even later when his existence was pieced back together. Not even when he had come to accept what his mind now could not even begin to fathom. One moment he had been at camp, left behind by his worried and paranoid older siblings, and the next he had found himself traversing below, sword-less and shield-less, blind-eyed and quiet-minded. Holding his breath with the feeling of inertia. With the feeling of the fall from the heavens.

The first sight of the bodies was enough. Enough to send him spinning violently through that fragile glass of denial, spilling him out into the cruel world unprotected and disoriented.

Remembering. For every broken form upon the ground, draped in bloodstained flaxen hair and adorned with sightless gems for eyes, he saw another in their place. Felt his gut churn with heat and nausea until it seemed his organs tried to crawl up out of his throat and abandon his shipwrecked, quaking mortal cage. Felt his eyes widen and sting with the tears that he had never allowed to fall, their gaze enraptured at the carnage and gore.

He had not come to fight. Only to _see._ Only to break his reverie.

Only to crash back to earth. And shatter.

And shattered it had, that dream. Into a million inconceivably tiny pieces. Even had he swept them all up and gathered them into a pile—like the jigsaw puzzles he remembered from his childhood—it would have taken millennia to piece them all back into one, and still they would be cracked and splintered.

It was just too much. All the blood and death and fear. All the disappointment and the guilt.

Standing there, he knew that this world could never be fixed or redeemed. The image of his One lying dead at his hands would never vanish. The memories of his father's remorseless, empty eyes would not cease to pierce. And all the lives he had speared upon the end of his sword and spear would never be revived. Home was behind, the burnt bridge collapsed. Damnation lay ahead, a mere stepping stone forward and he would fall and fall and fall.

The world was real. The dream was fantasy.

And he could pretend no longer.

Did not have the right to such selfishness.

Sickened, he imagined he would have fled back to the safety of camp had any sense been left in his brain. But Ambarussa could not move from where he stood on the fringe of battle, unprotected and shaking. Could not run away, for his muscles pulled taut and his spirit vibrated in expectation.

He did not see the blow that sent him down, and for that he was glad. The redhead felt only pain, piercing deeply into his side, and then into his spine, and then his chest. It was as though his legs ceased to exist, uprooting his balance until he tipped into the grass. He landed with a thud, clenching his teeth and relishing the pain, pain, pain ravaging his body into convulsions. Blood bubbled up his throat, filling his mouth and choking back the cry that wished to escape his lungs at the agony.

Blinked his hazy eyes until one of the many bodies came into view. A face splashed in blood, made unrecognizable, pale hair spread as a halo in the scarlet grass. And it was all he could do to see again his greatest sin. All he could do to stare wide-eyed, unable to focus enough to see if... if...

If they looked the same. Maybe it was just the shade of the hair.

But he would have liked to know if the stranger had blue eyes.

And even as his body went limp, his attacker struck again with the vicious precision of a snake. And this time, they did not miss the vital hit. A mortal wound. The blade slid into the back of his neck, and Ambarussa had but a moment of biting cold and flashing white—a moment of despairing and a moment of guilt—before he slid into blackness.

Wondering if this was the Void. Wondering if the other side waited with only eternal torment to offer as a steadfast companion of the Dispossessed.

And he smiled, though no lips existed to twist. Because it was nothing less than he deserved.


	193. Dim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Míriel begins to fade after the birth of her first and only child. And Finwë can do nothing but watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonical character death (something like suicide). Post-partum depression (because I refuse to believe that Míriel could just leave her family for no reason; "tired of life" sounds pretty damn depressed to me).
> 
> Prequel of sorts to Exception (Chapter 66), Muse (Chapter 168) and Reunion (Chapter 190).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Curufinwë, Fëanáro

Much had changed with the coming of the firstborn.

The birth of a child was supposed to be a happy event, celebrated by the parents as the most sacred of joinings and most wonderful of blessings. It was supposed to somehow make life more vivid, more colorful a miasma of experience and passion and adoration. Make the day brighter and more fulfilling. Make the ecstatic parents happier than ever they had been before, despite the long nights of the baby's crying and the changing of soiled nappies.

Finwë had held his firstborn son in his arms and felt his entire world shift around the child, so powerful was his sudden and all-encompassing _love_ for the dependent little star cradled against his chest. Brightness hung on the horizon, for this was his heir, his first child. His first son. A strong little boy with a deafening set of lungs and bright silver eyes filled to the brim with curiosity. His little Curufinwë.

From the moment he beheld his son, Finwë could honestly say that never had he seen anything more glorious than that wrinkled, reddened little face wrapped in soft white cloth and shadowed with a tuft of dark hair.

Then he had handed the boy to the tired mother expectantly, grinning down at them—his wife still sweaty from her ordeal and pale-faced yet shimmering as her arms wrapped about the precious little bundle. But Míriel had not smiled in delight at the sight of the cooing infant as had he. Rather, she had looked down at the baby with such wrenching fatigue, a quirk in her lips when her fingers stroked over a soft cheek and around fire-bright eyes. Over a pert little noise and through downy locks. A faint glimmer in her half-hooded eyes as she beheld the fruit of their union.

"Fëanáro. I name him Fëanáro."

It was a proud name, one that boded well for the child. One that offered innate strength and resilience. One that foretold of greatness in blood and spirit.

Every day that fire seemed to grow.

And every day, his wife's fire seemed to wane. Until he knew the balance was upset. Somewhere along the way, something had gone terribly wrong.

They were supposed to be happy. But more often than not, Finwë found his sweet Míriel staring blankly down at the child, sighing with resignation to herself as she tended the child with vacant eyes, lost in faraway thoughts he could barely comprehend. No more did she laugh and smile, not even when he cooed at their infant son, tickling the baby into gales of childish laughter and squeals. There was none of that resplendent wonder in her as had been when her womb had been rounded with child, when her hands had run over her bump and cradled it tenderly. None of the companionship he remembered when he had sat at her feet and crooned to his unborn son amidst her amused giggles and affectionate smiles.

It was like a ghost had taken her place in mind and spirit, leaving behind only a shell.

Her hair, once outshining Telperion with its silvered sheen, was growing dull and limp. Her curls were wispy and frail to his fingers; they had gone strangely gray and dry like crumbling ash. Her skin, always pale but with a healthy rose flush, was now whiter than milk and stretched over her bones as though it no longer fit her form. And her eyes—he shuddered to look upon them.

No luster of liveliness and inspiration gleamed there as had once like twin stars. Once, she had been filled to the brim with visions of creativity and strokes of genius, always going somewhere and always setting her mind to something. Unstoppable and unbearably stubborn. Filled with vitality.

But this woman before him was dim. Her glow was gone. Like a doll, she sat still and stared out the window, disconsolate and unseeing.

And the life he had built around her spun to a standstill. The happiness that so much Finwë had anticipated upon the birth of his first child—the first of many, he had prayed—was a daydream proven a false hope. A morning mist chased away beneath unforgiving light and heat, casting garish emphasis upon the truth. The truth that neither he nor his wife were content.

That she no longer smiled and wanted to hold his hand. No longer wanted to work on her embroidery projects or visit her friends for afternoon tea. No longer wanted to make love or share sweet, lingering kisses in their moments of silent peace.

No longer wanted to hold and rock her son to sleep. Or to sing him the ancient lullabies of their kin and kiss his chubby little cheeks good-rest.

And with the dying of her light was the fading of the whole world. Finwë, for all that he loved his newborn son and cherished the tiny, fiery life, missed terribly the woman he had loved with all his heart. Yearned and longed and wistfully dreamed as they drifted farther asunder each day.

Until her fingers slipped from his grasp entirely, severing irrevocably. Until she was out of his reach entirely, drifting away. Until she bled their life of vibrancy until nothing remained.

Until, one day, she told him that she wanted to rest.

And he knew—the truth resonating in that aching emptiness delved into his chest—that he had lost her completely. That there were no actions or words that could bring back her light. That his everlasting love was not enough to make her happy.


	194. Futile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel and her husband are drifting apart. And no matter how she tries, she cannot bridge the distance between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obsessive behaviors. Dysfunctional relationships. Possible spousal abuse (in a weird sort of way). Death threats mentioned. Mother complex implied.
> 
> This is related to Muse (Chapter 168) and On My Mind (Chapter 32) most closely, but is related to the other Fëanor/Nerdanel chapters.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

It had been many years since her husband had listened—truly listened—to her words.

Nerdanel was no fool. She had known that Fëanáro was an uncontrollable and wild spirit from the moment she met him, white hot with passion and an indomitable urge to create great beauty through his innate ingenuity, slaving long hours beneath her father's tutelage until he surpassed his master and left even the greatest craftsmen in the dust. She had known he was an intrinsically stubborn creature, a man who would not give up at the first sign of imminent defeat, nor the second, third or fiftieth, until he accomplished whatever he set out to do.

Secretly, it was part of what she both loved and hated about her mate. He could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her, neither dominant nor submissive, not overshadowing her but neither bending to her hot-tempered will. He could take her shouting and lecturing and nagging without insult and without scorn. And he could leave her to her own devices and artistry and did not expect her to cater to his needs day-in and day-out, for he was "quite capable of taking care of his own damn boots and hair and clothing, thank you very much, my lady".

It had been refreshing. Something she had never seen in a man before. Something she greatly admired. He did not treat her like a porcelain doll, did not try to control her and—most of all—did not consider her stupid because she was naturally equipped to carry children rather than sire them.

Fëanáro had appreciated her wisdom. Had _listened._

But at the years passed—as their small stable of children had grown beyond any other family's ambitious propagation—she felt something slipping. The foundation of their lives somehow shifting into teetering instability.

It was slow, but inexorable. At first it was little things. A suggestion here or there that he brushed aside without a moment's consideration, eyes distantly staring somewhere far away from her moving lips. A glimmer in his silvery orbs that sent chills down her spine, sometimes when he looked at his half-siblings or stepmother, sometimes when he watched his children playing carefree on the lawn. A strange sort of quirky line around the corner of his mouth and a deep furrow between his brows, marks burnished with stress and lack of sleep.

Suddenly, after their sixth and seventh children were born, something changed.

His eyes darkened and gleamed with a fire not his own. The days he spent out in the forge were longer and harsher. He would no longer speak to her of his projects in pride or glee. Would no longer tell her of his business at court. Would no longer showed interest in lying beside her silently in bed and stroking her hair until they dropped into sleep.

There was still some lovemaking, at least at first. But it dissipated swiftly. Always, his mind seemed elsewhere, even when he moved deep inside her and his tongue twined with her own, swallowing up her moans and cries without a drop of hunger. Always, his eyes remained open, too bright and too blank, off in thought, lost in something else. Something not her. In the depths of the forge. At the High King's court. Thinking about his creations. Snarling silent curses at his half-brother.

Eventually, she could hardly bear to sleep in the same bed. Because when they were not copulating, he turned his back to her and slept alone, leaving her in the cold. Did not want to cuddle or caress or whisper in the dark.

Like she did not even exist.

And she knew that something was terribly wrong. Suspected that there was a secret that Fëanáro held close to his breast, so close even she—who shared with him her body, mind and soul—did not know. Was not deemed worthy of the knowledge.

From there, downward had they spiraled, their love and marriage on a breakneck course toward utter disaster.

It was not that she did not love him. Nerdanel did not think she could ever _stop._

It was that she could speak to him and he would not even glance at her twice, staring through her until her voice stopped assaulting his eardrums and then turning away as if all he had perceived in her enquiries and worries and soft pleas was incoherent noise. It was that she could no longer trust him to put the interests of his family first and his prideful arrogance and jealousy for his half-brother second.

It was that he looked sharper and crueler than had the youth of her vivid, beloved memories. It was that he plotted and schemed, listening to toxic whispers in the dark until he perceived everywhere naught but danger and threat.

It was that he would tell her nothing and hear nothing. It was that he no longer trusted her at all.

And she tried to grasp him and pull him back. Tried to rein him in and fight back those shadows, that ill fortune looming upon their horizon.

Tried to speak in soft, intimate words. Tried shouting and screaming and sobbing until her throat ached and her eyes were sore. Tried catching him alone and cornering him in the forge. Tried forcing him to listen at the dinner table when he could not simply stand and walk away, dismissing her voice as nothing more than a nuisance.

Always, she had known he was uncontrollable and stubborn. A man whose will could not be bend and whose mind could not be changed. But she had hoped that he could be tempered with reason and soothed with affection.

Nerdanel knew it was not so. She knew now that it was futile to fight against the Spirit of Fire. Futile to attempt to control his heat. Futile to try and change his mind.

To try and make him see that she only wanted to help when he saw only foolish simpering. That her words were not meant as derision or threat or chastisement, but mere enquiry and comfort and fearful love. That she just wanted to see him genuinely smile, erasing away those deep scars from frowning and glowering. That she wanted to know what thoughts buzzed through his mind as once she had, back when he had shared all that he was with her as he curled in her embrace, head cushioned upon her breast in the dark of the chambers.

That she missed him and worried for him. That she _needed him to listen._

But he had gone down a narrow and twisted path in a never-ending, nocuous maze of willful and angry blindness, leaving her to trail helplessly at his frenetic heels. And when she turned around to look, she could not remember the way back through all those convoluted turns. Could only follow and hope to catch him, knowing in her heart he would forever slip through her fingers.

When the day finally came that he unveiled his Silmarilli before his family, the betrayal in her chest threatened to tear her in two. For he had not spoken to her of them, his greatest works. Had not seen fit to trust her. But she smiled and complimented and sat back in the dark, daring not brush those three stars in the flesh, watching her husband and lover touch cold stones as once he might have touched her cheek or stroked her hair. It was all too obvious what had been slowly tearing him away. The obsession fanatically eclipsing his eyes.

And when, all too soon after, he threatened his half-brother with death for the slight of attempted usurpation, she knew that the Fëanáro she knew and loved was lost. Utterly lost. And deafened and blinded to all but the straight path set before him. To all but his growing hatred and the fear she knew must somewhere deep be bubbling in his breast.

She knew, as he held the tip of his sword against the pale throat of his father's second-born that she was too late. Had missed her chance to speak words into attentive ears. Had missed the opportunity to reach out and recapture his gaze and combat his deafness. Could now only follow him forward towards ruin and uncertainty, praying for her family. It truly _was_ an exercise in utter futility.

For she had lost him. Had not reached him in time. Fëanáro had slipped away long ago.

No longer did he take to heart the wisdom of his wife.


	195. Erratic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was said that Idril avoided Maeglin for as long as Gondolin remained standing. This is why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Creepy stalker behavior. Jealousy almost to the point of murder. Death threats implied. Violence mentioned. One-sided incestuous love. Fear of physical abuse and/or rape. Possible unhealthy mental states/obsession.
> 
> This piece is the continuation of Urban (Chapter 38) and happens before Passion (Chapter 88), Loveless (Chapter 99), Cleansed (Chapter 107).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Idril = Itarillë

At first he seemed sweet and naïve. A little lost and a little grumpy, but for the most part a charming beau, though perhaps a touch star-struck. Despite the fact that he was her cousin, Itarillë did not worry herself overmuch at his slightly infatuated behavior. It only made sense, when she was the only person—male or female—who took the time to notice and treat kindly the half-blooded newcomer.

Maeglin had struck her as harmless at first glance. A tall and awkward boy suffering from the effects of the trauma of losing his mother and father in a single blow. Hunched and skittish but gradually crawling out of his shell, becoming more confident and vocal by the day. Nothing _dangerous._

Now, though, she was beginning to doubt.

It started out innocuously enough. He would glance at her, just a hint of something un-cousinly lingering in the dark corners of his recherché eyes. A something that gave her shivers down her spine, as though his long, spindly fingers traced down each bump of her vertebral curve. And then the look would vanish beneath childish affection, masked by the cute half-smile and bashfully flushed cheeks that twisted away the sharp lines of his face.

The transitions were so fast she almost did not notice them at first glance. Thought that she had imagined them. But then Itarillë began to _watch._

Began to become unsettled.

By the moments when Maeglin was not knowingly within her sight. When he neared her, under his eyes, something about him always inexplicably softened.

Around others, she found him unpredictable. Dangerous. Frightening, even. A hard, cutting edge lined in jagged serrations, prepared to slice if one dared step to close.

There was that darkness lurking.

One moment he would seem perfectly fine. Smiling blithely. Maybe even laughing. And then someone would say something rude or hint something demeaning just within earshot, insulting his mother or father or half-Avarin status, and every inch of his body would go tense as the over-tight string of a creaking bow, muscles seemingly prepared to leap like a mountain lion onto an unsuspecting, aimless goat that dared think itself above the food chain.

She would see his tongue dart out to wet his lips, curving slowly as his gaze burned into the aggressor, and the flash of bared teeth would momentarily shine beneath the seemingly nervous gesture. She would see his already almond-shaped eyes narrow into slits, only inky blackness peering out from between his thick lashes.

But then it would vanish again, as if pulled back beneath a curtain. Hiding. Controlled.

She knew, though, that that control was slipping. Maeglin was growing impatient and intolerant.

Lately, the fury and hatred did not retreat after a mere moment of exposure. Erratically, they appeared whenever someone dared utter a word against him or against _her_ or against anything that Maeglin held of import. The same look that she remembered (with slight horror zinging through her jumbled thoughts) which had contorted his father's features just before the barbaric dark-elf hurled a javelin at his son, just before it had sliced through Princess Aredhel's shoulder as she leapt into its path in protection of her only child.

There would be snapped words and threats of bodily harm or corporeal punishment. There would be shoves and kicks that left the foe groaning on the ground. Once he had even drawn his knife on a wide-eyed courtier, hissing something in the man's ear that left that face blanched clear of all color.

And, most especially, he reacted violently to those few men who dared to attempt to court her. The princess. Maeglin's own cousin and close kin.

Snarled at them when he thought she looked the other way. Glared at them from across the room as though they carried a plague. Spread rumors about them to tarnish their reputations.

He could have claimed to be protecting her out of familial loyalty, but Itarillë knew differently. This wasn't about protection, like a brother protects his sister.

It was about possessiveness and jealousy.

And, quite honestly, it had begun to scare her.

How he had begun to follow her around as his darker reflection became clearer and clearer, daring to stalk her through the city on silent feet. Never before had she noticed, her mind elsewhere in enjoyment, but now she saw him everywhere. Saw him watching her from across the room when he should not even have been present. Saw him peering in the windows to see her lounging in the sitting room, pretending desperately he was not there.

Even saw him spying on her with suitors in the gardens, watching with the blackest, most venomous sneer she had seen yet whenever she dared flirt with another man. Whenever she dared hold hands in the supposed privacy of her own home. Whenever she dared sneak a kiss. Always, she would turn around and see him there.

His unusual and disquieting behavior had even begun to leak into their face-to-face interactions.

_"He is not good enough for you."_

_And what business was it of his whom she courted and loved, she had wondered._

_"That is not for you to decide, cousin."_

_His hand wrapped around her arm then. Squeezing tight until she wanted to tell him to let go because he was hurting her, but held her tongue in pride._

_Later, she pulled back her sleeve to reveal purple blotches in the shape of his broad palm._

No longer did she want to spend time with the once-charming man in order to feed his nauseating, growing obsession. More than anything, Itarillë wanted to tell him to _go away and leave her alone._

But whenever she parted her lips, looking up into those eyes, she would always see that half-hidden shadow of lust and greed and wrath. Would see behind his bright eyes and broad grin that man who held a knife to another man's throat for a mere slight of words. Who watched the other courtiers with blatant hatred burning like pits of hellfire, ready to char their flesh and bones to ashes in jealous rage. Who stared at her like he wanted to rip off her clothes and devour her.

A shudder would wrack her body, a tremble coming to her fingers. A terrible twinge sending her heart racing.

_"Why do you go pale, cousin? Do you not feel well?"_

And she would say nothing.

Because she feared. Feared that his mask might fall and release that erratic creature of fury and possessiveness. Feared that, should she deny him, he might grab her and shake her until she was covered in bruises. Feared that, should she chose another over him, he might truly murder her suitor in the cold blood. Feared that, if she did not give in to him, he might coerce her or force her or manipulate her into his life and into his bed.

And then she would tell herself that her Maeglin would never do such a thing. Would never intentionally harm her. Would certainly never rape her.

Yet, no matter how terrible she told herself these unproven accusations were, she could not free them from the prison of her subconscious. Could not forget how his hand sometimes lingered too long upon her arm or how his hugs dragged on as he breathed deeply of her hair. Could not forget that, though he looked at her in adoration, a monster was prowling beneath.

Waiting patiently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avarin = of the dark-elves


	196. Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angrod reinserts himself into Eldalótë's life, now a handsome, fully-grown man. And makes it clear that his feelings have not changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cynicism and class differences. Age differences, too, but since elves live forever... Something sort of cute and cliché but not quite.
> 
> This is, of course, the second part to Puppy Love (Chapter 165) and is related to Flowers (Chapter 159) and all other Angrod stories.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto

It had been a very long time since Eldalótë had seen Prince Angaráto. Nearly a century.

The young prince she had known so well, the cute little boy with the bouncy golden curls and huge blue eyes who spent his hours outside of lessons sitting in the grass, watching the silly gardener potting and replanting and trimming her days away in the afternoon heat, had grown up years ago. Had ascended to the years of puberty and adolescent awkwardness, gaining that long-limbed frame somewhere between a man and boy, and had shied away from her presence altogether. Sometime just after his twentieth year, he had forgone his time alone with her. He had contented himself only with spying conspicuously from the windows above when he thought she was too preoccupied to notice.

But, eventually, even that had stopped. Either he had become too shy or grown out of his affection for a common woman. In either case, the times they spent together had long been a thing of the past.

Eldalótë told herself it was better that way. Better that the boy allow his silly puppy love to fade in the wake of discovering politics, reputation and wealth, those things that his class were so concerned with that twisted and turned her image like an old, holey rag and left her hanging, identity revealed as nothing more than a dirty, frayed scrap of cloth when compared to the finely embroidered handkerchiefs and cravats of the upper society. Nothing but a simpleton. A disappointment.

Her parents may have named her the Flower of the Eldar, but for all her earthly beauty she was still only the dirty, sweaty gardener. A commoner. Certainly not a lady. Nothing in comparison to those gems of court. And finally he had realized.

Finally, he had moved on. Grown. Become serious in his lessons and gone off to the academy.

Forgotten all about her as she bustled about beneath the windows of his estate, earning her living like every other commoner, never daring to infringe upon the prince's family or make herself too comfortable. This was not where she belonged. Not living on this fancy estate. Not draped in lavish, expensive and delicate gowns or crowned in jewels. Not on _his_ arm as a wife.

Besides, he was a child. A little boy.

No, it was much better this way. The day he had set off was the day she crumpled up and threw away that silly daydream he had somehow concocted and implanted into her head. A little boy's fantasy about a woman who was nice to him only because she had no choice and because she had been lonely. Never had she believed he would always care for her, that his love was more than passing childish infatuation.

Never had she dared think his silliness anything more than fleeting. 

He was but a child then.

And now he was back.

Back and walking up the path toward the house, as tall and golden as his stately father and kind-hearted oldest brother, with broad shoulders and a sharp jaw and pure handsomeness most males could only dream of possessing. Every inch of him now was undeniably masculine, the kind of fullness and musculature that would make any woman positively swoon in delight. No longer was this a silly child sitting in the gardens, promising to give the prettiest girl he knew the entire world.

This was not a child. Not a little boy.

This was a prince blossoming into his adulthood.

Though Eldalótë could not deny his attractiveness, she quickly looked away from his confident, smooth gait and went back to her tedious duties, shoving aside thoughts of him and his high, childish voice and promises from a long-ago memory. It had been cute and crushing, to know only a naïve child had ever loved her and wanted her.

Maybe she was a bitter old woman. Maybe she was pessimistic and cynical. But Eldalótë liked to think that she was realistic.

And a realistic commoner did not stick her nose where she was not wanted. Nor did her look at her prince and think of what his kisses might feel like on her lips. Not even if he had once sworn with all his heart that he would one day marry her and make her the happiest woman in the world.

\---

It was another five days before she saw him again, or even dared really think about him again.

Secretly, she could not help but admit to herself that it would hurt, the first time she walked past him in the gardens and dropped a neat curtsey in respect for her royal family, resting still for a long, painful moment before his eyes. Would hurt when there was not even a flash of recognition in his eyes. When he finally saw her for what she was: naught but a dirt-stained, smelly peasant woman with an unremarkable, plain visage and unremarkable, unmemorable voice.

When he wouldn't even remember her name or recall their meetings in the gardens. When he looked at her and saw naught but a boring stranger and dismissed her with the turn of his head.

But she expected it. Instead of lingering on the hard truth of the matter, she went about her work for long hours and kept herself busier than usual, wiping her hand across her forehead and smearing the sweat with dirt as Laurelin's light waxed to its full glow and rained heat upon her. Truly, she really looked nothing short of hideous, with her smudged face and messy bun.

Well into the afternoon, however, she first felt the presence in her normally undisturbed sanctuary. It was then that she spotted _him_ coming around _that corner_ of the house. At the exact time he had always arrived after the completion of his lessons all those years ago.

 _Naught but a coincidence, of course_ , she reassured herself. Watching him from her peripheral. Drawing closer and closer. Feeling her stomach clench and roll into nauseous upheaval.

And held her breath, not turning her head to look. Ignoring the man—Oh, he was so very much a man now, and not that little boy of her memories, she could not help but notice so vividly—her hands deftly working to prune the rose bushes beneath the windows, wrapped up in their thick, ungainly leather gloves as she snipped away.

Still, part of her was aware, acutely, of the fact that he approached. That his boots were heavy on the grass, leaving behind depressions and bending the blades. Coming up to her back inexorably.

As he grew closer, she got her first real look at him, taking in the changes. Now he was close enough that she was certain he would not skirt around her gardens, knew that he was going to walk within three feet of her. Eldalótë wished she was anywhere else at the moment.

For she looked up at him in all his golden beauty and shuddered with primal awareness. There were muscles beneath the extravagantly embroidered blue tunic he wore that no doubt came from heavier labor than the lifting of tomes in the library and the absorption of academia through long hours of study. And then there was his face, no longer round and chubby but with the classic lines and angles of his bloodline. The beautiful high cheekbones and strong chin. The soft lips curved into a roguish smile that would make a woman's knees weak.

And his eyes—the same shade of blue she recalled from his childhood, so pure and open. Looking straight at her almost expectantly.

Eldalótë dropped into a hasty curtsey. "Good afternoon, your highness."

_He is going to walk right past. He isn’t going to even speak to someone as low as me._

Except he did.

"Your highness? Really? Am I not your prince anymore?"

And she couldn't _breathe. What is that supposed to mean? Have I done something incorrectly?_

"I... I do not understand, my prince." In her chest, her heart was fluttering wildly, a thrashing bird trying to escape a deadly trap. Pounding almost painfully, more from sheer panic than the silly anticipation of a young girl talking to a charming man.

"I thought you would think more highly of me, my Eldalótë."

_Oh Eru, he said my name!_

And his hand touched her chin, raising her from her curtsey. Forcing her to look up with her shocked verdant spring eyes wide and her trembling lips parted, speechless. Had she looked at herself in the mirror, she could only imagine how ludicrous her expression would appear, with bulging eyes and a slack jaw, her mouth opening and closing like silently like a fish, unattractive and lacking composure. Hardly the graceful beauty of a courtly woman, the kind of women she knew he must be surrounded with, lovely beyond comparison.

_Why is he speaking to me? Surely he cannot..._

"Did you think I would forget?" He was leaning closer, his eyes swallowing her completely within their sweet, sweet blue waves. "I said I loved you, and I meant every word."

_Loved?_

He said he _loved_ her.

Without care for the filthiness of her gardening gloves, one of his hands clasped hers and lifted upwards. And then his lips came down, brushing the back of her wrist, avoiding her soiled leather altogether. Hot breath splashed over her bare skin and left her as rigid as a board, her spine tingling with faint shivers and her lungs struggling for air. His mouth was _on her wrist!_

"Eldalótë?" He looked up at her as if expecting her to speak. To say something in return.

But she could think of nothing to say. Was too shocked senseless. Was too confused and horrified (and, dare she think it, joyous) at his behavior and words.

Too knocked off-kilter to speak.

Instead of conjuring words, her mind offered her the only other option it could scrounge up in the midst of the hurricane-force battery of her inner tourbillion of turmoil. She broke free of his grasp and did the only thing she could think to do when her voice failed.

She ran away as though he were a wolf snapping at her heels. And left him standing alone in the garden.

\---

And then a sigh. "That did not go at all as planned..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eldar = high-elves


	197. Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros does not make the greatest of first impressions. And Istelindë learns something about the man she has been forced to marry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Touches once more on elven culture (though I'm assuming they don't "check" to make sure the bride is a virgin on the day of the wedding and deflowered the day after. Has the arranged marriages, slight sexism (in both directions). Possible smidge of xenophobia and some fear of spousal abuse. Faint sexual undertones.
> 
> This is a continuation of Adapt (Chapter 161) and Disconsolate (Chapter 158), and is related to others wherein appears my OFC Istelindë. This is kind of trying to begin explaining why, in my convoluted AU timeline, Maedhros and his wife don't already have a child by the time of the Darkening and Exile.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

The first sight of her husband's face made Istelindë shiver in dread.

Of course, she had expected his powerful visage, though she had been unprepared for its reality. In all the Noldor she had ever met, always it was the harsh lines of face and the pure power of form that she recalled vividly, never the coloring of the hair or eyes as of the Vanyar and never the personality or the boisterous laughter of her own kin.

Nelyafinwë was a beautiful man, that much was most obvious, even to a girl without experience or knowledge in such matters. But he was as hard and unyielding as any of his kindred, a deep elf wrought from the unforgiving earth. The first thing she noticed was his towering height and the broadness of his shoulders whereupon his russet curls lay in glistening waves and braids. And secondly she noted his fair, impassive face. The sharp angle of his jaw where it was clenched tight and the flat line of his pursed lips, edged in frown lines. High cheekbones and a straight nose, but a cleft chin and furrowed brows that gave the impression of a permanent temper on an altogether unapproachable demeanor.

His features were frightfully blank at first, as though they had been carved from stone and could not bend or change, as if they knew not the feel of happiness or at the very least gentlemanly charm. And his body stood rigid and poised, every inch royalty. Every inch a man who knew that he was in charge and was not afraid to broadcast his claim.

As she stepped up beside him, he glanced at her, tilting his head dryly in her direction so as to better see her. Some of his perfectly arranged curls slipped down to brush across one of his cheeks.

Gray eyes—just like his father's and grandfather's—stared back at her. Bright and cold. Narrowed around the edges as though he were in slight pain from even looking at her. Hard and distant. He stared at her incisively, and she felt that he was looking straight through her, piercing her chest and prying it open beneath his scrutiny as she struggled not to writhe in agony.

A harsh man. That was her first impression of Nelyafinwë Fëanárion.

They assessed one another silently. Finally, he offered her a smile that could hardly even have passed as a sneer of loathing, lips far too taut, stretched over his teeth in a grimace. "Let us begin, my Lady."

And his _voice._ She had to admit that it was as beautiful as his form, a rich blend of heady tones, something smooth and liquid against her skin, like touching black satin. Yet it was so... devoid.

He offered her his arm, and she hardly dared to touch him. Hardly dared so much as press her fingertips against his forearm, let alone slip her hand into the crook of his elbow. But she managed somehow, keeping herself from turning tail to run as her heart desired. Clinging desperately to her composure as she curled her fingers into the fabric of his sleeve. Beneath her hand—beneath the layers of his tunic and heavy robes—she could feel the strength of his muscles quivering at her touch.

Never before had she been so aware of a man. So aware of his body and presence.

Or so frightened by one either.

Were all her prayers to the Valar in vain for them to gift her with such a man? Touching him was as touching something made of carved rock, equally adamantine and empty of gentleness. There was no warmth and no give. No comfort or softness.

Istelindë utilized every ounce of her being, every etiquette lesson and every memorable lecture on responsibility and duty, to keep herself from crying. And, somehow, her eyes managed to stay miraculously dry as she stood at her husband's side and spoke quietly her vows of matrimony and eternal imprisonment.

\---

Until she reached the bedchambers, understated and elegantly prepared for the new inhabitants. These were the rooms she was supposed to share with her husband as a wife. At the center of the far wall sat the bed in which they were to consummate their union this night.

Nelyafinwë was not yet present, but she moved to sit on the clean white sheets—to relieve her weight from her shaking knees—and shuddered, pulling her arms up around her sides in a lonely embrace to hold at bay the chill. Her handmaidens had long since removed her elaborate wedding gown, replacing it with a silken nightgown and a diaphanous outer robe. All that stood between her and a man she'd known for less than a day were two flimsy layers of cloth tied with a satin belt.

And she was scared. Scared of _him._ Of what she knew was coming, inching closer with every second. And yet she could not even run away and hide.

So tightly coiled in her fear that the door creaking open nearly made her squeak in terror. From the shadowy doorway he emerged, still dressed but sans his robes and jewels and circlet. His hair, which had been braided earlier, was let completely loose and tumbled down his spine, curls bouncing slightly as he walked.

Their eyes met briefly, fleetingly, before she glanced away. Istelindë did her best not to cry before his haughty gaze. From what she'd heard, most men did not appreciate crying females, and the last thing she wanted to do was make him angry on their wedding night. There were enough horror stories as it was about... _that_... without him being rough and unpleasant rather than merely uncaring in the taking.

Except she just... just couldn't...

And he was _staring at her and..._

And the tears boiled over, streaking hotly down her cheeks, before she could quell them or wipe them away with the corner of her sleeve. Before she could hide her weakness from his cold, hard eyes. All she could do was look away and hope being quiet was enough.

She looked instead down at her hands, curled tightly in the expensive fabric of her robe, her manicured nails biting into the lovely embroidered swans and waves washing over the pale blue in white and silver swirls. It reminded her so very much of home. Of the white sand on the beach and the sound of sea mist splashing onto the shore that she could hear always singing from her bedroom window. Of looking out and seeing the ships in the harbor, their graceful necks frozen in motion, and the pearlescent buildings glowing in the light of Telperion.

Homesickness joined the fear, multiplied it and strengthened its grasp around her frantically beating heart as she listened to _him_ moving about the room. There were the sounds of clothing being divested and boots being removed, dropped with a thud at the end of the bed.

Until she knew he was standing right beside her, could sense his presence. Until she heard a deep sigh and felt fingers brush against her cheek, ignoring her flinch and instead guiding her chin upwards, turning her to face him. To face his brilliant star-eyes in the night.

She didn't want to see the cold or the annoyance staring out of that angular, naturally irate face.

Except those eyes... they weren't cold. Or hard.

Istelindë looked up and up into his silvery orbs and found them strangely soft, like the soothing caresses of his callused fingers as they smoothed down her wet cheek and like the brush of his thumb beneath her puffy, reddened eyes in a butterfly's kiss. The strict frown pasted earlier upon his firm lips had relaxed into something more like a smile, crooked but not forced.

"Please, do not cry..." And that voice was so much quieter, its timbre low, lenitive. Skimming across her mind as a gentle breeze. "I will not harm you, vessenya."

And she felt her resolve crumble, unable to hold back the tears any longer. A sob, half-stifled and wet, bubbled up out of her throat. She barely noticed the weight settling behind her on the bed as she hid behind her hands in shame. Did not hear him move closer until his broad palms were steering her so that she leaned against his shoulder and his scent permeated and engulfed her senses.

Long, calming strokes of a hand ran down her shaking shoulders and heaving back. Istelindë could not have said if she was relieved or frightened or just too tired and too stressed to care. But it was nice. Sweet. So contradictory to the image of the groom at their wedding. His touch did not bruise. Was not hard and unyielding like stone and adamant.

Rather, he touched her like she was the thinnest, most delicate of glass. She wondered if this was normal.

If it was normal that he let her cry all over his shoulder and chest like a young girl, soaking his nightshirt. If it was normal for him to comfort her with soft, inaudible murmurs instead of telling her to grow up and be the woman she was supposed to be, a princess who carried on through her duties and responsibilities without fear or hesitation.

If it was normal for her to burn out the long-bottled rage and helplessness until tears ran dry and somehow feel safe leaning against him in the aftermath, listening to his heart thudding rhythmically at her ear. If it was normal to feel the touch of his curls tickling at her nose and cheek and have the urge to catch them between her fingertips.

He let her rest against him in the quiet—for how long she could not say—but eventually his fingers returned to her cheek, lifting her face. Blotchy and reddened instead of pristine and pale, Istelindë knew she couldn't possibly look attractive at that moment. She probably looked like a sniveling child.

And yet he seemed unbothered by her appearance. His eyes radiated a strange warmth, a comforting little gleam of sympathy, as they slid over her tearstained face. Finally, he shook his head and leaned down—she stiffened for a moment at his proximity, at the feel of his breath on her cheek and his palm cupping her chin—and pressed a chaste kiss against her lips. Hardly more than a rose petal brushing against skin.

But that was all. With ease, he lifted her body and laid her down on the bed beside him, tucking her close enough that she could feel his heat and flexing muscles bending around her, cocooning her as he pulled the sheets up over their bodies. 

And then he did nothing, seemingly settling down to _sleep._ Did not try to kiss her or caress her or take off her robe and gown.

"M-my Lord, I do not understand..."

"Let us save the rest for later." His hand stroked through her hair and his voice rumbled through her body, vibrating against her skin where their forms tangled. "Sleep, silly girl."

"But—"

"Sleep."

His firm, quiet tone allowed for no argument. Istelindë found herself nestled against him, their bodies pressed together so very intimately. But he did not hurt her. Did not even _touch_ her in the manner of a husband and wife.

Left her only with tingling lips as she curled safe and warm in his embrace. Her hand slid upwards to touch, brushing across the tender flesh of her mouth, and a flush spread across her cheeks. Her eyes closed as she began to sink into the comforting arms of Lórien, remembering...

The epitome of gentleness and kindness. Everything he wasn't supposed to be.

_So soft..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro  
> vessenya = my wife


	198. Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finwë makes his choice and leaves behind the woman who left him in the dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven culture and Valarin law. Soulmate talk. Some fluffy romance and some mention of depression and sort-of suicide.
> 
> This is sort of the part that comes after Dim (Chapter 193), but is, of course, related closely to Reunion (Chapter 190) and Exception (Chapter 66).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Mandos = Námo

_"You must make a decision."_

It had been years. Many years since his wife had gone into rest and abandoned the cage of her mortal body. Long years of gray and grieving. Long years of loneliness. Long years of struggling to get through each day.

Long years of rediscovery. Long years of learning how to laugh all over again. Long years spent bringing the color back into his world.

And now this.

_"Only one spouse can be had for eternity. Two is... unthinkable..."_

She had been lovely in a way Finwë found refreshingly strange and wonderful. Indis was not the silver fire that had been Míriel, a brand to the touch, hotter than the earth's blood. Instead she was gentle and golden, like the touch of Laurelin on a lazy summer day, the warmth of her very presence seeping beneath his skin and heating the frigid core long left in silence and brokenness.

It was Indis, shy and young with her huge blue eyes and tiny, blush-worthy smile, who had brought back the color and vibrancy he had so lacked and missed. For which he had wistfully yearned and desired. It was she who had driven him from the cold, treaded corridors of his empty home and nudged him back into the stream of politics and society and romance. It was she who had allowed him to learn to smile and laugh a second time. And she who taught him again how to feel oneness and intimacy with another at his side after heartbreak.

She had turned into his entire world.

He knew many said he only wanted her for breeding. He knew they thought she was nothing more than a replacement. But it was more. So much, much more.

They _fit together_. Two long-lost halves of a greater whole. He could _feel it._

And he was holding on to her with both hands, in spite of what anyone else slandered or rumored. When had he ever concerned himself over the approval of his advisors, councilors and courtiers? He was the _High King_ , and if he wished to marry again, he could do as he pleased.

Was it such a crime to want to be loved? To want to have closeness and security in the arms of a woman he adored?

To be enchanted a second time?

_"A decision will have to be made, for things cannot remain as they are now..."_

And yet... 

Indis filled in a part of his being that had always been empty. She did not _replace_ Míriel, whose empty space in his chest and whose jagged and severed bond in his soul still remained cold as ice and devoid of feeling. Numb.

Loving Indis did not make him love Míriel less.

Did not take away the tiny threads of hope laced cancerously through his heart—the hope that kept him sane in those long years of being alone and raising his infant son to adulthood with no spouse to lean against and share the burden—that one day she _might_ recede from her depression and come back home. That, after a long rest in the quiet of the Halls of the Waiting she might return to him recovered and loving, might burn once more as a beacon in the darkness with her own spirit forged in flame and tempered with steel.

And he could not help but hold onto that hope, even now, tightly between his fingers. Even as he cradled Indis in his arms in the dark and kissed her on the balcony in the privacy of Telperion's silvered fingertips, he could not forget his first lady wife, his shining Míriel. Could not give up and throw away slivers of memories and wishes and dreams.

_"We will grant you this boon. You may marry Lady Indis with our blessing, but only if Lady Míriel remains—until the day you yourself pass into the keeping of Lord Námo—under our care and never again takes physical form."_

Never again lives. Never again draws the same air into her lungs as _you and your usurping spouse._ This they did not say, but Finwë did not need to be told what it was that they meant.

They meant to keep him apart. If not from one, then from the other. To keep their personal ideal of balance and fairness. To make their world into an imaginary vision perfect in symmetry and order.

The resent bubbled fitfully.

Because he could not hold on to both.

_"A decision must be made. Choose, Noldóran."_

But how _could he?_

How could he release that fleeting little dream that cradled itself deep in the ocean of his mind, rocking slowly in the distance, half-obscured from his sight but so intrinsically _present._ Someday his Míriel might choose to come home. Might want to kiss him again and hold his hand once more. Might want to meet her son who had her lips and her fire and her creativity. Her genius.

Did he have the right to take that choice away from her? To lock her away in the Halls of the Waiting in selfishness? To throw away all that they had created in togetherness?

Could he allow himself to let go of her? Of his hope? Of that single candle-flame that led him through the twisted, thorny maze that had become his life after her death?

_Could he choose to leave her behind?_

But then he would close his eyes and see _Indis._

Would feel the warmth of her in his arms and the softness of her sweet, naïve little kisses on his cheeks. Would hear her melodic voice reciting poetry in the back of his mind, speaking of love and the sky and the stars. Would be speared with her coy little smile and knocked off his feet by the flutter of her flaxen eyelashes.

Would look into their future and see children and grandchildren. Sons and daughters and their sons and daughters, maybe with golden hair, maybe with blue eyes. Would see them together standing in the nursery, his arms wrapped about her slender frame, a newborn within the embrace of her arms, tiny and chubby with impossibly perfect, delicate fingers and huge, instinctively curious milky eyes. Would see himself tracing a finger over those cheeks and feel tears blur at the edges of his vision when he recalled the sheer love and amazement of seeing one's child for the first time...

What to hold on to... and what to release...

"Must I choose?"

Had he the heart and courage, he would have looked his King and Lord in the eyes, but Finwë did not dare, instead staring into the distance. Watching his visions play out in silence. Outlining his fate.

Silver and gold. So different. Both completing him. Both enrapturing him.

He loved them both so, so very much.

But...

_"The law is plain. I have done all I can do and shown all the compassion I might."_

Whether or not that was true, Finwë knew better than to press. Knew that he could not convince the Valar change their minds. Knew that he could not make them understand.

He had to make a choice.

Who to hold... and who to let go...

But in the end, he knew. _Knew._

Remembered well the bitter aloneness in the wake of Míriel's sleep. Remembered the loss of the companionship and love he so treasured. Remembered telling her how much he loved her and needed her in the days of her waning.

Remembered her turning away without any reply.

Remembered that that silver vision offered him only death and despair. That any hope that tiny thread held was long passed. Any future it brought had been lost in the vaults of ever-flowing time.

And knew that the golden light offered _life._

"I know that I was not supposed to fall in love a second time or marry a second time. I know that it is against the rules, knew it from the beginning and did so despite..."

Knew that there would be many more nights of embraces and passion behind closed doors. Many more kisses shared in affection and laughs exchanged in camaraderie. Many more long days of hard work with companionship waiting at the end to offer comfort and love instead of black and white silence.

Maybe it was selfish.

But was not Míriel selfish in her rest?

The High King looked to the Lord of Arda and met the endless sky-eyes without hesitation, standing straight in determination, an unmovable pillar of resolve. "I cannot release my hold upon Indis. And I will do whatever must be done to keep her at my side. _I love her."_

He could feel eyes boring into him, judging and weighing. Finwë did not flinch away as he would have liked beneath that scrutiny. Did not allow himself diffidence or second guessing.

Brought forth a vision of his wife golden-haired and glowing with pride and joy, a baby in her arms. Light made brighter by the newest addition to their small, broken family. And felt that light seeping back into his spirit where it had been left drained and dim by disappointment and heartbreak.

_"Very well."_

The thread snapped. And it hurt at the edges of the frayed stump.

But it was a sacrifice. And, for all its terrible finality, Finwë felt a weight slide off his shoulders. Felt himself _let go._ Found a smile blooming upon his lips as he looked ahead instead of behind. Letting go of the memory of that past.

So that he might hold on to that precious future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Noldóran = King of the Noldor


	199. Shackles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor knows the futility of arguing with his older brother. And, in all truth, he knew they had no other choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insanity and unhealthily obsessive behaviors. Mentions murder, torture, theft and the like. Some depression also likely.
> 
> This is related to a boatload of stories, amongst them Pauses (Chapter 15), Get Up (Chapter 22), Villain (Chapter 23), Done (Chapter 52), Correct (Chapter 68), Jump (Chapter 186), Hero (Chapter 156) and Gloves (Chapter 166), along with any stories those stories are related to. Yeah, too many to name them all.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Makalaurë, Kanafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Fingon = Findekáno

"We do not need to do this, brother."

He knew it was a lie as soon as he spoke. It sounded hollow upon his tongue.

"Please, reconsider. Please."

Hard eyes—dark eyes shrouded and dripping noxiously in sin—shifted abruptly to stare back at him, soul-piercing and narrowed with cold-blooded calculation. Nelyafinwë had halted his pacing at the interruption, loose red hair hanging limp about his shoulders and face set in a scowl that would have sent the forces of Angband scurrying back to their dark little holes of misery and filth, shivering in terror at his snarl.

Beneath his brother's scrutiny, Makalaurë winced back as if struck. By no means was he immune to that glare.

But he knew he could not back down from the argument, not without trying once more in vain to salvage a droplet of humanity. So many times, he had believed that they were past the point of no return—of no redemption or resolution. That they were so deeply entrenched in wickedness that there was no way back to the light. But he knew that this move, this insane plan laid before him like a suicidal plunge off a sheer drop, was doomed to failure. Doomed to end in demise. The last chance. The true point of no return.

Nelyafinwë wanted to demand back the Silmarilli. And, should they be withheld, he wanted to storm the camps of the victorious host of the Valar and _take them back._

It was _beyond_ suicidal! Two men could not face off against all the warriors of Valinor!

And yet... and yet...

"Be not ridiculous, Kanafinwë. We both know that there is naught else to be done."

It was said so matter-of-factly that it made the younger brother absolutely _sick to his stomach._ With distress and grief and horror. Nelyafinwë sounded completely resigned, but it was a resignation formed of gleaming, vicious steel, tempered and battle-hardened with determination and desperation. There was no room for question in his statement. No room for hesitation or kindness or consideration. This was their path. Their _only_ path.

And those silver eyes, the eyes that he remembered once being so very gentle and sweet, remembered glowing in affection and joy, they were so very cold and so very hot. Through the dim light of their shared tent the silver orbs were like lightning, flashing with each movement.

With anger. With hatred and loathing and vengeful lust. But also with fear and pain. So much pain that it stung and burned to witness its fingers digging deeper and deeper into his beloved sibling and shaking until Nelyafinwë was torn to pieces.

And, though he wished to argue further, though he wished to make his brother reconsider, Makalaurë knew very well that he could not.

If Nelyafinwë was the fiery, wrathful spirit, curdled in anger at the desolate unfairness (or perhaps the strikingly _true justice)_ of their fate, then Makalaurë was his counterpart. The water's smooth, rippling surface, cool to combat the searing, bubbling heat. The sorrow and denial lashing against the bitter acceptance and the resulting self-hatred.

Two parts of a shattered whole. All that was left of a broken family.

Torn apart by a single Oath spoken in conceit.

Upon his tongue, bitter was the memory. It was not a night he could ever forget, with the torches splashing premonitions of blood across their swords and cracks of shadow upon their heraldic shields. With his father's eyes outshining the very stars as they stared down into his inner core, urging, demanding, screaming silently for his undying, unquestioning loyalty. Never taking denial as an answer.

Makalaurë had not felt that he had the option to back down, to turn around and flee back to his wife and sons in the safety of their home, not beneath the unyielding adamantine of his father's eyes. To surrender filial devotion and run like a traitor and a coward away from the seemingly impossible task of vengeance and domination suggested by his sire, it would have painted him with unnamable shame. And he, unable to stomach the thought of disappointment and mockery for his misconceived cowardice, had given in and taken the wrong path.

He remembered staring straight into those eyes and raising his sword to the sky, reflected in scarlet. Remembered swearing—Manwë and Varda as his witnesses—to uphold the Oath of Fëanáro through life and death until the day his soul was irrevocably destroyed and all that he was ceased to be. Remembered feeling the crushing weight upon his shoulders and the metal bands closing around his wrists with striking, sickening finality.

These shackles were stronger than any iron or mithril alloy could ever hope to be. These shackles were forged of words and oaths, could not be foresworn and could not be abandoned. Could not be forgotten.

They imprisoned him completely. Yanked him around by his tender wrists until the skin bruised and blistered and bled out in dripping rivulets over cold, unfeeling metal. Tortured him with wracking waves of agony, for they would not suffer to be ignored for long.

And they were shackles of his own making.

For he knew he could have said "no". He knew he could have followed his instincts, could have found the fiery center of his own spirit and snarled back at his sire. He knew he could have walked away from _all of this_ if only he had not been such a _coward._ If only he had not been so utterly _naïve_ and so completely _trusting._

_If only... If only..._

He knew not any sadder words than those.

For, like the manacle that once had been soldered into a never-ending, impenetrable circlet about his brother's right wrist on the slopes of the Thangorodrim, these shackles could not be broken or worn down or unlocked. They held fast and brutal. No key existed and no lock was forged to offer release from torment.

Absolute. They were absolute and permanent. Damnation at its finest.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

There was no "going back" now. The bridges were burned and the labyrinth of time unraveled at their heels. They could not harken to Valinor with their Oath incomplete, could not follow the Silmarilli to those golden shores and would not be welcome even if they did heel to the will of the Valar and crawl back like slaves.

This was their last chance to take back the Silmarilli. To hopefully complete the Oath once and for all. To take away the weight and the searing pain. To cut off their hands to save the rest of their agony-wracked souls.

To make the darkness of obsession disappear from Nelyafinwë's eyes. To salvage what was left of the man from before the torture and before the war and before the betrayal. Before their fosterlings were taken away and before Findekáno had died in vain struggle. Before all of the tragedy.

He wanted again to see the kind-hearted soul who tucked him in as a child. Who had a heart ten times the size of their father's and the will to nurture ten times as potent as their mother's. Who wanted to have a small army of children and who knew how to laugh and who was not afraid to shed tears...

He wanted again the Nelyafinwë unburdened by their fateful Oath.

And it would never end if they did not end it now. Thus, in despair for their fate and loathing for their own foolishness, they would pursue their goal to whatever ill end it might find.

Feeling his eyes burn, Makalaurë looked up at his brother and did not wince at the clashing of their eyes, his soft and deep with sadness and his brother's boiling over with the roiling inner ocean of negativity and senility. "Yes, I know," he whispered.

"Good. Be ready to leave at first light." There was no compassion for his plight and no diffidence in his brother's resolve. Nelyafinwë, fey-eyed with the madness and the need and the utter loneliness, would not be convinced to abandon this insanity. He stared at Makalaurë, and his eyes might as well have been spears for how they stabbed through the younger brother's body and left him hanging in unimaginable agony, helpless and hopeless.

"Remember where your loyalties lay, Kanafinwë. And do not falter again." Cruel and ruthless.

And he did not falter a second time, no matter the certainty of failure resting heavy in his heart. In truth, Makalaurë knew that any argument he made was in vain.

They had been since the very beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = plural of silmaril


	200. Pierce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin is beginning to see disturbing parallels between his cousin and his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some supposedly cousinly bonding. Pre-slash. Hints at an incestuous, adulterous relationship vaguely. Curufin isn't even fully sure what he wants to do with the idea, but we all know where this ends up.
> 
> Lindalórë is my OFC who plays Curufin's wife, and thus this story is related to Locked (Chapter 35), Snore (Chapter 51), Secret (Chapter 171) and Beach (Chapter 178) amongst others. It's also part of the Nargothrond arc, particularly Whispered (Chapter 120), Hidden (Chapter 125), Evidence (Chapter 162) and Tease (Chapter 175). That is, of course, not all of them, but enough. It's also the opposite POV of a story I wrote on dA called Apart which may or may not eventually be rewritten.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Finrod = Artafindë

Too many evenings were spent this way.

Before the fire, Curufinwë perched upon a thickly cushioned armchair, perfectly still and quiet. The heat from the golden-red waves dancing in the fireplace burst across his face, their glowing shadows flickering over the picture he cradled so gently within his palm. The picture to which his eyes were riveted so helplessly.

He wondered if she remembered him at all. If she even missed him.

_If she felt as he did still..._

So beautiful she was before him, her dark curls piled into an elegant coiffure atop her head and her smile out-shining the stars for its whiteness and purity. And her eyes, a mixture of the newness of spring and evergreen of winter, burned out at him, piercing and unblinking, eternally captured with their shimmer of delight and adoration. So glorious but bringing such sadness.

Almost he could imagine running his fingers over her cheek and reaching up to pull her hair free of its bonds to flow loose in the ocean air.

Even so far apart, with an ocean and a curse and an oath between them, Curufinwë could swear he fell in love with her more and more each day.

But all he had of her was this locket. The heavy golden trinket—one of his earliest and clumsiest but by far most beloved works, a treasure forged through his own blistering sweat and tears of utter frustration—held her portrait. Were it not for the tiny painting, done with remarkable detail and skill to capture perfectly her visage in vivid color and graceful line, he was afraid he might have forgotten her face beneath the weight of tragic fate and ruthless battle.

He wore it against his heart. Every day. To bed. To battle. To death, should it strike him down.

Licking his suddenly dry lips and trying to ignore the stubborn sting of his eyes, Curufinwë released a sigh, still enraptured with her image.

More than anything... he missed her.

Felt a shroud of loneliness falling over his pathetic life and blocking out any comfort and contentment there was yet to embrace. It was not that he stood alone physically. Turkafinwë haunted his every shadow and Telperinquar remained as fiercely, steadfastly loyal as ever. But it was not the same. Not the same sort of companionship and trust and that which had rested between him and his wife.

What he had with Turkafinwë was between brothers. Familial devotion and buried fondness, but a certain sort of distance. A coldness of embraces and a calculating gleam of the eyes. And what he had with Telperinquar was little better, the love between a father and his son. They had affection and bonding, some measure of trust.

But he longed. Longed terribly for someone to sleep beside him. To kiss his lips softly in the twilight. To be his confident in the dark when he reached his most vulnerable. Not for a brother and not for a son.

All those things _she_ had been for him. But he had left her behind, fool that he was.

Alone. He was alone. And even he, the ruthless killer and heartless manipulator, was no less of a soul than any kind-hearted gentleman or sweet-cheeked lady. No less needy. No less wistful.

Looking down at her face was its own form of torture.

Black on snowy white and ringing the brilliant verdant. Dazed, he ignored the flicker of firelight across her face—reminding him all too painfully of candlelit nights of passion—and concentrated on memorizing and remembering and driving away the need.

That was how it had been for centuries.

At least, until a shadow flickered across his eyes and disrupted the vision. Reflexively, he snapped shut the locket and stuffed it beneath his shirt, hiding it away from prying eyes. There were very few people he would trust with knowledge of the weakest link in his armor.

Glancing upward, a part of him was disgustingly grateful that it was Artafindë who had infringed upon his privacy. His noble and kind cousin would not willingly use any knowledge of this sort against him. Not even to save his own life.

"Cousin, was there something you needed?"

Artafindë gave him a knowing look, but thankfully did not immediately bring up the subject that hung heavily between them, filling the air and bricking up a wall of miscommunication. Instead, the golden-haired man grinned wryly. "I merely found myself in a spot of boredom and decided to seek out my favorite cousin. Is that a crime?"

Without waiting for an answer, the King of Nargothrond sat down in the adjacent chair, relaxing back into the stuffing with a bone-weary sigh. Had one been unfamiliar with the mannerisms of the King, they might have believed such a blatant lie because of the relaxed nature of the body and the steadfast and languid stare of the eyes, but Curufinwë knew better. He had practically shared a nursery with this man and knew all too well what exactly was eating at his mind.

_Probably the same that is haunting the corners of mine own._

_Her._

Curufinwë's Lindalórë. Artafindë's Amarië. In some ways, the pair of cousins were all too similar and yet so very intrinsically different.

But Curufinwë knew... knew that his cousin felt this cursed weight as well. This loneliness lingering as a deadly heaviness over the spirit, suffocating and dampening, weakening and tormenting. Just as Curufinwë longed for the companionship of his wife, Artafindë longed terribly for his fiancée, his sweet Vanyarin lady wreathed in gold and softness.

Artafindë first broke their silence. "You miss her."

It stung, like dirt in an open wound. Stiffening, his eyes flashed toward his cousin, a sneer twisting at his lips. To say it so openly... so blatantly...

"I do not see what it should matter to you, cousin."

It _hurt_. And even before the eyes of Artafindë, the last thing he wished to do was cry.

"I was just—"

"I do not care what you intended. If all you came here to do was bother me, you should leave."

_Leave me alone to suffer in silence. Leave me to my loneliness and go drown in your own. Please, make not the truth any more real._

But at his acerbic manner, Artafindë's eyes only gentled further with that softness which embodied the inner beauty of his cousin's spirit. Until they were liquid with empathy, the kind of pure understanding that sent a heart-wrenching jolt through Curufinwë's chest. There was just this power about those eyes and that sad, crooked little smile in the flickering light of the fireplace. Sucking him in and brushing away the resentment.

This man was staring straight through him. Knew him so well that Curufinwë could not hope to hide away from the piercing eyes... like _hers..._

So agonizingly familiar.

_He understands. Damn him._

Because despite the pain, there was deep-seated pleasure. The feelings Curufinwë craved like a drunkard craved fine wine, the bond of companionship that he missed, seemed to abruptly snap into place, an electrical jolt through his spine. Sending the Fëanárion's heart _pounding._

"I miss Amarië as well."

_Damn him for making me feel this way. So easily._

The feeling of compassion washed through his veins, poisonous in its terrible lightness. Tearing through the loneliness. The heavy glow of camaraderie instead settled over them, blanketing their private little world. Almost against his will, Curufinwë released a small, bitter smile.

"No one likes to be parted from their loved ones."

And, of course, Artafindë read him like a book. Effortlessly. "If you ever need someone to speak with..." _you may come to me. I will stay silent._

"I see... I think you need someone to speak with more than I, cousin." _And I will listen to every word. Because those same insecurities—_

_The thought of her turning away... The thought of returning home to an empty house and cold bed..._

_—haunted him at night in the dark when the silence became too much. When there was no breath in his ear to quell the rising surge of need._

"Do you suppose she shall wait for you?" he asked.

"I hope so..."

For that long moment, that impossible gap was bridged. The wall between them—their sundering through sin and feuds and violence—was completely pierced. Curufinwë felt almost as if... as if he could reach out and _touch..._

_And feel..._

_Though he shouldn't..._

"Is that why the King of Nargothrond has yet to find a sweet elf-maiden to produce an heir?" he teased coolly, trying to draw away from sudden, dangerous heat. "It would be safer, would it not be?"

_For everyone involved. You. And me._

As soon as Artafindë parted his fine, full lips, Curufinwë knew he was about to hear an excuse. "I do not care much about the line of succession. I have a brother, and that is plenty enough."

Curufinwë knew how he felt. Understood that there would be no other spouse. No matter how it pained Artafindë to be so completely alone, the sole ruler of a stronghold under constant siege and danger, standing against a near undefeatable foe, shouldering such responsibility. The kingship was more a curse than a blessing, one Curufinwë would never desire.

_But there was something else... an insidious little idea at the back of his mind..._

"I hope you meet her again, one day..."

As their moment drew to a close, they had a connection. So close and so perfect that it resonated. That it planted those little seeds in the back of Curufinwë's dangerously impulsive and unpredictable mind. He looked again at his cousin, who was smiling oh-so-sadly and averting his ocean-deep eyes, staring into the flames. Reflecting.

All of Artafindë was reflecting. Like a mirror.

But as they sat in silence, the feeling drained. The piercing, left unattended as those of the flesh, healed over and left between them that wall once more, draping them with their iron-weighted shroud and leaving them to their individual bitterness. Only so long could he stand the chill before Curufinwë rose and bit his cousin good-eve, daydreams of his beloved wife once more overtaking his wild mind, naught but cold phantoms offering nothing but torture.

Leaving him cold and empty and alone again. The feeling left a bad taste upon his tongue. As he returned to his quarters, he tried not to think of what had transpired. Tried not to remember that little sparks of pleasure amidst a sea of pain.

But still, the thought was planted.

And the need for that companionship, assuaged for a moment only, came back ten times as fierce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro


	201. Precious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the birth of Findis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly family feels. Some romance and some family feuding. Mentions character death and depression. But mostly family feels, seriously. Little Findis becomes Finwë's second brat. I wish more people would remember that she exists (and was born before Fingolfin).
> 
> This is related mostly to Hold (Chapter 198), Dim (Chapter 193) and Exception (Chapter 66), but is connected to many others, unsurprisingly.
> 
> On another note... Yay! I've reached 200 stories! *happy dances*
> 
> Okay... I'm done now. :3
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Curufinwë (not to be confused with Curufin)

It was a day Finwë had, for the longest time, never believed he would live to see. A little dream that he had, long ago, believed shattered beyond repair. One the king had thought he had given up on the somber gray evening of his first wife's willing death and never dared again to touch, to hope...

But he found himself standing outside the heavy wooden door, his beloved son at his side after fourteen grueling hours of pacing up and down the hallway and waiting with his heart caught like a knot in his throat, listening to the wails and the cries of a woman in the midst of labor-pains. Now the moment was finally here. A hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing supportively, and for once no sarcastic look twisted Curufinwë's handsome face as he grinned excitedly.

And the king could not help but take a deep, wracking breath as he reached for the handle to the door, fingers atremble. As he pushed it wide open and peered inside the birthing chambers, lungs frozen in time.

The image before him left him _breathless._ Utterly and completely.

The open room, airy and soft, was filled with the stripes of lazy golden rays peeking through the lace curtains and spreading across the bed wherein lay his wife, slender form curled halfway beneath the blankets. Indis was leaning back on a mountain of pillows, loose golden hair spread out around her, rolling sweetly over her shoulders, washing over the sheets in thick, languid rivers and swirls.

In her arms lay a tiny white-wrapped bundle, squirming and cooing softly.

Silently, he watched as she cradled the baby, rocking and crooning, her tired features glowing with such tender joy that Finwë felt her capturing his heart and holding it hostage all over again. He had thought he could not love her any more than already he had, but at that moment...

She looked up, and he was drawn forth like as a fish hooked on a reel, pulled dazedly into this paradise until he perched helplessly upon the bed at the side of this _angel._

"How are... are you feeling?" His voice trembled.

Because the last time he had asked that question—asked Míriel as she held their child for the very first time and looked dispassionately down at the curious silver eyes and toothless smile—he had received only dead silence as an answer. And a tiny, exhausted frown.

It was the thing of nightmares, the image of Indis looking up with distant, dull eyes and frowning in fatigue and discontent. The image of her holding out their newborn child for him to receive and turning away in rejection.

But, when she looked upwards straight into his bedazzled eyes, a blinding smile spread across her flushed and sweat-dappled face. Despite how exhausted she must have been, despite the damp curls of gold sticking to her cheeks and neck and the bags forming under her shimmering, teary eyes, Finwë knew she was on of the most beautiful sights he had ever beheld.

"Wonderful." Her hand reached out, grasping his own firmly and squeezing, and she stretched upward to press a soft kiss against his parted lips. "We have a daughter, husband." 

_A daughter... Ai Eru! I have a daughter..._

Indis held their child aloft, raised the tiny form and pulled back the soft, bunched blanket to reveal the blotchy little face. Already decorated with pale eyelashes and huge blue eyes that blinked up at him from the chubby-cheeked, flushed visage. By the Valar, he hoped they stuck and did not fade to gray, for they brought to mind the woman at his side, and he could not think of a better color.

"So I have a sister?" On the other side of the bed appeared his eldest child. Finwë, startled, stared at the dark-haired young prince, the very image of his late wife with the same scorching, fiery eyes and the same zest for life. He had expected the boy—who made his dislike for Indis plain even to the dullest of dullards—to stand in the corner of the room and leave his father and stepmother to coo and fawn over his step-sister in quiet, brooding silently beneath a façade of feigned pleasure.

But there he was, sitting himself down on the mattress and taking a good long look at the tiny little girl. Not glaring at Indis with murderous intent. Not muttering words of scorn at her usurpation of Finwë's affections. Just looking curiously at the wriggling child, a small hint of something that might have been affection and intrigue upon his sharply angled features.

It was by the skin of his teeth that Finwë managed to keep from crying at the sight.

Of his wife and their newborn daughter safe and sound, happy and bright with life and anticipation of a brighter future. Of his eldest child, his beloved son, outstretching a finger, allowing the graceful digit to be captured and gnawed, laughing softly despite the baby drool. Of his broken family coming together, jagged and misfit pieces all somehow collaged into a precious picture of companionship and harmony.

Their family was far from perfect. He didn't think his son and wife would ever see eye-to-eye with one another or hold any sort of affection for one another. Didn't think that the birth of a child, a new baby in the household bringing back to life wistful memories of childish laughter ringing down the vacant hallways, would change family dynamics drastically. Didn't even think that it would bring them all closer at the end of the day, for he knew the stubbornness of his son and the unyielding nature of his wife, knew that neither would back down from the other's challenge for his affections.

But for the moment, singular and soft and timeless, they were all together somehow. And happy.

It was much more than had ever hoped for after bidding farewell to Míriel and watching her breath leave her body for the final time. It was the answer to an ancient prayer spoken in the days of youth and naivety, before everything had gone so terribly wrong.

No matter how the future unfurled, no matter how torn and ragged his family became or how much bitterness, hatred and prejudice lay as the bricks of an impossibly high wall keeping them all apart, Finwë knew this moment was enough of a blessing. Throat tight and eyes blurring slightly at the edges, he nestled himself beside his wife, putting an arm around her shoulders and pressing her against his side as she began to drift to sleep.

Together they watched Curufinwë playing with his baby sister in the soft afternoon light. Finwë did not think he had ever felt more complete. So wrapped up in softness and contentedness and bliss.

It would not last. But still, he cherished the picture, for all its fleeting fragility. Hardly dared he to blink, for he did not wish to miss even a second.

He wanted to remember this forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ai Eru! = Oh Lord!


	202. Odds and Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angrod always had a bad habit of buying her expensive, impractical trinkets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half cute flashbacks, half angst. Couldn't help myself and got _slightly_ carried away. Talks about culture and society a bit. Cynicism. Flower language. Read up on red tulips if you want to know.
> 
> Continuation of Puppy Love (Chapter 165) and Loved (Chapter 196), but also related to the Defiant (Chapter 102) universe, especially Flowers (Chapter 159).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto

They were the little things.

Like rising in the morning and reaching for her gilded hairbrush. The ridiculously gaudy thing rested perpetually upon her vanity, set before a matching silver mirror. She held it within her hands, weighing its heaviness against the strength of her wrist before raising it to her tangled hair, burnished brown in the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, and let it slide in long, luxurious strokes...

Feeling its teeth gliding through the long locks smoothly...

_"What use have I for such a... a... lovely"—expensive—"trinket, my prince?"_

_His smile dimmed slightly upon her answer, and Eldalótë resisted furiously the twinge of guilt that anchored itself in the harbor of her conscience at the mere thought of making him sad. Of bringing that disappointed look to his eyes._

_"Well, it is meant to be used as any other hairbrush, lótenya..."_

_Blue eyes fell downcast, settling somewhere around her ankles, far away from her face or the hand that still held the intricately engraved silver accessory._

_"I thought it would suit you."_

_She gazed at the gift again, taking in the twining vines spiraling their way upwards, blooms shooting off their stalks and unfurling into starflowers. Truly, it was the finest of work, and she shuddered to think of how much he had spent to commission such a piece._

_And for her..._

_"Well, it is rather beautiful..." Again, she ran her fingers over its curves. She should not accept, should hand it back and demand he take it away, but she shuddered to think of the shattered look that would come to his beloved eyes. Felt her throat contract, words escaping before she could halt their flow. "But, in the future, try not to spend so much on me, my prince! I am a gardener!"_

_"All the more reason!" His smile was back three times as bright and his eyes were gleaming with ten times the eagerness to please. "You really like it?"_

_"Of course."_

_"Then... you will not mind a matching mirror... right?"_

Snorting softly to herself, she set aside the hairbrush, running her fingers through the untangled, silken locks left in its wake, watching them spin and fall through her grasp in the reflection. Heavy at heart, she reached back behind her head and began a simple braid, quickly weaving the hair tightly together until it came to a tail, hanging over her shoulder and coiling in her lap.

Thinking of _him_ as she reached into a drawer and pulled out a fraying blue ribbon...

_"Blast it!" It was loose again, falling all over her sweaty face, getting mussed and knotted around her clumsy, filthy gloves and falling into the damp, newly trimmed grass, gathering unwanted green decoration. Truly, she should have it cut. It was getting so long and thick that her simple, rather mediocrely crafted ribbons constantly slipped out or snapped under the weight._

_Finally, she got it all pulled back and wondered if she had any shears lying around that she could—_

_"You look like you could use a hand, lótenya..."_

_Startled into jumping, she gasped and felt the messy tail of hair she had gathered at her nape unfurl, spilling once again all over into everything. Annoyed, she glared up at him._

_"Can I help you, your highness?"_

_"You can call me your prince." Dressed in his well-made, jewel-encrusted garments, he sat cross-legged in the grass beside her, unbothered by the dampness and the mud. "Here, let me..."_

_His hand reached back, pulling loose the ribbon holding his own hair in place. Eldalótë could not help but watch in fascination as the golden curls spilled over his broad shoulders and around his sun-kissed, grinning face. So handsome she almost could not believe he was real..._

_But then he reached for her hair._

_"B-but, my prince, it simply is not proper!" Scandalized, she managed to capture most of her hair and heft it away from his touch. It simply wasn't right, a prince braiding a gardener's hair, as though she were his..._

_His..._

_"Did you not want it out of your face?"_

_"Well, yes, but..."_

_"Let me try just once. Please?" His smile was somewhere between boyish and roguish. "If it is horrible, I will let you ban me from hair-braiding. I promise."_

_And there were the eyes. She remembered those eyes so well, pleading and teasing. "Fine... But only once!"_

Once a day every day since. Wistfully, she fingered the satin smoothness, finely woven and strong, before threading it into her hair and tying it tightly to hold the braid in place. This shade of royal blue, deep and rich, had never been her color—she much preferred browns and greens, simple and natural—but it had suited him terribly well.

Still, he insisted upon using it whenever possible. She suspected it was a claim of some sort, his manly pride preening and prancing. Too much, she let him get away with. It was probably why they had ended up married.

With a sigh, she stood and went to dress. Something nice and simple, loose-fitting. Something she could garden in.

Still in-sight of the mirror, she tugged off her sleeping robe, hanging it upon the back of her vanity chair, before pulling her nightgown over her head. The sheer fabric caught slightly, and she slid her hand upwards, unhooking the lace upon the neckline from the necklace that fell now to rest between her breasts.

Gold and heavy, lined with huge rubies that must have cost a fortune. She had hated it immensely when first she had received it, but now...

_"Absolutely not."_

_"Just try it on."_

_It sat heavy against the tough fabric of her tunic, sliding down to uncomfortably rest upon the swell of her chest. Everything about the rubies and diamonds, refracting a thousand pinpricks of blinding light through their intricately cut facets, sat wrong with her. Clear red and white on scratchy green and brown. Extravagant to the point of prodigality clashing sharply with her simplicity._

_Eldalótë parted her lips to tell him exactly what she thought of the horrid piece of jewelry—namely that it belonged on a courtesan in a slinky scarlet dress with too much rouge on her make-up smeared face—but then she got a look at his expression._

_Of utter adoration. Staring at her as though she were fallen from the heavens._

_"You have no idea how glorious you are, do you?"_

_And she just couldn't bring herself to do it._

_What was she to say to that?_

Now, she had trouble removing the monstrosity, actually found herself fond of the silly thing. Wearing it all the time under her clothes, even though nothing she owned matched the blood-colored hue of the stones or the resplendent gleam of the adamant. Her fingers traced over its curve for a second, feeling living warmth resting within the jewels, absorbed from lying against her skin. 

And then she covered it up with an ugly brown tunic. She didn't want to think about it anymore. 

Instead, she made her way to the kitchen, planning on a simple breakfast. Oatmeal maybe. 

Except she opened the drawer and heard the clatter of silverware before she could reign herself in. Peering downwards, she stared... 

_At the box. Wooden and carved painstakingly into a forest scene by talented hands. Thin, fragile glass was inlaid on the lid, allowing the viewer to peer through at the marvel below._

_Namely, silverware that probably cost more than her entire house._

_There was a note, of course. It had been left on her counter, and Eldalótë knew she would have to lecture "her prince" about breaking into other people's houses, even if he was planning to leave gifts instead of thieving them._

_Carefully, she opened the lid, feeling as though she might scratch or break it at any moment, taking in the sight below. Little doubt was there in her mind that this was actual silver, or that it probably took months of hard work to forge and shape and decorate the unwieldy pale metal into these elegantly curved spoons and knives and... other things._

_She wasn't even sure what that was..._

_The box was carefully packed away, and she barely touched it. Never had it been used in its entirety except at the wedding (and even then, she still only used one type of fork). But she didn't mind this gift so much..._

_After all, it was functional at the very least..._

It was better than the necklace, though she had bent over half of the forks within a year and dinged and banged up the rest at a steady pace. Her mother-in-law would have been scandalized at the dullness and abuse of the silver. The silver. It sounded like something a countess should be worrying about, not a gardener. 

Still, she pulled out a dish—thankfully simple and unadorned—and an intricate silver spoon, setting about her meal as the sun rose. 

Ignoring the cold feeling of metal in her hand all the way. 

Fleeing to the garden quickly after. 

Into the early morning light, only just becoming lush and golden in the wake of the pale dawn. Arien's rays were warm against her skin, brushing away the chill and dew that lingered from the nighttime and casting an eerie, lovely sheen across the yard. 

Flowers in every direction were blossoming into a miasma of color, twining their way up the side of the house, occupying the space beneath the windows, climbing up the gardening shed and taking over completely the fence. Most would have called it disorganized and overgrown; yet, in her opinion, the yard remained perfectly groomed as always, her personal little paradise protected from the rest of the world. 

She had only ever shared it with him. 

_"Do you not think golden shears were a bit much, my prince?"_

_"You can call me Angaráto, lótenya."_

_He had forgone his fancy clothing and braids today, donning a simple silver circlet and loose-fitting tunic. It did not even seem to bother him, sitting around with her in her personal garden, dirt-stained and sweaty, blocked from sight and without a chaperone. Then again, a common woman like her needn't be watched so closely, for she had no virtue to guard..._

_Carefully steering her thoughts away from dangerous territory, she examined the shears. In general, gold was not used for tools such as these. Too soft and malleable. But her suitor was a prince, not a craftsman or a gardener, and she doubted he would understand that she would prefer something in iron over something in gold for such dirty and unseemly tasks as yard-work._

_"My prince..."_

_"Teach me how to garden."_

_Why would he want to know such things?_

_"It is not work meant for royalty, my prince." And she wasn't sure she trusted him anywhere near her rosebushes. He could do whatever he wished to the ones on his father's estate, but these were her babies, and she wasn't about to let him anywhere near them with shears, golden or otherwise._

_"But you seem to love it so much!" He drew closer, and she felt his strength press against her back, chin coming to rest on her shoulder. Breath washing over her ear and cheek, intimate and close. "I want to understand."_

_A shiver ran through her body at his proximity. At the touch of his hands on her wrists, arms wrapping themselves into a living, flexing cage around her body._

_"Show me..."_

She never could say no to that man! 

Huffing, she went and recovered her tools from the shed—even the blasted, useless shears—and pulled on thick boots over her loose trousers. Like a fool she probably looked as she slapped on a wide-brimmed hat and yanked on gloves that hid away any elegance her hands might have possessed. Better that way. She had never really been all that beautiful in the first place. Satisfied that she looked sufficiently messy and unappealing, she set about her work. 

There was always weeding and watering and tending to be done. She would start with the roses and work her way around the yard. And she would _not_ think any more about _him..._

Unless she saw... 

That... 

It had grown over the years since he had given it to her. She stopped beside the red tulips, staring down at their graceful, towering forms, heads above any nearby plants, richer in color than any rubies. They seemed to soak in the sunlight and glow, their translucent petals fluttering softly with the breeze. 

He, of course, never understood why she planted deep, majestic purple tulips right beside the red. 

Against her will, she felt her eyes blurring. 

_"I brought something for you, lótenya."_

_He had been bringing her things ever since that day in the garden when she realized—in horror and unwanted delight—that he had somehow never gotten over her, the family gardener. That he still believed he loved her._

_Of course, it didn't change his class. Her prince had yet to realize that many of the expensive, fancy things he bought for her were simply impractical for her lifestyle. She took about the same amount of pleasure in heavy, glistening stones and silver mirrors as the women of court took in dirt under their manicured nails._

_Still, he didn't mean any harm by it. She just hoped that, whatever it was, it wasn't quite as bad as had been the shears._

_"Yes, my prince, what... is..."_

_He was holding a pot. A rather more-decorative-than-necessary pot, to be exact. But it was not the pot itself, with its gold inlay and swirling designs, that caught her attention. Rather, it was what rested within the pot._

_Oh... It was beautiful..._

_Tall and healthy, a perfect bloom unfurling to receive sunlight. Her fingers reached out to trace the edge of a fragile, soft petal._

_A red tulip._

_"Know you what this means, my prince?" she whispered. Feeling her heart skip a beat in wonder and nervousness. The butterflies always fluttering about her stomach whenever he was nearby now felt like they were wildly trying to flee the prison of her belly, so violently were they roiling and twisting._

_"Of course I know." The crooked smile he offered made her heart melt. "As soon as I realized, I... Well, I planted one for you, before I even came back from the academy. Though I was certain I had killed it a few times, it seems to have managed to thrive beneath my clumsy care."_

_She could barely breathe. He had not_ bought _it, but_ planted _it himself?_

_"I told you, I love you. I always have, and I always will. When will you believe me, Eldalótë?"_

_And she believed._

It was unbearable, seeing the two—red for her and purple for him—side-by-side. When, in reality, they were so far apart. 

And she struggled not to weep in full. 

For they were the little things—the odds and ends—that reminded her. Of how he pursued and courted and wooed her into love through sheer stubbornness and naïve charm. Of how he had married her and made her the happiest woman in the world, just like he had sworn as a silly young child with a silly bout of puppy love. A prince and a gardener, like a fairytale. 

They were the little things that reminded her. That he was gone. And that a part of her life, the part he used to fill with his vibrancy, the part that had molded into a dreamland at his side, was empty. 

They were the little things that reminded her. That they were all she had left of his love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> lótenya = my flower (lótë + nya)


	203. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wives were left behind. But at least they had one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All about the wives of the Fëanorions, so if you don't want to read about OFCs this is not your story. Mentions kinslaying, of course. Social ostracism. Elven culture. Pregnancy. Depression. The works.
> 
> It takes place somewhere between Secret (Chapter 171) and Fantasy (Chapter 173), but is also closely related to Blush (Chapter 48), Weapon (Chapter 54) and I'm Here (Chapter 163) amongst many others.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

It was turning out to be another long day.

But long since had Vardamírë adapted to the new flow of society's river about her stranded isle of stone.

Outside, people were passing by, their eyes flashing toward the window display and away again. Pretending they hadn't looked, as though staring too long might contaminate them. As if the half-hidden taint could be passed through mere sight. As if ruined reputation could infect through ingestion of the sugary pastries beneath the glass.

She pretended not to mind, as always. But it was difficult.

Rarely did people come into the bakery anymore.

It was taking a toll on her family, and Vardamírë wished that there was something she could have done to make it cease. But even if she got up and left—if she abandoned her parents and fled to live in some country cottage far away from the ins and outs of society and its vicious wagging tongue—she knew nothing would change.

People would still walk by the window, remembering who owned the quaint little bakery. Remembering whose hands molded the dough that looked so appetizing and whose skill had spread lazy zigzags of frosted sugar across the golden-brown delicacies. Remembering the fruit of that legacy, rotting with filth.

Remembering that the baker's daughter was married to a Kinslayer. A murderer of the worst sort.

They passed by, and Vardamírë made certain to stay out of sight, just in case one of them dared to face the possible public downfall of their reputation for entering an establishment with such close ties to such scandalous, horrible people.

If they _did_ come inside, she did not want to give them reason to turn around and leave.

And so she stuck to the shadows, watching as the scones and pastries cooled and then went cold, went un-purchased and unwanted.

Another long day.

It was hard not to wish that... that...

_That she had never met him. That, when she first saw him outside her window, he vanished into the crowd of writhing forms and never appeared again, a prince uninterested in a baker's daughter no matter the prettiness of her voice or the comeliness of her blush. That, in this very shop, he had never come up to her and told her how lovely she was, had never asked her to allow his courtship..._

It was hard not to wish that things were different. That she wasn't a pariah. That her parents weren't outcasts. That her husband and children were not murderers.

That she was again that young, naïve girl who had friends down the street who smiled when she walked past and patrons with whom she spent her lazy afternoons chatting and exchanging stories.

All of that was gone. Vanished. She felt... isolated.

And it was hard... so hard...

At least until the bell chiming wrenched her from her thoughts, signaling that the door had been pushed open. Cautiously, she peered into the main room, hoping for a customer or...

Or the long, slender braid of pale hair roping down a graceful back. A sigh of relief stole away her breath, for she did not need to hide from this woman like a criminal or a harlot. She was not a pariah in those soft blue eyes, the eyes of her sister-in-law.

"Are you here, Vardamírë?"

She stepped from the corner behind the counter, and Istelindë turned toward her with a welcoming smile, all cheer and vivid brilliance despite the bags under her eyes and the weariness of lines drawn around her mouth from frowning. Feeling the light of that acceptance was pleasant and reassuring.

Not quite isolated. Not quite alone.

"I should wonder if you have come to buy or merely to gossip, my lady."

The beautiful Telerin woman sniffed daintily. "I come for both, of course," she replied haughtily, though her eyes were laughing beneath the royal façade. "And for the pleasant company."

"I could hardly be called pleasant company."

"Of course you are," the princess said, brushing away the modest denial. "I wanted you to make an order of scones—the special blueberry ones that Lindalórë adores. And I expect you to bring them with you to tea this afternoon."

A helpless, wistful smile came upon Vardamírë's face. "Very well, whatever you order, my lady."

"Excellent." With innate poise and grace, the princess turned and waltzed out of the shop. And though she had been there hardly a minute, Vardamírë felt trice and twenty times better for it. Felt her heart lighten at the thought of sitting in her sister-in-law's drawing room, sipping chamomile and discussing the ridiculousness of society's hypocrisy and the impending arrival of their upcoming niece or nephew.

Her life was one hardly worth living. And it was riddled now with depression and hopelessness. But there was, at least, the tea.

\---

It wasn't the tongue-wagging and rumoring, not entirely.

Istelindë had a thick skin. After so many long years as the wife of the Crown Prince's firstborn son, she had long become accustomed to the nasty rumors and slander that was frequented both inside and outside Noldorin court. Most of those flippant, airheaded, gossiping women could not even make her cringe, no matter how acerbic their words and how acidic their glares.

But even the commoners seemed to have taken up the call for blood, she noted, as she walked with her head held high down the main street, heading for the outskirts of Tirion. They knew she could hear...

_About how she betrayed her people._

_About how her spouse had slaughtered those under her protection._

_About how she was a demon and a whore for loving him anyway, for not giving up her love for her mate though he no longer resided at her side._

_And especially about how she would remain childless. Barren, they said, and cursed from the moment she had taken his hand._

Barren.

No one knew, of course, that she and her husband had barely been involved when he departed or that they had not consummated their marriage until years after the fact. Until there was more between them than empty words.

They had been planning for their first child. Their first baby.

But no one knew. They assumed.

And even though they were false in their assumptions, she despised hearing it despite.

Because it was a bitter reminder. Not only was she ostracized from her people—her parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents would not deign speak to her, the traitor to her birthright, let alone allow her within their homes—but she had no husband, no title and no children. She had _nothing._

All of those dreams were washed away. Gone like a summer rainstorm.

But the worst part of the matter was that, whenever she doubted herself and longed to annul her commitment to her husband, whenever she wondered what it would be like to remarry and throw away all ties with the accursed Kinslayers, she felt _guilt._ Overpowering and pungent, sinking into her skin and burning into her bones and smothering her oxygen until she could hardly breathe.

Maitimo _loved her._ He had been nothing but kind and generous and caring. And she wished to repay him with disloyalty and adultery and abandonment?

It was hard... but she stayed. Stayed on their estate with the servants. Stayed at court with those spear-ended tongues out for blood. Stayed loyal to a man whose hands were painted with the death of her grandfather's subjects.

There would be no child. There would be no happiness. There would be no fulfilled dreams.

With that morose thought, she arrived at the door of her sister-in-law's cottage, with its overgrown lawn and the vines lacing up the sides of the house. Quaint and charming. The perfect place to raise a family. Visiting Lindalórë...

Was difficult...

But she knocked despite. And a few moments later the door opened to reveal her heavily pregnant sister-in-law looking haggard and barely put together, hair in a loose bun and eyes red from crying. Again.

Suddenly, the envy was fading. Replaced with pity.

"May I come inside?"

The other woman held the door open, and Istelindë let herself into the inner sanctum of the hallway. It was small and homey, breathing with simple beauty and adornment. Yet, for all its warmth and softness, it seemed not to help Lindalórë in the least. The woman looked like the walking dead.

"Forgive me for intruding."

Between them laid something awkward and heavy. Helplessly, her eyes continued to glance toward the bump nestled low between Lindalórë's hips. Wondering what it was like, that longing returned thrice as fierce, eating away at her chest. The corners of her eyes stung, and Istelindë found that she hated herself, just a little, for being jealous. Hated herself, just a little, for hating her sister in all but blood for being so _lucky..._

And for believing herself cursed. For not wanting this gift.

"Are you well, my lady?"

Gulping, Istelindë tried to paste on that façade which, for so long, kept in place her mask as the princess, an icy woman without feelings, without the ability to cry like a little girl over her stupid daydreams. Yet, she found it cracked. When she tried to smile, her lips did not even twitch, and her eyes burned more than ever.

"I..." She hated crying in front of others. And Lindalórë had enough to worry about already...

A soft sigh followed, and a hand wrapped around her shoulders with motherly ease, leading her into the kitchen and sitting her at the small table. "Here..." Gently, her head was pressed to her sister-in-law's bosom as arms came around her, cradling and rocking and stroking soothingly down her back. "Hush..."

It had been a long time since someone had done this, held her so close, like a child. Beloved and safe from all the hurt in the world. Caressed her back and whispered nonsense in her ear.

It reminded her of Maitimo. In a pleasant way. She felt not quite so empty. Not quite so bereft.

She wept out the depression.

Allowed to cry until her tears ran away and left her dry. And Lindalórë, at least, would not judge or scorn her weakness. Would not slice her open at her most vulnerable point. Istelindë sat up slowly, reluctantly, and wiped beneath her eyes, wondering how it was that she could feel resentment for this woman who was so kind, who offered her so much despite having just as little.

"Forgive my lapse of composure." Her voice was scratchy and her nose runny. Istelindë did not even attempt to uphold her princess-like mask of perfection. "You will still come for tea, correct? Even though I have ruined your gown and your pleasant afternoon with my weeping."

"Of course." Lindalórë smiled, and though it was sad and distant, it meant the world.

\---

There were days when she did not think she could rise from bed anymore. Did not think she could survive this daily battle.

The insidious whispers. The sideways glances. The black snarls and glares. The complete ostracism and resentment. The empty house with the empty, silent rooms. The cold sheets. The lifeless yard. The darkened sky.

Reaching up to the cabinets and struggling, breathing hard, ankles aching. Because there was no one to reach for her. Because, at ten months along, her back hurt and her feet swelled and moving was a painful punishment. But there was no one there to help her out of bed. No one there to get her snacks in the middle of the night. No one there to tell her she was still beautiful even when she knew she was frazzled, bloated and exhausted, the epitome of ugliness.

Her pregnancy with Telperinquar had been trying. This pregnancy was hell.

Some days—the days when she came back from the market after hours of stares and sneers and sarcastic comments, after walking and walking and walking to find vendors who would sell to her, the wife of a murderer, after being pushed and ignored and frightened—some days she just wanted to _quit._

To lie down and pretend nothing had ever happened.

To forget all about her husband, who haunted her every waking moment. To forget about her son, who she might never see again. To forget about all those horrid people who looked at her and her unborn child and saw a woman low and dirty enough to carry the spawn of a demon.

Today was most certainly one of those days.

Istelindë had long departed after having wrangled a promise from Lindalórë's lips to join her for tea in the afternoon. And now, though she did not feel like exiting the safe haven of her home—if this haunted monstrosity could be called even that—she knew she could not refuse the woman.

Even though, when she walked down the streets toward the estate, the staring continued. The scorn and punishment.

She wondered if it would ever stop.

If, when she had her babe, they would leave her alone.

If, when the child was grown, they would leave him or her be. If they would treat the child well.

But, somehow, when she looked at all those distant faces and cold eyes, she doubted it.

They saw her baby, her unborn child, as nothing but the son or daughter of a monster. As an ill omen to be shoved away and exorcised from their vicinity. Unconsciously, her arms hovered over the bulge protectively, feeling the flutter of the child moving within the safety of her womb.

Never did she want her child to know this hatred and fear.

But she knew they would.

And it was almost enough to send her to her knees.

Somehow, though, she made it across the city, aching feet and all, without crying or falling or fleeing. Enduring the looks and words cast as swords. The door opened, and Istelindë appeared in all her otherworldly glory, a diamond amongst rocks, her mere gaze enough to send the few malicious bystanders fleeing from the spears of her roiling, powerful presence.

"Come in, come in!" Ushered inside, Lindalórë found herself led like a doll through the maze of hallways. The drawing room door opened, and the silver-haired figure of Vardamírë rested within, a droplet of Telperion in the flesh, already perched upon a dainty loveseat and sipping tea. The smell of blueberry scones wafted over the newcomer's senses, and she felt her belly clench in hunger, in craving.

The baby loved blueberry scones.

A steaming cup was pressed into her hands even as she sat. "To calm the stomach," Istelindë insisted as she settled herself in the last empty armchair beside the small table, upon which sat the teapot and the saucers. And that plate of pastries...

"Now tell me..."

Lindalórë glanced upwards, and found herself riveted by the smile that spread over her sister-in-law's gorgeous features. Not incisive and not bellicose. But broad and bright with joy.

"How is my little niece or nephew doing?"

"Well, I think. He or she has been squirming and kicking all day."

And then, in a strange fancy, the princess, abandoning her haughty and statuesque perfection, leaned forward and crooned. Those blue eyes, rich and full, mixed with the green and gray of the sea, were filled to the brim with excitement and adoration at the thought of her niece or nephew.

And Lindalórë felt her heart warming. Just a little. In this room lacking needle-sharp memories of family. At the sides of these two women who did not glare or sneer in disgust, but smiled in love. Beneath the attention of an eager soon-to-be-aunt who already adored the baby with all her heart, for she could not have one of her own.

With no small amount of hope, the soon-to-be-mother sipped her tea and imagined a little boy or girl spoiled to madness by the women before her. The princess and the baker. Never lacking toys or sugary treats. Never lacking strong hugs and incessant mollycoddling.

And, suddenly, the day did not seem so terrible as she sat at that table, giggling and speaking of her baby fondly, drinking tea. Her back still hurt and her heart still ached. The tragedy of her world still revolved.

But that world seemed just a little brighter.


	204. Twisted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod falls deeper and deeper into a dangerous game of truths and lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slash, incest and infidelity. Unhealthy coping methods and obsessive behaviors.
> 
> Basically a continuation of Pierce (Chapter 200), but related to the entire Nargothrond arc, especially Hidden (Chapter 125) and Tease (Chapter 175).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë

What they had could not really be called friendship. Not anymore.

Artafindë felt a shudder run through his body. Felt his heart quivering beneath the bars of his ribs.

It should have felt horrible, slimy and dirty and filthy, full of sin and disloyalty. It should have made his skin crawl with disgust and his throat clench in horror at his faithless actions. It should have made his mind revolt in shock against the unwanted needs and desires of his flesh and blood.

But it did not. This liaison instead left him warm.

Where once there had been mere looks, distantly shared for a single moment of time—a connection that left him breathless but hungering for something more in the back of his mind—now there were hours. Hours and hours of touching and feeling and giving and taking. Of feeling slick skin against his own, sliding and hot and flexing. Of feeling so closely connected to another being that it was astonishing, so closely that Artafindë had never even imagined it was possible. Of long, languid kisses and gentle, teasing caresses. Of lying in the pitch dark, whispering secrets into the night.

If anything, it felt beautiful and safe.

It was as though the friendship that once they had shared, practically from the cradle, had suddenly evolved. Evolved and adapted into something glorious.

So that those silver eyes lightened whenever he was nearby, their shadows chased away beneath golden rays. So that, on those days when his beloved cousin's face was long-drawn and his shoulders stooped with the weight of loneliness and wistfulness, he could reach out and brush away the burden.

So that he could see Curufinwë smile again. And laugh again. And cry again. Like the person he had, mere weeks ago, thought to be extinct, bones buried deep within the layers of a ravaged, ash-filled mind cluttered only with bloodlust and hatred.

Part of him loved being with this man, his cousin and brother in all but blood.

He loved the camaraderie. He loved sitting in a dark room with only the fireplace's flickering, dying light to guide him, so private and safe tucked against his cousin's side. There, they would sit and talk for hours, nestled against one another on the floor before the dancing flames, speaking endlessly of weaknesses and secrets and burdens better left hidden deep inside.

He loved that he could speak of Amarië and he was understood. That, when he came to his cousin in tears, the missing piece in his soul aching so sharply it became pain, he would be cradled safely in an embrace beneath watchful, gentle eyes. And he loved that, when Curufinwë felt the longing become too great to bear, he could but open his arms and receive his lover against his chest, cradling and stroking and crooning through the tears and the rants until there was peaceful silence resting between their bodies. Until his kisses, teasing and tender, were returned with sultry abandon.

He loved feeling needed and wanted.

But he did not _love_ Curufinwë. Not as one spouse to another.

Between them, they shared bodies and minds and hearts, but never souls. And some part of Artafindë knew that it was, perhaps, unhealthy, this fixation.

It was not right, this closeness and security. It was not right to feel this need so acutely. To _hurt_ when he went too long without his lover's touch.

There were long days when his fingers itched to touch bare, pale flesh and his muscles groaned at the momentary thought of being massaged. Long days when he stared at the wall and felt the want growing and growing until he knew, like a drunk to wine or an addict to leaf, he _needed_ to seek out his cousin, lie in his bed, make love and speak of all his doubts and worries with the shroud of darkness pulled over their head, keeping them away from reality.

An addiction and obsession, this connection. It was twisted, a mockery of a bonding with a true spouse. He might as well have been spitting on his love for Amarië, betraying her as he was with his own kin. With his own _enemy._

But he could not stop...

From knocking on the door and feeling his heart leap with anticipation and nervous affection when his ears perceived the familiar gait of boots echoing upon the stone floor beyond. From grinning when the door opened with a creak and that surly, irate face peered out, silver eyes fixed like stars upon his face.

From feeling that ever-present craving ease when the door swung wider, allowing entrance.

When Curufinwë whispered "Come inside" in his low, husky voice. When the dark-haired man's hand brushed across his side as he entered the small, private rooms, making himself at home within the dimly-lit sanctuary.

When the connection between them, a tangled maze of friendship and intimacy and hate, snapped into place, sending a cool wash of relief through the fire of his blood.

The door clicked shut and silenced all the world. Here, there existed none but they, the oldest and closest and dearest of friends and lovers. Again, that safe feeling, building into giddiness in the back of his throat, enveloped his being entirely. Quelled the anxiety and the upset and the dark thoughts of right and wrong...

"I missed you," he whispered, hugging close the other form until they mingled, skin-to-skin. Ignoring the maleness. And the darkness. And the marriage band on the left hand.

A kiss was pressed beneath his chin, and carefully he was guided before the fire.

They sat together, legs tangled and breaths mingled. Hands stroking bodies until everything disappeared and there was only the pleasure and the possession and the warm tang of welcome. The glorious, rotting lie covering the ugly truth.

The truth that Artafindë did not wish to see.


	205. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod is losing himself in the darkness of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sauron's hideout. Not enough of a warning? Ne~ Let's see, people being eaten alive, incarceration, corporeal and psychological torture, possible insanity, semi-explicit gore and blood, dead bodies, mutilation... I might have missed something, but that's the general idea.
> 
> Continuation of Accent (Chapter 56) sort of and part of the Nargothrond arc, particularly related to Hidden (Chapter 125) amongst many others.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Artafindë

There was darkness.

And the growls.

And the screams. Echoing.

_"This is madness cousin..."_

Every now and again, he could feel the air shift from the movement of bodies passing where he lay anchored by heavy manacles to the filthy wall. There was the brush of rough, matted fur upon bare skin when the snarling beasts slunk past. And the wash of icy chill drawing the warmth from his very bones until he was wracked with intense shivers of awareness.

Without vision to guide him, there was only the touch and the sound and the smell. So powerful and all-encompassing that he was lost within their depths, consumed and surrounded. Lost in the darkness until minutes and hours and days blended altogether into one large mass of nothingness.

Until Artafindë could not honestly have said how long he had been there. There was no sunlight in these pits of filth. Nothing but the gagging stench of waste, blood and rot rising steadily from the corpses and prisoners he knew must be strewn across the floor in tatters, dismembered and dismantled. 

Sometimes he was almost thankful for the total blackness that surrounded and engulfed his sight, for he did not think he wished to know what had befallen those of his comrades who had already been taken and...

_"Why would you help this human? This boy?"_

Footsteps drew closer, even and sure—the steps of their captor and tormentor. He could hear the sound of their cell opening once more, the hinges creaking and echoing and echoing into the prelude of a death toll. Against his will, his heart throbbed in panic and terror, instinctive and visceral.

Knowing what happened to those who were taken away...

But he knew that he was not yet the last...

Certainly there had to be at least two or three left...

_"You_ will _fail. I will make certain of it."_

Holding his breath—holding in what might have been a sob or a scream—he closed his eyes and waited. Heard the sound of feet upon stone closer and closer and closer... walking past... and the clanging of chains.

Another of his comrades was taken, dragging his feet, struggling violently in the darkness knowing what horrible fate awaited outside their barred cell. He could hear the whimpers of fear that the elf could not suppress or hide from his keen, amplified senses. Everything here was so loud, impossible to hide. Impossible to ignore. Echoing.

But he did not desire to hear.

He knew what was coming and turned his mind inward.

When the screams began, overlaying a harmony of snarls and the sickening sound of crushed bone and torn flesh, echoing and echoing against cold, heartless stone, he tried to block out all sound and drive himself inward. Tried not to feel the ache that arose within his breast at the thought of the trust his precious comrades and subjects had placed in his guidance and protection. The loyalty they even now held close to their hearts in their final moments of suffering and torture as they were torn asunder...

Tried not to remember that he had failed them all...

_"Please, rethink your decision, brother!"_

Should he have listened?

Had this all been a disaster from the very start, doomed to failure? Had he been cocky to believe that he could protect them, that this suicidal quest would not end in tragedy and despair?

Artafindë drew himself deeper inward, buried beneath layer upon layer of memories, until only the echoes left echoes within the darkest corners of his mind. Where he was safe. Where he was condemned. Where he both loved and hated and scorned himself for his failures and sins.

What kind of a leader was he, to sit and wait and ignore the dying screams of his comrades when everything was _his fault?_

But what choice had he had?

And had they not joined him willingly?

_"I would stand beside you to the very end, my King."_

But still, the guilt wracked and wracked. The memories played over and over and over again, forcing themselves upon him until he wondered if he was going mad locked away without sight, with only the echoing of death. And, as he listened to the screams dying down in the background—another of his subjects, his precious friends, torn to pieces, a broken and half-eaten corpse left to rot in this hell—Artafindë felt himself fading away...

Why had they not taken him first? Why was he not dead?

_Why, why, why...?_

Why had he not just pulled himself away and dropped into darkness, left behind this awful place for the comfort of the Halls?

But then he remembered the terrified boy at his side, naked and shivering and chained like an animal awaiting slaughter. Beren, to whose father he swore an oath in gratitude, was crying loudly, rattling his shackles, shouting for them to cease their sadistic entertainment and murder in a hoarse, ragged voice. But Artafindë knew his taken comrade was already beyond salvation, hopefully dead. Knew that any resistance the child made was in vain.

If he died...

Could he really abandon this child to brave the hell of Tol-in-Gaurhoth alone?

_"Is an oath of gratitude worth giving your life?"_

"Yes..."

No matter what those echoes thought. No matter how ridiculous and unwise they thought his actions to be. No matter what dangerous and nightmares lay waiting upon his path. He would not change his mind.

He would not go back on his promise.

And he would not abandon this child alone to this horror and suffering. To this black despair that offered nothing but the splintered remains of hope buried skin-deep and burning with infection.

Even if it killed him, Artafindë vowed that Beren son of Barahir would survive another day... another hour... another moment...

As silence finally fell and, once more, the dripping of blood and the smell of death blanketed his world as the tormentors receded and left them all hanging in dread and blackness, Artafindë felt himself steadying his own wavering faith. Beren was sobbing quietly, hopelessly.

"Hush..."

His voice repeated the word a thousand times over again. And again and again...

Until the boy ceased to cry and was naught but a quiet warmth at his side.

Until all was quiet.

_"Please... Artafindë, please..."_

Until there were only the echoes in his mind, oscillating and pleading. Reminding and damning and accusing again and again.

Until he was left in the darkness without sight and the minutes began blending again.

Wandering... wandering...

Wandering...


	206. Soothe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Istelindë begins to actually fall for her husband. A little bit at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arranged marriages. Some sexual stuff, but nothing really explicit. Fear of abuse. Very, very minor violence. Mostly fluff.
> 
> This is the next part of the Disconsolate arc, after Soft (Chapter 197).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

There was much she did not know about her husband. That much was painfully evident.

The morning after their uneventful wedding night, Istelindë blinked her eyes open to the soft caress of golden light upon her cheeks, having snuck in through the window and painted the room in brightness. The princess sat up, rubbing her eyes, and stared at the unfamiliar surroundings in confusion...

And then remembered the night before.

Remembered breaking down and crying at the thought of being married—caged and helpless—to this man she didn't know and didn't trust and didn't love. Remembered also the soft touches on her back, slender fingers trailing over her in a way that was not even vaguely sexual or frightening, but rather comforting and gentle.

Remembered the brush of his lips across her own, quick and chaste. Remembered being laid down at his side, pressed up against his warmth until it surrounded her in a blanket of instinctual safety.

Remembered falling asleep wrapped up in his arms...

When she turned to look at the other side of the large bed, she found the covers rumpled and pulled back, her spouse nowhere to be found. He had already been up for a while, judging by the lack of warmth trapped in the sheets. However, his scent still lingered strongly in the air around her.

Istelindë ran her hand over the sheets and the feather-down pillows, carefully lifting one and pressing her face into its softness, breathing in his smell...

Her cheeks flushed.

Still he frightened her, but the relief washed through her chest as a flood, soothing away the anxious throbbing of her heart.

Never had she suspected that such a stony-faced, seemingly harsh creature as her new husband would do something so kind and sweet for her when all she had done for him was make herself into a burden and an annoyance.

Maybe he was angry now. Maybe he would be harsh later. But Istelindë steeled herself and set the pillow aside, rising from bed.

She would not allow her fear to govern her actions.

And maybe he _was not_ angry. Maybe Nelyafinwë truly had genuinely been kind to her, his frightened young wife, because it was just the sort of man that he was.

The thought left her heart in her throat.

Maybe... maybe this would not be a terrible arrangement...

\---

The first time she dared knock on her husband's study door whilst he worked, Istelindë thought her heart might leap right out of her chest, grow legs and run away in panic, leaving her behind to face his wrath alone. Standing there in the unfamiliar hall of the unfamiliar house, she felt tiny and uncertain and out of place. Like an ornament that didn't match the décor.

What if he was angry at the disruption? He had not told her never to disturb him whilst he was busy, but neither had he given her permission to intrude upon his privacy. Especially for something so trivial as a question about afternoon tea.

She gulped, and her hands trembled where they lay clenched in her skirts.

But she plastered a cold look of indifference upon her face and refused to stand shaking and hunched like a quivering, helpless little animal before a hunter's keen, unforgiving gaze. She might have cried before his eyes once, but by no means was she going to turn into a weeping damsel at the mere thought of his anger.

She was not going to let this fear get the better of her.

Seconds later, she heard his voice telling her to come inside.

Her fingers slipped over the doorknob at first, but found their purchase the second time. The door creaked ever so slightly as she pushed it open and tiptoed inside, feeling nearly lightheaded with anxiety.

There he was, sitting behind his desk. Papers were spread about, books laying wide open, pages and pages of his tiny, neat handwriting arranged into organized chaos. And he was upon his chair, quill in one hand, poised over parchment midair.

Gray eyes beheld her from beneath little russet curls, wriggled free from their bonds. It took all her willpower not to stare at his wild hair, caught up in a rather simple, messy bun to keep it away from his work.

He did not look anything like the icy prince who stood beside her at the altar mere days ago.

He looked like a scholar. Harmless.

"Did you need something, my lady?"

Letting out a soft breath, she straightened. "I came to ask, my lord, if it would be appropriate for the lady of the house to host guests for tea."

"You want to have someone over?" He tilted his head to the side, and Istelindë suddenly found herself struggling not to blush beneath the searching look in his gaze. "You needn't ask permission for such things."

Her eyes widened. "But it is _your_ home, my l—"

"It is _our_ home."

His correction might have been spoken harshly, but Istelindë did not flinch. She was too surprised at his words to feel wary of his tone. Because she _knew_ that it was _his_ home, not _hers_ , no matter what he claimed. He was her _husband_ after all, and the heir to the throne of the High King of the Noldor. And though she might have been a princess, Istelindë knew that things did not work as such...

Still, she felt her heart-rate slowing, its beats evening out from their distressed, galloping state as the stress lifted from her shoulders.

"I... of course, my lord."

"And you needn't call me that either. I am your husband, and you may, at the very least, address me as Nelyafinwë in private."

It was awkward, this conversation. Call him by his name? They did not even know one another.

Still, it cemented the fact that she knew little about this man and how his mind worked. She didn't know many lords of her grandfather's court who would allow her to address them as such, even had she been their wife. Bowing her head, she pulled off a graceful curtsey. "Thank you... Nelyafinwë. I shall leave you to your work."

Looking up again, she froze. Because his hard features had broken into an endearing, crooked smile and his eyes were crinkled at the corners with mirth.

"I do not mind."

And it had her blushing for the rest of the day.

\---

It took months to adapt to _him._ To sleeping in the same bedroom. To sharing the downy bedcovers. To dressing in the same room. To eating at the same table.

But eventually Istelindë began to feel comfortable with the mild demeanor of her spouse. He did not oft shout or forbid her from activities. Mostly, he let her do as she pleased whenever she pleased and asked only that she care for the running of the household. Yet, Nelyafinwë was not always sweet and kind. He could be angry and frustrated, just like any other person, and she often steered clear of his path when she knew he was upset, for she had no wish to become an object of his displeasure. Eventually, though, she ran into a situation from which she could not flee.

The first time she was confronted with her angry husband, Istelindë wanted to shut herself up in their bedchambers, lock the door and cry into her sheets.

If she thought he was terrifying when he was playing at princely impassivity, it was absolutely _nothing_ compared to when he was snarling and ranting and raving, pacing like a caged animal back and forth across his study floor. It did not help that she was stuck in the corner, too intimidated to get close to her enraged mate and too shocked to unfreeze her locked legs and run toward the door. Like a wall he was before her, towering at least a head above her height, filled to the brim with writhing anger.

Red-cheeked and scowling, he stalked, boots heavily pounding upon the floor and hair whipping about his shoulders.

"That foolish bastard and his idiotic, egocentric—"

And then followed the cursing. She winced. Never had she heard him curse before.

"And, of course, _he_ isn't going to clean up this mess! Oh no! Heavens forbid the thrice-be-damned Crown Prince should ever have to lift a finger to fix his own mistakes!"

The sound of his fist ramming into the heavy wooden door made Istelindë jump in fright, her eyes wide as saucers.

She did not even hear the whimper that left her throat.

But _he_ did.

And his eyes fixated upon her, so sharp and heavy that she felt nearly faint as her head was spinning so wildly. Was he angry at her for interrupting his tirade?

She did not want to even _think_ about what he might do if he came to close. His hand was smarting and reddened from hitting solid wood several inches thick, and he didn't even seem to notice. It was a horrible thing, imagining that he might actually _harm her_ , and she didn't want to superimpose such an image upon her spouse, but...

But he was so angry...

And looking at her... and coming closer...

And she couldn't _breathe_ , and...

And his arms came to rest on either side of her body, caging her into her tiny corner, palms braced upon the wall on either side of her shoulders. He was so close that she could _feel_ the heat of him washing over her even through the layers of her clothing. Could feel the brush of his loose hair upon her face as he leaned down.

And pressed his forehead against hers.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Do not cry. I am not upset with you. And even if I _was_ , I would never _harm_ you, Istelindë."

She hadn't even noticed the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

Instead, all she could think about was the softness of his hands as they braced about her upper arms, neither bruising nor vicious. They did not harm or break. Instead, they were painstakingly soft, drawing her away from the wall and pressing her close.

She hadn't noticed that she was trembling, either, until she rested against the stability of his tall, lithe form and pressed her face against his shoulder. The tension drained slowly from her body.

His fingers were in her hair.

And his lips brushed softly against her forehead.

"Forgive me for becoming frustrated. I did not mean to frighten you."

They stayed like that for a while longer, and Istelindë could not help but think that it was pleasant. Pleasant that he cared enough to comfort her, even when he was in the grips of rage. That even when he was moved to violence, he seemed to care more about her wellbeing than about his anger.

It was reassuring. A soothing coolness on the raging inferno of her discomfort at the unknown of their relationship.

Maybe... maybe she could begin to trust...

\---

He had been disproving all the horrible stories whispered between maidens in the darkness and privacy of the powder rooms and gardens. All the tales of horrible wedding nights and slaps and shouts, visions of being ignored and kept in a gilded cage, of being little more than a doll to dress up and to mate with so that there might be children. But Nelyafinwë was not like that at all. He treated her well, even though he was distant at times.

For all his fierceness, Nelyafinwë was nothing like she had imagined him to be. By no means was he the monster his sharp-featured face suggested.

And she found herself wishing to be his wife. Not merely in _name._

Maybe that was why she chose to kiss him when they laid down that night to sleep. It came upon her so suddenly that she lost all track of herself and her actions. All she could remember was seeing his face, brightened by that quirky little half-smile she adored, and his hair let down, spilling over his broad shoulders and down his back in thick waves.

He was handsome and sweet and cared about her even though he didn't know her, let alone _love_ her. And maybe...

Maybe she felt a little guilty for denying him...

Maybe she just wanted to test herself, remove that last boundary of fear holding her back...

But for whatever reason, she was wrapped around his torso, her lips pressed against his, her fingers coiled tightly in his silky hair. Against her, she felt the hardness and warmth of the length of his body as she came to rest in his lap, as his form flexed and bent around her, arms wrapping about her back, hands sliding down her spine...

And she felt the sparks that gathered and grew in her belly when he kissed her back. Overwhelming in their intensity.

When his hands were upon her hips, thumbs stroking through her sheer nightgown that juncture of stomach and thigh. When he teased her lips apart and his tongue brushed against hers, spilling his rich flavor into her senses and holding her captive.

When his fingers found the hem of her gown and began pulling it upwards. Until she felt the sleekness of satiny fabric slide over her head, forcing their kiss to break and air to rush once more into her screaming lungs.

Coldness washed over her bare, exposed skin. It was not until that moment that she realized exactly what she was doing, felt her body freeze and her heart stutter, for she was lying uncovered in the arms of a man she barely knew. His eyes were near glowing in the dim light of their chambers, sliding over her naked body until they reached her face. Connected.

Istelindë had thought herself ready. But she had not been prepared at all for this.

He hovered awkwardly, eyes searching. And then pulled away.

And she hated how utterly relieved she felt when the proximity of his form vanished.

"Here" she heard his voice in the dark. Felt soft fabric pulled over her head. The nightshirt was hot to her skin, slightly lined with sweat, smelling so completely of _him_ that it was nearly overwhelming. It hugged around her body, covering from her breasts all the way down to her knees, hiding her again from his sight.

He guided her down without another word, and she did not resist his pull. They lay side-by-side, facing one another in the darkness.

"Are you angry?" she whispered.

After all, she was denying him his right as a husband to an heir, a child of his own.

There was a huff, and his breath washed over her face. "Of course not." His body shifted slightly; she felt it in the tilt of the mattress and the brush of his clad legs against her bare shins. The sparks were back, but muted beneath something else, heavy and gentle. "I can be patient. It will be more pleasant for both of us if you are prepared. You needn't rush on my account."

"That is rather kind of you, Nelyafinwë."

"I want my wife to love me when we join for the first time. I do not want you to be afraid of becoming intimate with me. So I shall wait." She had long since become used to his chaste kisses on her cheeks and lips and forehead, but this one brushed her nose, and she couldn't help but giggle. 

"Now sleep," he ordered.

It was difficult. She was thinking, so many thoughts and images sliding through her head under the cover of darkness that she just couldn't fall into reverie. She was thinking about _him._ And, beside her, she heard his breath even out as he drifted away into Lórien's embrace. Sitting up upon her elbows, she looked at his relaxed face, the angry lines and sharpness seeping away in slumber.

When he slept, he looked sweet and soft.

All of her worries and fears and uncertainties, he had soothed away. And Istelindë could not help but think that maybe, just maybe, she would be able to love this man. Her husband.

Maybe she would be lucky instead of cursed...


	207. Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The games have begun, and they become more treacherous and fulfilling by the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual slavery, torture, heavy sexual themes (obviously), mentions mercy killings, imprisonment, starvation, dehumanization, all those bad things that show up in the tags above. Heed their warnings, ne~
> 
> Next installation in the Defiant arc after Flowers (Chapter 159).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto, Angamaitë

_"The game you play is not one to be taken lightly."_

It was the first and last piece of advice he had ever received from his hated adversary, the golden-haired, traitorously-inclined right hand of the Dark Lord of Angband. And Angaráto took that advice completely and wholly to heart. He never dared forget those words for even a moment.

_That one wrong move could make any moment his last._

After all, being a favorite pet of the Dark Lord was nothing short of war.

And not any mere war of blades and the dance of life and death ending in victory or demise. Rather it was a war of standing weaponless and armless against enemies closing in from every direction, their envy and rage like fiery lashes upon his bare flesh, bearing down upon him, searching for any chink in his armor. For a single exposed weakness to exploit. A war against the sultry eyes of the smirking Lieutenant and the narrowed, sneering glares of the Balrogs.

_They were waiting for one slip. They only needed one chance to rip him to shreds._

It was a war for survival. To stop his body from flinching at the slightest brush of fingers across his back or throat or cheek when he sat like a dog chained to his master's throne. To never shudder in revulsion at the slimy, tainted feel of his master's essence brushing up against his soul when they lay together in the dark. To sit still like a pretty doll, more naked than covered, and play to the every whim of that red-eyed fiend as though he enjoyed his place at the foot of the iron throne. Enjoyed the rape and the humiliation and the torture as a man enjoyed fine wine poured over his tongue.

_The nights were the worst. Every time he reached out to touch that blackened flesh, a small part of his spirit died, consumed in utter disgust and contempt. Every time they joined, he thought he might die of the shame and tried to think of anything else but entwined bodies and rancid breath washing over his face._

_Sometimes he just wanted to scream and cry and slit his own throat. Spill his blood across the sheets and the floor._

_But he just closed his eyes and moaned louder. Pleaded and keened and begged for more._

_Sickening... like a festering disease taken up within the cage of his body and mind..._

_Until, little by little, the pain went away..._

Yet it war he continued to fight. Angaráto could never have done it for himself alone; long since would he have curled up in a puddle of his own blood and died for the horror of this waking nightmare. Little was worth sitting chained at the feet of the Black Enemy.

But he continued for his people.

Every moment was dangerous. Every movement and word a calculated blow. Every kiss and caress he bestowed upon shriveled, blackened flesh. Every crooning, sultry whisper in the Dark Lord's ear. They were all part of the cautious, reckless dance.

One wrong move in that dance of life and death, and Angaráto knew he was finished.

It was worth the danger to be able to capture that attention. To see those fascinated scarlet orbs looking upon his face, fixated and riveted. To be able to wrap his arms intimately around the Dark Lord's neck and hiss lies and rumors dipped in poison to willing ears. To manipulate and twist and turn and wrench until the timeline of events was bent to his personal tune, until the world seemed to dance upon his strings.

_"What has he done to deserve such a fine reward, master, but fail thee at every turn?"_

No more were elves handed out like candies to any servant with a particularly sweet tooth. No more were they worked to starvation, for they were useless if they were dead or crippled beyond repair. No more did the orcs have free reign to rape and pillage and torment as they pleased for sport.

All it took was one stray comment... One little whisper in the wracking agony after coitus, lying against that burning hot body and forcing down the whimpers and the shudders and the bile rising in the back of his throat...

_"Think of all the good that could be done if thou couldst just sway them to thy side... It would only take a little effort..."_

_"They would see what I see in thee, my master. They would bow down before thy feet and follow thee willingly, loyally to the death. And they would crush any who stood in thy way..."_

Bit by bit he poked and prodded until his master gave in and indulged his words between scalding kisses and bouts of violent mating. And it was dangerous. With every radical suggestion, Angaráto held his breath and waited for the death blow to fall. Waited for one of those powerful, bruising hands to crush his skull for his insubordinate behavior.

Yet, somehow, always those eyes remained riveted and fascinated upon his form. Desiring. Looking upon him the same way eyes looked upon the Silmarilli. Like a treasure to be grasped and coveted and locked away.

It was a powerful weapon—a sword to strike and shield to protect. And the prince did not waste.

Angaráto would protect his people for as long as he could with any advantage that he could scavenge in this hell, even putting his own wellbeing between them and the enemy's merciless clutches. Taking the blows meant for those floundering beneath the weight of their suffering, slowly fading, giving up the never-ending fight to claw through another day.

_He would hear his master chuckle, a low, raspy sound that vibrated through his very bones. Sinister and filled with sadistic glee. And he would feel the hands close around his body, squeezing nearly to breaking, leaving him in pain and fear..._

_And he would close his eyes and think of them. The slaves he had been forced to kill to save from their imminent deaths. The thralls tormented to madness in the dark._

_If it would make their pitiful lives easier..._

Even if in the end it was futile...

He would not yield. He would fight until the end came upon him, and even then struggle to hold back the enemy. To live another day to carry out his work...

The prince could not help but pray that something came of the disgusting sin and repulsive wickedness. Of the moments in the dark when the pain turned to flashing pleasure, and the long minutes in the aftermath when he felt his soul wracked with guilt and horror. When all he wished to do was weep, but his eyes remained dry and detached.

_Am I doing right? Or am I just as much of a monster...?_

But he would push the thoughts away, lock them outside in the cold and pull tight the blinds over the barricaded windows to his soul. In this game, there was no time or allowance for hesitation. No room for regret.

Even if he fought like a spy and a traitor. Side-by-side with the enemy. Looking into the darkness and seeing those iridescent eyes staring back at him in amusement from a golden and alabaster fiend. Eyes that understood, that mocked and that encouraged with malicious laughter glimmering. That _knew_. 

He could not help but hope that, when he finally was taken to be judged in the Halls of the Waiting, he would be able to stand tall and proud as a prince and as a man, as Angaráto Angamaitë. That he would not be that fire-eyed creature in the dark.

That he would stand as a warrior. Defeated upon the field of battle, but a victor at the end of the game.

Something still pure in a cruel world that existed only to stamp out what little light it held within its weak grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note on names, Angamaitë is Angrod's epessë (meaning his public name which non-family members would address him with). It means iron-handed, in case all the iron references throughout this arc were not enough. I just wanted to make sure the reference was not confused with the Corsair Angamaitë who attacked Gondor.


	208. Naked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is a prisoner of the Dark Lord. And Morgoth has plans for his newest, most important guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. A couple of rather busy days tied me up. Let's see... Angband and Morgoth, implied torture and mutilation, imprisonment, mind rape, other unpleasant stuff, some fluffiness... yeah...
> 
> Related to Disconsolate (Chapter 158), Adapt (Chapter 161) and Broken (Chapter 12) amongst many others.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

Only before one person had Maitimo ever been truly _naked._

The moment of revelation struck a chord in his memory, resonating vibrantly through the entirety of his being. The feeling of lying beside her in the dimness of morning, his arms entwined about her sleek body and her legs folded gently over his waist, their loose hair tangling and their sweat-slicked skin mingling. Until one did not end and another begin, but they wrapped continuously around one another into one creature. Joined.

But it had not merely been the lovemaking, for the prince had had his share of affairs in his young, wild years, and no matter how much skin was bare, it did not make one open or uncovered. Did not leave them stripped of all defenses. No, it was so much more than that.

It was staring into her eyes and knowing that no other person in the world would ever know him the way she did. No other person would ever understand or accept him as she did, because every fault and worry and hope and sorrow was bare under her eyes.

Hiding nothing away, he had never been so exposed before another as he was in their bed, breathing her fragrant breaths from her lungs in the darkness. Living the life of a prince, he had always been hiding, always shrouded in the overlying perfect image demanded of his status and duty. A hard-hearted and cold-eyed politician with a barbed tongue, his father's exemplary firstborn son and heir. Always beneath a mask, a shield of adamant against those who sought to take advantage of any chink in his armor.

Though his friendship with Findekáno had allowed him some freedom from those bonds, there had always been that small part of himself that he held at bay. The weaknesses and wistful wishes and daydreams too private even for best friends.

Friendship, no matter its complexity, could not compare to moments wrapped up in another person from whom no secrets were hidden, to whom one's spirit was joined wholly and completely, seamlessly. Istelindë was safety personified, the gentle hands to stroke him awake from nightmares and soothe away heavy-handed burdens. The mere sound of her voice could drive away rage and leave him a shaking wreck in the aftermath, clinging to her desperately and wanting nothing more than to tell _everything_ to her willing ears...

And she would listen with her blue eyes softening, glistening and writhing into ocean waves, sucking him down into their deep rhythm.

From her, he withheld no part of his self.

But that most intimate part of his being was reserved for her gaze only. Or that was the way it should have been in an ideal, kind world. Oneness and togetherness and trust between mates.

Now, before a second soul did he stand completely naked.

Not only in body, though every inch of his bruised, sweaty and marked flesh was bare to searing crimson orbs. 

In spirit. In mind.

The monster before him looked through every veil and screen and shield, ripped them all aside with an incisive, sadistic sort of glee that left the prince shuddering in agony where he stood. Wide-eyed, he found that he could not look away from those eyes, only stand shocked and quivering pathetically.

He could feel _that creature_ there, in the back of his mind. Grimy fingers were prying open the walls to his thoughts, that overwhelmingly hot, branding presence forcing its way inside until Maitimo felt his vision fading to white and his legs turning to jelly from the sheer wall of _pain, pain, pain_ , from something intrinsic, fragile and tender being shredded without mercy or caution.

All it took was a moment. A mere look.

Even violation of the body could not be so potent and terrifying, he vaguely thought as he struggled to right his coherency and bandage the gaping wound left behind. All those things that he would never speak of aloud, all those moments of weakness cradled tenderly in the darkest corners of his mind, laid bare beneath a transparent window for the enemy to behold and mock. All the midnight kisses and the sweet lovemaking and the secrets whispered in the dead of night into strands of moonshine made corporeal.

All the little hopes and wishes. They unrolled like parchment, written in words of the soul for those eyes to peruse. In the back of his mind, that presence spiked with amusement.

With pleasure. And with anticipation.

Ice layered the inside of Maitimo's stomach, its cold burning outwards. Frozen beneath those eyes, he could do naught but wait for the search to end, for the rape to be finished. Wait to feel that his thoughts and memories belonged once more to him.

Filthy fingers raked their way across his mind, clawing open fresh lacerations. And then the presence withdrew like the head of an arrow from its puncture, a jolt of electrical sensation wracking him to pieces. But the disgusting feeling remained, an itch beneath his flesh, deep down in the muscle and the bone, a slow-acting poison. His skin prickled and his hair stood on end, chills breaking out over his trembling body as he breathed shallow gulps of air. As he tried to reorient his form and keep upright without balance to guide his feet and sight to find his way. The room was a twisting myriad of gray and red as he stumbled.

This time, the fingers that touched his skin were real. Grasping hard enough to make his jaw creak, they canted his chin upwards and held him in place as the monstrous form the Dark Lord looked over his face and body. Burned his eyes.

A nail scratched down his cheek, drawing blood. "I hear thou hast been giving my servants naught but trouble, my dear guest. And we cannot have that."

Nausea roiled and mixed with the pain until they were an indistinguishable tangle of disorientation and tension. Never before had Maitimo felt such fear, so overwhelming that his muscles twitched and his heart frantically pulsed until oxygen seemed to be exhaled from his lungs instead of inhaled. Until he choked helplessly before the Dark Lord on his throne, only three stars upon an iron crown to break a dim glow through black, to highlight his shattered pride.

"I think I know just the thing..."

Maitimo felt his eyes widen further. Felt his breath cease altogether.

Felt in the back of his mind the burning touch pluck at a precious memory, closely guarded and cherished. And image of him standing in the nursery with his wife, speaking about...

And no matter how he pulled away, those eyes _knew._ Could _see._

And Maitimo could not clothe his spirit once more, for it had been revealed utterly. What was the power of a mere elf to this being of pure energy? 

The memory played its sweet overture.

_"Finally, we are ready..." The finishing touches were set in place._

_Her body pressed upon his back, arms about his chest, seemed all too real. All too soft and comforting. "I am so excited!"_

_And he recalled turning around, kissing her, a chaste brush more intimate than coitus itself._

_"So am I, isilmenya... So am I..."_

The eyes narrowed. An ugly, stomach-curdling grin twisted the already grotesque features, crinkling up shriveled lips over jagged, fanged teeth. _Excitement_ lashed against his thoughts, leaving them welted and shrinking away, only to be bound in place by those eyes. Eyes that saw every inch of his being, stripped to the core.

Eyes that knew how to break him to pieces. Pieces so tiny they were but wisps of dust to be lost in the wind.

Maitimo _knew._ Beneath his body, his knees gave out, and he was held aloft by the grip of his foe, forced to endure the wickedness of that smile and the agonizing touch of that mind slamming up against his own without care or delicacy. Showing him images of the torments to come, of his own screams and mutilated, writhing form. Taking pleasure in his revulsion and horror and fear.

"Do you not agree, Fëanárion?"

He would never forget that laugh, deep and hollow, shaking the very foundations of the earth. Or the devastation that followed, ripping open the surface of his tiny, concealed reality. Revealing its true core of cruelty.

Leaving nothing left but shattered remains.


	209. Push

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond begins to see changes in his eldest son. Changes for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hints at torture and possible non-con. Canon character "death" I guess. My personal interpretation of Elladan and Elrohir. Some family bonding stuff. Depression and violence also mentioned. Foresight. Genderbending.
> 
> This little tidbit happens between the second and third scene in Cleansed (Chapter 107) and is also related to Life (Chapter 112) and Loveless (Chapter 99).

If there was one thing Elrond understood, it was mourning. Because, if there had been one consistency in his long existence, it had been the loss of kin and friend alike to the forces of darkness.

Death was not new, nor was suffering or despair. Seeing those around him in pain had been a disturbing constant since his youth—be it his adoptive parents, his brother, his king or his people. It was one of the reasons he had chosen the route of a healer in his younger years, to soothe away that pain and, maybe, help those around him, no matter how small his contribution.

Still, all those years had not prepared him for seeing his wife suffering. Fading. Nor for the grief that came from losing his spouse, from being unable to help her or save her. Celebrían had been shattered beyond repair.

He had not been selfish enough to ask her to stay.

The agony of watching her disappear for the final time, knowing it would be many long years—centuries or millennia—before he once again beheld her beloved face or felt the brush of her familiar, comforting presence... it had been near overwhelming. Even the loss of his twin brother could not compare to the abrupt and cruel separation from his mate. To the tear that seemed to rip the seam of his soul open down the center.

But he was good at enduring.

His children were not.

They had never experienced true war or horror or violence. They had never had the same instinctual knowledge of the world being a heartless place full of danger lurking within every shadow and beneath every tree.

They had not been prepared for the loss of their mother. Children never were.

Arwen was saddened. And when she left for Lothlórien, Elrond did not try to stop her, though it ached to see her leaving the safety of the Valley when already he had lost his wife to careless travel in these dark times. Yet, if anything, she and Galadriel needed one another. Maybe they would be able to put the other back together, make the other smile once more. Take away some of the wistful longing for a mother and a daughter.

But Elladan and Elrohir were angry.

They were angry at themselves, though they would never admit it. Angry that they had not rescued their mother sooner. Angry that they had been powerless to help salvage what remained after destruction. Angry that their father had been equally helpless and had not fought to keep their family whole, but allowed their mother to slip away.

Just angry at the unfairness of it all.

Though he understood, Elrond wished he could do something to change their minds. But thoughts were not so easily manipulated and self-hatred not so quietly muted.

Without any options, he settled for watching from a distance. Trying to make sure they did nothing too reckless or too wild in their moments of sightless rage. He made sure they did not venture to the mountains alone hunting revenge. Made sure they never had a moment's rest to stew in their fury and resentment. It was, perhaps, a hopeless course of action.

There had been no other course to take.

But now, as he watched his son pacing back and forth across his study floor, Elrond felt a little spark of hope reigniting. For the first time in a long time, he could see his son in a mood other than "angry" or "depressed". For the first time in a long time, Elladan was actually concerned with someone else rather than his own miserableness.

"What is on your mind, ion-nín?"

His firstborn paused mid-step, looking down at his boots and frowning. Elrond half-expected that he would refuse to speak and stomp out of the room like a child, but a few moments of silence played prelude to hesitant initiation. "I talked to a woman in the gardens yesterday. I think... I think I may have been excessively rude to her, actually."

It was not a terribly uncommon occurrence for his sons to be brash and harsh with others as they themselves felt the world had been to them. Yet, neither of them had ever seen through their own haze of pain long enough to recognize another's needs or feelings since _the incident._

"All she did was try to help," his son added.

Easily could he picture the reaction of Elladan. Scathing words and acidic stares directed toward the intruder, the infringer. Possibly shouts and threats burnished in scorn for weakness and pity.

"Trying to help?" he inquired, pretending to be shuffling through the papers on his desk rather than watching his eldest through the shield of his thick, dark eyelashes. Watching as Elladan's hands clenched in the fabric of his tunic and twisted.

"She told me to stop sulking."

One of Elrond's eyebrows began to rise. It took a brave soul to tell a son of such potent Noldorin blood to do anything, much less order and chastise in the same sentence.

"And I... I yelled at her... said some things that I rather wish I hadn't."

"Perhaps you should apologize."

_Perhaps it would be good for you to enjoy a bit of humility. And for you to take interest in the wellbeing of another person._

"You don't understand!" The cry was filled with pure frustration. Elladan threw his hands up in the air and began pacing once more. "I actually grabbed her and shook her, yelled in her face and told her that she was a naïve little girl who didn't understand anything!"

_It is worse than I thought, this drama... I hope this is not a regular occurrence..._

"And then she told me that her mother is dead as well, that she lives with her uncle, and I..." A hand raked through his son's loose, dark hair, pulling on the untamed ends. "She was only trying to help..."

_And she_ does _understand._ The last thought went unspoken, but it was there, loud and plain as day.

_This could be exactly what he needs._ Elrond hadn't seen his boy so riled—and over a woman at that!—since before Celebrían had been attacked. _He just needs a push in the correct direction._

"Talk to her," he finally said, interrupting his son's frantic worrying before those muddy boots tread a hole in his favorite rug. "Apologize to her for your actions and talk to her. You might be surprised how much better you will feel afterward."

_And it would do you some good to have a friend and companion who is not every bit as entrenched in guilt and memories of the past as you yourself are. It would do you good to have someone who understands, who can pull you away from the road you are upon. Away from self-destruction._

"You think... you think she will listen after what I did?" Shame-faced, the boy continued to fidget, wringing his hands and rocking as he switched his weight from one foot to the other.

"I think that, at the very least, you owe her an apology. Your mother and I raised you better than this. Attacking a woman over something so petty..."

Cheeks reddened and teeth worried the lower lip.

"However, I do not believe she will be terribly angry. Most likely, she believes that _you_ dislike _her._ She might even be frightened. But her help was offered genuinely and without malice; it would be a shame to throw it back in her face."

"I do not want to speak of mother..."

_I know. Do you think I do?_ "You needn't speak of her. Just speak about _something."_

_It would take a great weight off my chest, knowing you had a confident._

Neither of them spoke after that for some time. There followed the long minutes of internal debate in which Elladan wrestled with his pride and with his guilt. With bated breath, Elrond waited for an answer. Watched his son's face morph and twist and he sorted out the plaguing thoughts writhing through his thick head.

Until, finally, a look of determination settled and solidified.

_As did the relief in his chest._

"I shall do as you suggest." Elladan pursed his lips and held his head high. Looked into his father's eyes. And for once, the son's gaze was not blackened with loathing and rage, but was paler with something entirely different. "Thank you for the advice, adar."

"Of course."

He watched his son go, and his shoulders felt lighter. Like the silver shards in those eyes.

And if, the next evening, he spied on his son talking to the maiden in the garden, well, none need know anything about the deviousness and nosiness of their lord. About the floating feeling catching at the corners of his spirit as he watched from above. About the little smiles that curved upwards lips long bent downward with the resilience of iron. About the glimmer of adoration that took up residence and brought something other than the shroud of death to his son's gaze.

Elrond was just glad to see his distraught child looking so... happy. Letting go, finally, of the mourning and the pain.

Allowing someone else into his heart.

After all, every spirit needed all the happiness and comfort they could find in times like these, with war brewing ever-present upon the horizon. Every droplet counted. Gathered and gathered into something tangible. A future worth looking forward to.

_A future he could see when his son reached out to touch the maiden's hand and she smiled back at him, fingers brushing his cheek..._

Yes, the young woman with the dark hair and the sad eyes, with a big heart full of compassion and the gentle voice ringing with sincerity, was exactly what the child needed to push himself from the quicksand of mourning. To start anew. And to create something beautiful from the ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> ion-nín = my son  
> adar = father


	210. Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was that all there was to being alive? Thranduil can't help but wonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past non-con. Catatonia. Severe depression and suicidal thoughts.
> 
> This story takes place during Catatonia (Chapter 101) but is Thranduil's POV instead of Oropher's. It is, of course, also related to Strength (Chapter 111) and Overflow (Chapter 131) amongst the rest of the Cheat arc.

Alive. Was that what this hell was called?

Being alive.

Thranduil did not like it at all. It was very cold. And very painful.

Lying there silently, he recalled the ceiling in vivid detail. His head would move neither right nor left and his hands felt anchored to the sheets, as heavy as the towering mountain's very foundation. His muscles were filled with lead, and they would not flex.

His fingers would not even twitch.

And then there was the ache. A constant, burning ache in his bones to accompany the writhing and screaming of his mind. Lying there day after day, having nothing to live for, wanting only to leave everything behind, was it any surprise he wished only to escape?

Yet no matter how he tried to withdraw within his mind—reaching for the door that would release his spirit, grasping and clawing at the locked handle until his nails were bloody and broken—there was nowhere to go. The door lay at the end of a long hallway full of barricaded rooms, their cold frames gazing out at him without compassion. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

Nothing to do. But sit and be alive.

That anyone would call this living was a sickening joke.

He could still feel. Feel the hand grasping at his, clutching tightly and squeezing. The lips brushing softly across his skin, on his knuckles and cheeks and brow. The warmth of heated water washing his bare flesh. The silkiness of sheets on his legs as he was tucked in each night.

Sheets... But the last thing he wanted to think about was a _bed. And remember the wild silver eyes flashing with glee as he screamed and struggled._

And he could hear sounds. He could hear his father's voice, alternately frantic with worry and soft with sorrow. Sometimes raging violently and sometimes crying down upon his face. Most often it was whispering in his ear, telling him how much he was loved and wanted, how much Oropher wished he would awaken and relieve his terror and heartbreak. How much his father wanted to see him move again, smile again and speak again. How much his father wished to hold him tightly again and never let go.

_Thranduil had no desire for touch or for bodily comfort. The only comfort he desired was darkness and grayness. Away from here. Away from life._

There were also the healers. And he could hear their words as well.

That he was going to fade from violation. That he was going to die and nothing could be done to resuscitate his failing spirit. What a joke! Had he been able, he might have spared a bitter laugh at their expense! Did they not see that he was already _trying_ to die, to remove his nuisance from their care? Did they not see that, had he been allowed to choose his fate, the time in which he would have descended into the gray of the Halls was long past?

Did they not see him struggling to cease his endless breath and close his distant eyes for good?

But no matter how he pulled at that locked door, it seemed there simply was neither a key to unlock its fastened edges nor blunt force enough to cave in its thick, hard wooden surface. Mandos did not desire him, and the Lord of the Death would not be forced to take him away to judgment.

_"It is not yet thy time, little one. More there is yet for thee in this life."_

More what? More suffering and displeasure? More pain to solidify the pitiful experience of fate?

_More red on white?_

What was there left for him here but a broken family and a ruined life? What was there other than scorn and hatred and terror to reign over his thoughts and feelings, ghosts from the past that could not be exorcised with time or dedication?

Memories that would never fade away.

And yet, as the months drew on, Thranduil slowly began to accept that he was _not_ going to fade and die like the healers said, no matter how powerfully he willed his own fire to burn out. No matter how desperately he wished for there to be some sort of _end._ No matter how much he hated the truth of the matter, he was _alive._

And he could not use death as a crutch to escape...

_To escape the terror of ravishment. Of being tied down and bruised and forced. Of hands yanking his hair until the roots bled or of teeth embedding themselves in his shoulders and throat, tearing into tender skin as he cried._

_Of bodies joining through agony, spilling blood down his thighs..._

Bitter though he might be, Thranduil felt the will to die leave his spirit slowly. Its acceptance was harrowing... sickening...

And when he finally moved for the first time since his rape all those months ago, he noted blandly that his skin felt warm and was flushed fully, healthy and pink. He stared down at his fidgeting, twining fingers until his father grasped his face between broad, callused hands and kissed his cheeks, pulling him into an embrace and rocking him safely like a child. Telling him how he was loved and cherished, how utterly relieved his lone parent was that he had survived. And all the while he looked over a shoulder toward the white-washed wall without reaction, without elation.

Within his spirit, fire blazed, refusing to go out. Stoked, it radiated heat into his very blood and chased away the lingering coldness. Bringing back sweet breath and the strong beat of his heart until the young elf _knew_ he was wholly and completely alive.

But within his mind, Thranduil had never felt more... dead.


	211. New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is learning to live again. And love again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past non-con and mass murder. Mpreg. Depression (possibly post-partum). Apathy and slight suicidal tendencies. It becomes fluffier as it goes, though, I promise. It only starts out really depressing. <3
> 
> The story Strength (Chapter 111) happens between the first and second scene. This is, however, the second part after Alive (Chapter 210) and is, of course, related to all of the Catatonic branch arc and the Cheat arc. Sorry, not listing all the names, too many.
> 
> As far as I know, the "Val" part of Valthoron doesn't have any canonical meaning in Sindarin. Maybe it's Nandorin or something. "Thoron", however, means eagle. Just in case anyone ever got curious about the naming thing. Feel free to make it mean whatever you wish.

A baby. With his mother's eyes and his father's locks.

It was ironic, Thranduil thought, that something so new and pristine—so beautiful—had been born from the ashes of ruin, from the end of a life, from the darkest and most horrendous of sins. And somehow had come out... untainted. So painfully alive.

The first time he held that new life in his arms, Thranduil felt nothing for it.

Nothing at all.

A child that looked like _him._ A baby that whined and squirmed and cried for its mother. A needy little thing that needed someone alive to love it and care for it.

Someone _not him._

A hand brushed his forehead gently, fingers tracing over a furrowed brow until it relaxed. Oropher's anxious presence lingered just beside the birthing bed. "Are you not going to name him, ion-nín?"

_Name him? What would I name a child? What would I name a child that I do not even want?_

Perhaps it was just the first thing that came to mind. He stared down into the watery blue eyes and the wrinkled, blotchy little face. Ignored with painful clarity the fire of the downy hair already making itself known upon that small, fragile skull.

"Valthoron."

A beautiful little life. Dead to the world, Thranduil stared at it for a few minutes more, feeling utterly blinded by its resplendence. Chained to the earth with his own lack of brilliance, still feeling no spark of joy. No reanimation of his gray world or epic epiphany of his lingering spirit. No familial kinship burned and no parental attachment yearned.

Nothing, nothing, _nothing..._

Holding his newborn son did not bring back his life.

Awkwardly they sat. And he could not bring himself to cradle the now-whimpering baby close to his breast. Could not even bring himself to smile at that face. Did not feel an ounce of maternal instinct.

He must have realized and understood, for Oropher swept the child away quickly, carrying the infant to another room. Thranduil merely leaned back against his mountain of pillows and allowed his eyes to roll upwards, to stare at the empty canvass of the ceiling, wondering if _this_ was all that "life" held for him now. What a farce! What a joke!

Later, when he heard the child crying, he did not even have the urge to get up and go to the babe, soothe away the tears and fix whatever brought upset upon his frail offspring. He did not even have the urge to so much as twitch, let alone rise from bed. He just wanted to stay still and allow all the life to seep out of his limbs.

He felt nothing... Nothing at all...

\---

The child was several months old before Thranduil next handled the tiny, delicate form.

Limber and curious, Valthoron was already keeping his caretaker and grandfather upon his toes day-in and day-out with his antics and insatiable troublemaking. The little one had taken up crawling like a duckling takes to water, getting into everything that caught his fancy, from Oropher's hair to the kitchen cupboards to the dirt of the flowerbeds. Truly, the child's clothing was stained and torn and utterly ruined, and yet the boy seemed not worse for it at all.

And he had to admit, the babe was adorable, even with streaks of dark mud across his face and dripping off his grabby little fingers. Chubby cheeks and huge eyes, a tiny button nose and bouncy curls spilling all over.

For the first time, Thranduil actually sat down and played with his son.

_"I want to see him."_

_"Are you sure... If you need more time to recover..."_

_"I am certain, Adar."_

Allowed those tiny, perfect little fingers to wrap around his longer, graceful digits and felt connection. Allowed the child to gnaw his hand and smear dirt all over his clothes and didn't mind. Even allowed Valthoron to muss and tangle his hair, drooling all over the finely combed and braided locks, and somehow he was endeared by the mess rather than repulsed

The little one made himself home in Thranduil's lap, leaning up against his "mother". Large eyes—turquoise eyes, so blatantly of the Sindarin bloodline that the young parent felt his heart settle somewhere in his throat—began to droop with fatigue as early afternoon set in with its lethargic heat bearing down. The toothless mouth opened in a breathtaking yawn, complete with a small coo of delight, before the child snuggled into the warmth offered so freely and tenderly.

_"I want to get stronger. And I want to know my child. I care not how he was conceived."_

_"You care not at all?"_

_"Not at all."_

Raising a trembling hand, Thranduil stroked through the fiery curls. But they did not burn his skin nor carve open deep welts of scarlet—not like the locks of the man in his nightmares, whose russet curls laid like white-hot brands to bare flesh, leaving behind vivid, imaginary marks that still stung. Carefully, Thranduil allowed himself to enjoy the downy feeling between his fingers.

Allowed himself to enjoy a little bit of that warmth which had so sorely been missing. The lost fire that left behind a festering wound that would not heal before it was cleansed properly of infectious depression.

A little slice of life born anew.

Wrapping his arms around the tiny form, Thranduil closed his eyes and lay back in the grass, sleeping child spilled all across his stomach and chest, chubby little legs hanging over his sides and head tucked safely beneath his chin. Without thought, his eyes began to droop, and his hands stroked and stroked the silky hair and the soft cheeks, tickling across fluttering eyelashes...

It was warm... so warm...

\---

The boy had just turned seven, and Thranduil wondered how he would ever keep up with such energy. Always heading somewhere new. Always trying something different. Running to and fro from dusk til dawn, his son was an endless bundle of pure _life._ As curious and inquisitive and adventurous as ever had a young child been.

Long since had Valthoron begun speaking, and he talked constantly about anything and everything. About his fascination with the birds and their pretty voices echoing in the trees. About all the flowers in their miasma of colors and the sweetness of their scents. About all his silly little half-imagined fairytale adventures involving dragons and slaying evil dark lords as he romped through the meadows and forests.

It was... nice. More than nice. More than comforting and soothing.

It was like bathing in the sun.

When he had first held the child—little Valthoron, son of a nameless Kinslayer—he would never have imagined such a product of terror and bloodshed could bring such joy and splendor to anyone's life. That such a reminder of all the things he wished most dearly to forget could somehow become so central to his existence that he could not imagine going without the tiny, brilliant spirit.

There were not many things that Thranduil much cared for.

But he _adored_ Valthoron.

The broad smile on that bright little face, lighting up whenever he came into sight. Raining down the warmth upon his skin, leaving a smile of his own helplessly quirking at his lips.

He would reach down and lift the child up, pressing his lips against freckly, flushed cheeks and on the delightfully small, slightly upturned nose, relishing in the peals of giggles that would follow. And it would leave his insides quivering with a feeling other than dread. Would drain color back into his black-and-white world until he could not imagine fading away into paleness and leaving this behind.

_I understand why... why I was not accepted within the Halls..._

_Why Mandos sent me back..._

Valthoron would never have been born. Would never have even existed. And any happiness that could have been scrounged from the wreckage of broken lives would have been long-lost to a broad ocean of despair and unhappiness that would never evaporate, would never dry up and uncover the sea-floor of possibilities beneath.

The thought of lingering as a shadow forever, dead in all but spirit and wandering the pitiless gray Halls, was enough to send cold shudders through Thranduil's body. Enough to make his hands grasp his son and hold tight the little one to his chest, embracing gratefully.

It didn't matter that Valthoron was half of _him._ That he had freckles and red hair like the fiery demon-spawn of his wretched dreams. That he looked like a noldo and shared in their innate curiosity and stubbornness. It didn't matter that he had not been wanted or planned. That he was not born of a peaceful union of love and acceptance, but of something hard and cruel.

None of it mattered, because the tiny child hugging skinny arms around his neck and nuzzling against his cheek was _his son._ The little tendril of fire that somehow managed to bring new life to this desolate reality.

And Thranduil was thankful for that fire of spirit. And for the accident that resulted in this twist of destiny.

He was holding on with two hands. Never planning to let go.


	212. Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another spirit is added to the ranks of the infamous House of Fëanor. No matter that he, himself, remains oblivious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intoxication. Past child abuse. Minor violence and verbal abuse. Depression. Mentions non-con rather blatantly, as well as murder. Lots of dramatic irony just for kicks. Sorry for another depressing Valthoron story, but I promise the next one (which I've already written) is not as sad.
> 
> A continuation, of a sort, of Shame (Chapter 109), but related to the entire Cheat arc and Catatonic side-arc, especially New (Chapter 211).

If there was anything Valthoron had truly hated as a child, it was when the adults became drunk.

He had not understand, truly, the fancy for fine wines that ran as blood over the tongue, so thick and flavorful, young as he had been. All he understood was that, when the wine came out and the glasses filled to the brim flowed and spilled over the edges, it was time to retreat to his bedroom and pretend he didn't exist. To pretend that his fiery hair had gone out like a snuffed candle's flame.

Learned well, he had, after the first time Oropher had thrown a half-full goblet at his head in the midst of intoxication. Valthoron, from then on, stayed well away from the older elves when they drank and made revelry. Or cultivated anger and bitter resentment.

But he had grown. Long since now had he been old enough to partake in the festivities, and he had thus far avoided the "honor". He did not want to be anywhere near to _them._

However, it could not be avoided forever.

There came the day when he was cornered into attending one of the parties. The outside bonfire roaring skyward and tables of food spread out in a gluttonous feast for all the revelers. Enchanted lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating the normally darkened eaves and casting their ghostly glow over the grass.

And then there was the wine. _And then there was the wine._

His ada was sipping daintily, savoring visibly, eyes fluttering shut as a hum of appreciation left his throat. However, Oropher _drank_ his alcohol like a man in a drought gulped water.

And Valthoron, for his part, pretended to sip at the pool of red liquid. It was bitter on his tongue, and he took no appreciation in its consumption, abstaining in silence. Instead, he sat by his ada's side and watched as the elves around him became more and more intoxicated, joining into the dancing and the singing, some so drunken they stumbled and grinned and yelled with abandon.

Oropher was not one of those happy drunkards. Instead, he brooded, leaning back in his chair and watching the dancing with distant, cold eyes and down-turned lips. And when his goblet emptied, there was a servant to fill it to the brim once more.

That face was frozen, expressionless and impassive to the joy of the people. Caught in a net of dark thoughts. And Valthoron knew that, should his grandfather be pulled from reverie—from staring off somewhere in the distance, agonizing over the past—the older elf would be angry. Would shout and rave. Might even throw the heavy silver goblet within his white-knuckled hand at the intruder infringing upon his haven of desolation.

If anything, Valthoron wanted to leave as soon as possible. Discomfort crawled across his flesh, not only at the proximity of his grandfather, but also at the heavy weight of unpleasant gazes, no matter their distance or wariness. He only stayed because his ada was still here and had wanted him to come and "enjoy" himself for the night.

_"You are far too somber, ion-nín. Some fun would do you well. For me?"_

Thus, when Thranduil stood to leave, so too did his son.

Flashing blue eyes caught him in a net, a captive butterfly whose escape was cut off. His ada was not drunk like the others—barely even tipsy and not unbalanced upon his feet in the least—and thus remained perceptive, if sad-eyed.

"You needn't leave on my account, ion-nín."

_Stay._

"I have had quite my fill of fun."

"You have not even danced." His ada gave him a mildly reproachful look. The _knowing_ look. "Stay and keep your daeradar company. Find a lady to dance with and enjoy yourself away from my side. I am not in need of a constant guardian; I can return home quite well enough on my own."

And there went his chance to escape this oppressive weight of tension. Reluctantly—for he did not wish to argue with his ada—Valthoron nodded and allowed his body to sink back down into his chair. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Oropher staring all too perceptively, incisive gaze boring holes through flesh down to the bone.

Thranduil left them alone. Valthoron wished he wouldn't have. The memory of fleeing from his enraged kinsman still echoed vividly within his thoughts.

But after an hour of sitting in silence with his grandfather, his worry seemed in vain, for Oropher took no interest in him. Went back to staring off into the darkness of unlit trees, seeing something that was not there.

Looking pained.

And still the wine flowed. And flowed and _flowed._

And though he was not acting the fool, Valthoron knew Oropher was drunk. Beyond drunk, nearly passing out from overindulgence to the point of sickness. Even elves could only take so much of the toxin that ran through the blood of the richest of wines. He could _see_ the older elf rocking slightly in his chair, eyes fluttering and drooping, fingers faintly trembling.

Staring off into the distance.

"D... Daeradar?"

Not even a twitch.

"Daeradar, do you not think you have had quite enough?" His concern for his kin outweighed his fear of overreaction. After all, he was fairly talented at dodging, and how accurately could a drunken elf throw a projectile in any case?

But his words had no effect at all. Those eyes did not even glance in his direction. Not even when he stood up and walked to his grandfather's side. Not even when he reached out to press his fingers softly to a powerful forearm. Or when he lowered the hand cradling shakily the goblet half-filled with wine.

There was the click of metal upon the table. Valthoron waited for some sort of reaction, but none came. Cautiously, he reached out toward the hand upon the goblet, intending to pry the fingers loose. Intending to drag his drunken kinsman home even if Oropher planned on staring off into space and dragging his feet the entire way. After all, his ada would be displeased if he allowed anything unpleasant to befall—

He did not even see it coming.

Fingers brushed against fingers, and suddenly Valthoron's world was spinning. His cheek stung sharply, and the sound of a harsh slap echoed through the clearing, silencing the revelry. Drawing forth all attention, all the wide-eyed looks of shock.

There was then only the sound of crackling fire and the glare of icy blue eyes.

"Get thee gone, child of sin!"

From his grandfather's own throat. Valthoron felt his stomach twist until he thought it was trying to writhe its way up out of his mouth and onto his boots. "Daeradar, I merely wished to—"

"No child of _my_ blood are you!" It was said softly, but with such unshakable firmness that there could be no doubt of its denotation. "Child of rape and filth, the son of a Kinslayer. You should never even have existed! Can you not see the pain _you cause with your presence?"_

_The pain you cause._

_Like the flashes of terror in ada's eyes, fleeting as a summer shower. The flinch when fingers washed through his vivid curls and snagged in a tangle. The nightmares that left Thranduil unable to touch him for days afterward._

Of course Valthoron _knew._ Of course he could _see._

_But to hear it from his own kin._

"Get. Thee. Gone."

And everyone was staring in utter silence, enraptured with the performance. With the shameful rejection now burned through Valthoron's heart. Waiting for his response with gleeful anticipatory quiet, hungering for his humiliation and dejection.

And yet he could not speak without being violently ill. Could not move but for his harsh trembling. Could hardly see but for the burn of tears blurring his world into shape and shadow.

They _hated him._

_Child of rape._

He obeyed his grandfather.

\---

And remembered with perfect clarity the day he had taken a knife to his hair as a young child, ignorant of the meaning of his actions and the actions of others. Now he stood at the shore of the same river. Staring into his own reflection, far off into the forest and completely alone in the dark. And he wondered...

Wondered if Thranduil's rapist had hair like waves of fire spilling over broad shoulders.

If that was the origin of the cleft chin and powerful jaw which marked him from his kin. There was no softness in his features, no sleekness or roundness, only the harsh angles and lines of something cruel and forbidding.

Of a monster.

This was _why._ Why his ada ached at looking into the depths of his face and touching his wild hair. Why his grandfather remained so distant and untouchable, refusing him even the comfort of an embrace or a kiss. Why the other elves stayed several feet away, parting to allow his passage through their midst as though he carried a contagious disease.

His father had been a golodh. A Kinslayer and a rapist and a murderer in the cold blood. Had... to his ada...

_Child of rape._

Valthoron knew now that he was a product of nothing more than hatred and sadism.

He stared into the water and hated that reflection with every last ounce of his being. Somewhere out there, that man might still exist, might still be killing. Might still be raping. The sire who had given him life through violence and pain. But not through love. Never through love.

_That was why he had always been alone with his ada._

_That was why the others glared from his peripheral sight._

_That was why he was suffering..._

Part of him hated his own _being._ And his own nature. For he was half of that other nameless, faceless monster. Half of a nightmare. Half of something so utterly tarnished and slicked with filth that it was beyond recognition as a blessing and a joy.

_That was why none had ever taken happiness in his existence._

_"You should never even have existed!"_

But he _did._

And he _could_ hate himself. But Valthoron knew that, more than he hated himself for the pain he brought upon his family—just by having the form and face of a Kinslayer—he hated more the creature who had caused the wreckage and rubble that encompassed what would once have been a pristine home full of tender beauty, full of love and sweetness. Happiness.

_He_ had _destroyed_ that future. Destroyed Thranduil and left him to fade. Destroyed their family and left it to rot.

Destroyed _Valthoron_ and left him in the dark.

And born of that destruction came the hate and the rage. Like second nature, it embraced and enfolded, rained its branding heat down and yet somehow soothed the torturous writhing of his agonized spirit. Drove his blood to a wild frenzy and all the same chased away the cold feeling of despair awash within his chest.

Saved him for a little while longer.

_Child of rape. Child of fire._

And, though none knew it—not even he—a spirit of fire had been created, born from the inferno and ash. It was in the blood. In the soul. In the eyes that stared back from the rippling water like blue stars, breaking apart the shadow of the night beneath the resplendence of their fey fury.

_A Fëanorion_. Every inch. Every tear. Every droplet of vengeful malice.

His jaw steeled and his teeth clenched. Brows furrowed into deep, harsh lines over his scowling face. And, for a second time, Valthoron took his blade to the long strands of flame, sheering them away into an uneven mess, watching their mangled remains float down the river to oblivion.

He _had_ no father.

And should ever the man who had committed this crime against his family show his face—

_Valthoron's face._

—he would _tear him apart._

_And enjoy his screams_. Thus, he promised in oath, gazing up at the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> ada = papa, dad  
> ion-nín = my son  
> daeradar = grandfather  
> golodh = Noldorin elf  
> Fëanorion = son of the House of Fëanor


	213. Murmur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rift between Fëanor and Indis births a new hatred and envy. A new tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see... Irrational thoughts and behaviors. Mother and father complexes. Sibling rivalry taken a few levels too high. Family feuding.
> 
> This is distinctly related to Precious (Chapter 201), Hold (Chapter 198) and Dim (Chapter 193) amongst others.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

News of the birth was all over the city.

New of the birth of a boy-child. A prince.

Fëanáro had not much believed it would be a bother to have another younger sibling. He could easily tolerate little Findis, who at most wanted occasionally to be held and rocked by her big brother or to play games and have her hair braided like the ladies of court. Now there would be another little one in the palace. A harmless little child, the son or daughter of his father and his stepmother...

_That woman..._

But he forced his feelings for her usurpation aside. His bitter and eternal resentment of that lovely heart-shaped face and those coy blue eyes, those malicious thoughts had no place on the day of birth of his second sibling. Fëanáro might not have been fond of the woman, but he did not want to upset his father, whose experiences in the past with young children were already chipped and scuffed enough without his foul temper further darkening their shadows.

It was a day of joy for his family. And he wanted Finwë to be happy on the day he became a father for the third time, not wracked with guilt or sorrow over the rift of his beloved wife and son.

And thus it was that, as he made his way through town, Fëanáro had every intention of welcoming his young brother into the world with a genuine smile and a tender kiss upon the brow no matter that the babe had come from the womb of Indis of the Vanyar.

Until he heard _it._

The murmur of voices.

From every direction they washed over him in tandem with curious and speculative gazes. They prickled and prodded at his flesh, and the prince pursed his lips in irritation as he watched the public break into a flurry of words whispered behind raised hands, their combined excitement building into a faint din.

_"There he goes... the prince..."_

_"He is going to see his new brother, I am certain."_

_"But what do you think he shall do?"_

_"The King and Queen, they now have a son."_

_"There is an heir..."_

_An heir..._

It made Fëanáro's blood run cold, burning the walls of his veins with a cruel touch.

_Usurpation._

It had not even occurred to his now frenetically calculating mind that there would ever be doubt over his status as the King's eldest son and true heir. But it _should have._ After all, his mother was not the Queen and was not married to the King. Not anymore. And she never would be again, thus had decreed the Valar in their cruel courting of perfection. A phantom of the past, Míriel was but a dance of silvery wisps in the coolness of the evening evaporating with the waxing of Laurelin to full glory. As though she had never existed.

And Indis was that garish light. The replacement. The _Queen._ She had overlapped Míriel completely, eclipsing the former beauty with her golden resplendence. Taking her place as sovereign. Taking her place as wife. Taking her place as _mother._

Now she had given birth to a son. The firstborn son of Finwë and Indis. The King and his _new Queen._ His _chosen and rightful spouse._

And thus, was their firstborn son the _rightful heir?_

Was that child meant to _replace_ him? _Erase him altogether? As she had been erased?_

In his belly, Fëanáro felt the twist and stab of something undesirable and filthy, a black coating burning at the edges of his vision. The sort of envy that screamed for shed blood in payment for her seductive attention and fulfillment. A tenuous darkness settled in a thin layer of dust over his mind as he entered the home of his father, fleeing the murmur that promised doubts and mazes of ill thoughts.

Only...

_Only the faint noise did not cease..._

Not when he came upon the birthing chambers where he knew Indis would be resting after her ordeal. Voices, soft and distant, echoed from inside, but they lilted with a joyous ring that brought a wave of nausea to Fëanáro's stomach and a heavy, leaden ache to his heart. That was his father's baritone, crooning soothingly, quivering with emotion. And the image settled itself deep into the prince's mind, a poisoned needle sinking and sinking to the blood...

_Of Finwë cradling the baby, gaze lovingly enraptured. Of those eyes glancing up as the door opened, catching upon the eldest son and then sliding away, back to that small, wrinkled little face with the big blue eyes. Ignoring his presence. Turning the brilliance of his love upon another and leaving Fëanáro standing alone in the corner. Hiding alone in the darkness without the ever-present light._

_A nightmarish daydream of dismissal. Of disappearing altogether like a wisp of silver, fleeting and delicate, destroyed..._

It went against every sliver of pride he possessed, buried beneath the top layer of thick skin, but part of Fëanáro knew he was _fearful._ That his pulse raced, not with anticipation at meeting for the first time his brother, but with the purest form of dread at first sight of the child in his father's arms...

And his muscles quivered with the slimiest form of _hatred._

He did not enter the room to see the baby—his younger brother. His _half-brother_. His rival and enemy.

His own personal Indis. _His own personal unforgiving ray of golden light._

But Fëanáro would not allow his tragedy to end in a reprise. Grinding his teeth, he turned away and silently passed down the halls without bothering to interrupt the atmosphere of those airy chambers. When Finwë came to seek him out from his hiding in the corners, he would put a smile on his face and spout a shower of congratulations and pretend at affectionate endearment for the babe. He would put on a good show of being a loving older brother with gentle hands and a coaxing smile. 

Convincing though it might be, though, it would be but a show. A charade to please and placate. After all, no politician became a figure of worth unless they knew how to speak blatant lies without batting a lash. And few could claim to best the Crown Prince at his own game of half-truths and white lies.

He would feign at happiness for his father. And only for his father.

But he did not think he would ever be able to look upon his brother as an elder sibling ought. As a protector ought. Not whilst the murmur of doubt rested as dead-weight upon his spirit, embedding itself as a sickness into the back of his mind. And infected.

There would be no love between them. And never that of brothers.


	214. Devious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rift between the House of Fëanor and the House of Fingolfin is widening, its destruction careening out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family feuding taking a new level in badass. Lots of manipulation, mostly political or familial in some nature. Death threats implied. Mother and father complexes (on the part of Fëanor).
> 
> Related heavily to Murmur (Chapter 213) and Precious (Chapter 201). Along with all of the Exception arc pretty much.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro, Curufinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë

It was an intricate dance, the courtship of rivalry. Not the sweet, childish rivalry or the dashing, romantic rivalry, but something more bloodthirsty and less forgiving. Something animalistic and harsh. Primal on a level beyond rationalism. Something that oft made his mouth water in delightful anticipation of the fall.

The fall of his enemies. For few could withstand the cunning of Fëanáro Curufinwë.

Perhaps it was in poor taste, the games he played with those who stood in his way. Like a cat toying with a helpless mouse, plucking off its legs one by one so it might not successfully escape but taking no less satisfaction in watching the mutilated creature's attempts to flee, watching the poor rodent writhe in pain and squeal in fright at the sight of razor-sharp claws poised. Perhaps it was sadistic, the epitome of silent cruelty...

But it was the way of the world.

Obstacles moved themselves from his path of destruction, notorious for its unforgiving nature. And yet the only obstacle that dared set itself within his trajectory willingly—eagerly—was the one he hated the most. The one he most wished to tear apart with his bare hands.

Nolofinwë.

There had always been that little niggling strand of doubt, crawling and creeping across the floor of his thoughts, almost out of sight but ever within his peripheral vision. A dark spot that would simply not cease to block out the light. But long had he ignored its murmurs, its lies and schemes, the product of what he knew to be jealousy and envy. What he knew to be the aftermath of his great love for his father and mother, and his great fear of losing his place in the false reality of their family...

And yet now that fear was redoubled tenfold and again, spurring on the growth and spread of that ugly shadow. The rumors and whispers were returned, louder than ever, and more dangerous. No longer whispers merely of Nolofinwë replacing the eldest son in the warm embrace of his father's heart and tenderness.

No, these rumors were worse than just naive supposition. So much worse.

His skin crawled at the _thought_ of their meaning. Truly, both he and his sibling were devious creatures, striving to surpass the other at every turn, if only because each had something that the other desired.

But to go so far... as to actually usurp Fëanáro's rightful place at his father's side as the Crown Prince...

It made the elder brother's blood _boil._ Suddenly, that black little whisper that he recalled with startling sharp clarity—cutting a deep gasp across his memory—was returning to haunt his waking moments. Like the sting and ache of an infected, pus-filled wound.

Before, it had been a mere dislike he shared with his brother, the sort of hatred that was gentle as a lover's caress, almost fragile. The rivalry of siblings wrought in dark emotion, but not in true threat of life or limb. He had pushed aside that sort of hatred for his younger sibling. Had disallowed its progression into something truly worrying and undesirable.

But now there was no need for lack of desire.

There was no need to play the game sweetly in the shadows. If Nolofinwë wanted to bend the rules, bent he would receive them. In full.

Fëanáro touched the sword at his belt. He was prepared.

\---

And, across the city, Nolofinwë threw down a stack of papers upon his desk and watched them scatter to and fro upon the wood, slipping and spilling onto the floor. Feeling disgusted and disgruntled and concerned all wrapped into one large tangle of utter _frustration._

Truth be told, he did not know what to think about the latest rumors circulated the court and the city. The insidious whispers.

They made him incredibly nervous. Certainly, he knew that his older half-brother was not fond of him or of his family, the lack of affection going back since before his conception and birth. Certainly, they had had many differences of opinion in the past as any siblings, be they half or whole, were prone to come upon. And, most definitely, they did not get along as two close siblings might, but treated one another almost as strangers when they were forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder beside one another in a room. Two strangers who hated one another passionately and would gladly take the opportunity to tarnish the other's standings.

But there were _rules_ , silent though they might be, to the feud that the brothers swept into conspicuous hiding beneath the rug of civility and mannerisms. There was a certain amount of poise, a reputation to uphold and an image to cultivate.

In public, the two brothers smiled and acted toward one another as two civil, friendly creatures. Only giving away their utter disdain for the other with razor-bladed smirks and eyes of adamant. But their words were always fenced in with propriety, always straying just short of utter insult. Always within the boundaries. Always controlled and acceptable, the sarcastic barbs they tossed back and forth, hoping the sharp and rusty thorn would pierce the other's flesh where it hurt most.

An underhanded game they played indeed, and Nolofinwë would have been lying had he stated that he did not enjoy its intricacy and challenge. Did not enjoy facing off against his older sibling in a battle of minds and wits. But this... this was taking it _too far!_

After all, for all that they disliked one another, Nolofinwë had never believed the Crown Prince would fall so low as to...

As to _banish his own family! To render them powerless!_

Half-brothers though they might be, they shared kin and blood and home with one another, did they not? They shared the blood of a father! Dislike in any quantity should not have been enough to goad either side into taking such drastic measures against the other.

But then, as of late Curufinwë had been growing restless and obnoxious. Rebellious. With each passing year he became more and more treacherous, an ocean dissolving into the chaos of a violent storm that would sweep away all in its path.

No matter whom they might be—those victims.

It made the nagging, itching feeling of revulsion shudder through Nolofinwë's body.

As well as the fear.

Because he _knew_ that Curufinwë had the power to do this awful deed. But a murmur into their father's ear and Finwë would give his eldest son whatever the spoiled prince of a man might desire. Each day the tangled, strangling vines of the eldest son's influence grew and grew, branching up until they had wrapped around the father's throat. Until Finwë would never speak out against his favored and firstborn child, voice choked out by the brilliance of that Spirit of Fire.

Should Curufinwë present but even a single persuasive argument... Should he come up, in his deep and strangely-working mind of genius, with even _one reason..._

Nolofinwë clutched at the strands of his hair and tugged. Even should Curufinwë _not_ go through the King in order to procure his treachery, there were other ways. Other methods. Each worse than that which came before it.

If the Crown Prince wanted his half-siblings _gone_ , that was _exactly_ what he would get.

Unless...

Unless Finwë was on the side of the younger brother.

After all, Nolofinwë knew no soul—not even Nerdanel—who could change the mind and whims of Fëanáro Curufinwë as could the High King. For Curufinwë adored his father above all others, perhaps even his own wife and children. And if Finwë stood up and demanded obedience, then the eldest son would give himself unto his father's hands and allow this farce of a game to fade back into the background where it belonged.

Nolofinwë knew what he had to do. Clenching his jaw, he stood from his desk and made for his chambers. It would not do to be seen by the High King in his simplistic and unadorned evening robes, no matter their degree of relation.

\---

And, in the shadows, a red-eyed face smiled broadly at the culmination of devious plans long set in motion. Now all the pieces were falling into place so easily, manipulated so precisely, obeying so beautifully. The perfect pawns stationed for sacrifice in favor of the ultimate result:

The win.

Neither of those tiny pieces—the black and the white—could see the truth of their tragedy.

They were already in checkmate.


	215. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I heard somewhere that Mithrellas ran off and left he family behind. It sounds horrible, but strangely understandable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Untouchable (Chapter 119) and related to Dismiss (Chapter 134), Compromise (Chapter 139) and Journey (Chapter 154) but not really part of the same arc. Yet, anyway.
> 
> Contains a human-elf relationship. Canonical character death. Half-elven problems. Depression. Etc...

It was not that she had not loved her husband or held his people beloved in her heart. Not that at all.

She loved the man she married, old and gray though he had become in his final years upon the earth. And she loved her son and daughter, both fully grown with families of their own before their first century had even turned. She loved even the lowly servants of the kitchens with the brisk, graceful hands and the cheerful sentinels of the palace gates who always offered smiles. The men who dutifully guarded the city and drank and made merry off duty. The women who gathered together to sew in the afternoon and exchange gossip. The young girls spending their days blushing at the young men from their modest windowsills.

Mithrellas loved these people, fleeting though they might be.

So very fleeting that, with but a flutter of her eyelashes, they seemed to vanish as a petal upon a breeze.

Until she one day looked at her husband and realized he was _old._ Not in the way of years as she, but in the way of the body and mind. Content with the expanse of his years and the wisdom gathered within his spirit. _Ready to move on and join his ancestors..._

And here she stood, contradictory and paradoxical, still the same untouchable creature of the stars that she had been all those years ago when first he had pulled her from her reverie and despair, carrying her away from the lofty heights and down to the tender earth. The same wistful remembrance still cold as ice remained, settled like a blade forever embedded in the throbbing flesh of her heart. Stagnant.

Her eyes looked out over the people again. The maids once young and fair when first she had joined their sewing and spinning were now old and gray, wrinkles at the corners of their eyes and grandchildren clutching at the hems of their skirts. The guardians once young and playful, wrestling in the courtyard and joking with one another over tankards now were becoming frail of form and their beards fading to white.

The little ones—the children who had once stared at her in such awe as only a young, sweet soul might possess—now looked older than she. And their children were above her waist and growing taller seemingly by the moment.

Her own daughter... Her own son...

To one of the race of Men, _they_ looked the father or the mother and _she_ the daughter.

Frozen in time like a statue of mithril.

And this, more than anything, Mithrellas came to mourn and despise. It never left her mind, not when she pressed herself against her husband's chest and listened to the beat of his heart. Not when she gathered her daughter close and admired the growing swell of a third child. Not when she stretched upon her tiptoes to press a kiss to her son's weathered cheek in greeting.

Not for a moment did she forget. But she turned aside and pushed away the awareness, knowing it would bring her only pain and disillusionment.

Until the day came when her husband did not wake from his slumber, his face peaceful and restful but his body empty of all brilliance and spirit. Gone like the flash of sparks in the darkness, and to her it seemed to have been naught but a year since they had first met. Naught but a shallow breath swallowed within the recesses of time.

They were leaving her behind. Everywhere she turned, they moved on around her, the river parting for the cutting edge of a jagged rock. Always moving and moving. Changing and changing. Leaving her behind. Not even glancing backward at her still form and wistful gaze.

Never before had she felt such pain. Such isolation.

Amongst her people, the old did not pass beyond the edges of the world and children did not become adult until their hundredth year.

Her beloved Imrazôr had lived only to the age of one-hundred and twenty-six. Hardly more than a babe to the many ages that she felt writhing beneath her pale, seemingly newly fallen skin. And, within another century, her children would be dead. All those young maids and boisterous warriors naught but dust decaying and disintegrating beneath several feet of earth, little more than a grave marker to tell those who walked past their final beds of dirt that they had even existed for such a short moment of time.

If even that.

All too soon, she would wake up one day and see no familiar faces. All of them, dead.

Such was the curse of an elf amongst mortal creatures. A folly she had never realized she possessed until it was far too late to turn back. Far too late to throw away her love and attachment.

Far too late to _forget._

But not to late to let go.

As she stood on that cliff overlooking the pearl of a city below, her home now for many a year, she felt that bond beginning to fray at the edges, being torn apart by clawing fingers of dread and terror.

She would blink and they would be _gone._ As though they had never been true in the first place, only an illusion of pleasure and paradise sketched to life by her frantically mind. Her desperate hands grasping for that fleeting droplet of true bliss in a word comprising only more tragic endings and more empty deaths. A droplet that evaporated so quickly and so mercilessly from between her clenched fingers.

And she did not know that she could stand the pain. Not even the _thought._ Going on and on and on for endless generations, each yielding a new yet familiar face that was not the face for which her eyes searched so desperately. Each bringing back sharply the bitter knowledge that, in the end, she could not hope to pull back those missing spirits and pull them to her bosom and embrace them close.

For they were of the Edain. And she was of the Quendi. Their fates were apart, their tragedy begun as soon as their hands entwined and their love was forged.

Always she had been standing upon this distant cliff alone. But blind to ravages of its apathy. Blind to the growing shadow of its misery.

Blind to the dark cloud lingering upon the edge of the horizon, yielding turmoil and discontent.

But blind no more was Mithrellas. Looking down upon the place that had been more a home and hearth to her spirit than ever had been the golden boughs and eaves of Lothlórien, she felt the dimming of her thrumming spirit beneath her ribs. The longing was like a mithril thread pulling her back towards that distant whiteness rising from the edge of the sea. More than anything she wished to turn back.

To embrace her son and kiss her daughter. To hold her grandchildren tight and never let go.

And yet she turned away. Like being shot with an arrow was the sudden separation. The sudden disconnection. For now she turned away from the city and the ocean where she had held bliss within the cup of her palms. Instead, she looked to the mountains rising in the distance, their dripping fangs offering little comfort and assurance. Only past regrets and failures.

There were two paths to tragedy, and Mithrellas thought she would go with the kinder.

To let go now and be forever sundered from those for whom she cared. Because to linger and slowly die day-by-day in an endless cycle of doomed love was a cruel fate indeed. A brand of isolation more addictive and more devastating than merely standing alone, it was, to be alone amongst a crowd of strangers, unable to find the way home and yet entrapped in the net of venomous hope that kept feet moving and hands reaching...

If she had to choose her cruel fate, let it be the lesser and the quicker. And maybe there might be happiness yet left to clutch in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Edain = Race of Men
> 
> Quenya:  
> Quendi = Elves (as a species)


	216. Starve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has decided to befriend Valthoron. Can you guess who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter Jackson has conveniently created an OFC for me so I do not have to do it myself. Now, if only the Desolation of Smaug would come out faster, my life would be so much easier writing this chick. Of course, that gave away the surprise, but meh~ I have no idea if Tauriel is really a "captain" or not, but she is supposed to be head of the Mirkwood forces or whatever, so she is now. And, supposedly, her character is going to be part of some sort of romance not involving Legolas, but as I have no idea who and don't particularly care, she is now being paired with Valthoron for kicks.
> 
> Forgive me for this particularly long AN, but I hope no one finds this to be disappointing. I know lots of people rag on Tauriel for pretty much being an OFC (I myself was hesitant about the rather feminist historical-cultural statement her presence in the adaption of The Hobbit makes), but nonetheless I am going to go ahead with this, mostly because I don't really feel like writing another slash pairing yet and I actually have plans for most of my characters already.
> 
> Warnings: lots of red hair, cultural/social prejudices, nonconformism, Silvan cultural stuff (all my head-canon)
> 
> Valthoron is, of course, my OMC who is the son of Amrod and Thranduil and appears in the Shame sub-arc of the Cheat arc (Shame (Chapter 109), Cry (Chapter 181), and Born (Chapter 212) most prominently) as well as the Catatonic sub-arc, in which he's a baby.
> 
> And with that, I shall say no more and allow you to move on with your day.

It was hard _not_ to notice.

And to take pity.

After all, Tauriel was very young and a child of purely Silvan descent, no Sindarin blood flowing through her veins or old memories to dull her sight. When she looked at the prince, she did not see anything more than a man whose features were slightly foreign and whose hair could easily have outshone the setting of Anor in its many shades of crimson and gold and burnished orange. If anything, she found the recherche features and the tall, slightly broad-shouldered build to be attractive and desirable.

There was no denying it. Valthoron was a handsome man indeed, with his distinctly masculine face and build and his vibrant red curls that easily outshone her own soft red hair.

But most did not see that when they looked at him.

They saw a _golodh._ They saw something frightening and dangerous to be ostracized and avoided. Some of them saw a murderer and a demon come to slit their throats in the night. Some of them saw something a thousand-fold worse haunting their footsteps in the dark.

They were illusions painted over reality by ghosts of the past. She understood that. Truly she did.

But how no one could see through such flimsy facades baffled her mind.

How could they not see the self-conscious hunch of his broad shoulders when they sneered? How could they not see the averting of his stunning blue eyes when they observed coldly with scorn? How could they not see the sadness that washed across his face whenever he heard their sibilant whispers?

How could they be so _heartless?_

After all, what had he truly done to them? _To anyone?_ Tauriel might be young, but she knew about the Kinslayings and the end of peace under the stars. She knew about the strangers from across the sea bringing black terror and death and destruction, dragging it further and further and further east every year. She knew that it was because of the Golodhrim that her people even now were suffering—for their greed and vengeful blood—or so the story had always unfolded.

And yet, though Valthoron carried half of them in his blood, he carried half of their King's pale, cold poise and quiet wisdom as well. He was not _one of them._

_He is one of us._

Risking his life for his people. Protecting them every day and every night as did every guardian of the realm. Side-by-side she had worked with him countless times and never had he faltered. Never had he let her down. Never did his care for the safety of his companions and comrades waver even for a moment.

If anything, Valthoron was as Silvan as any of the people born beneath the eaves of the Greenwood—more so than some of them, for all his strange appearance and brooding darkness. He _was_ a wood elf, raised his entire life amongst the trees and the open sky. Spending all his years living in telain and caves. Knowing never the craftsmanship or the greed of the Golodhrim, but the peaceful and conservative lifestyle of those who made their homes in the Greenwood to the east.

How could they think that he was anything but another of their own people?

Logically, she knew it was his looks. The cruel curve of his brow. The harsh angles of his nose and jaw. The powerful and unyielding set of his lips. They never noticed the softening in his eyes or the little smirks that tilted the corners of his iron-forged frown. They never saw the strawberry blushes and the sweet downcast of shy eyes. They never saw how he only wanted to fit in, to be able to talk to them without hidden tension and sit amongst them as friend to friend without discontent.

They were _blind._

And she felt pity. More than she would ever admit.

Because even those looks, angular and harsh, were a mask. To hide away the starvation. The longing for simple affection. Friendship and comradeship. Companionship and adoration.

To hide the flashes of stress and despair that wormed their way into his pale eyes when he thought no one was looking.

She wished people could see that his spirit was growing thinner and thinner with each passing decade. Wished they would understand that there was more to their prince than his appearance and take a step forward in trust and faith. Do something to help.

But then, Tauriel had never herself stepped forward to lay a hand upon her prince's shoulder in greeting and friendship either. Had never spoken to him passing, fleeting words of greeting that meant all the world. Had never been brave enough to face the scorn she knew would follow from her peers if they thought she was consorting too closely with a man who looked like a killer.

Until now...

Until she saw the hollowed out darkness in his eyes as he sat beneath the boughs of the trees.

"My prince...?"

He looked up at her, and she knew he'd been weeping. Nothing about him looked frightening now. If anything, he was as intimidating as a mewling kitten with his puffy eyes and reddened nose. With the fingers scrambling to wipe away the last vestige of shimmering tears as his mask struggled to rise and hide away the exposed weakness.

"Captain Tauriel," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly. "What brings you here?"

It was at this point she was tempted to bow and dismiss herself. To turn away and flee. The whispers beat at the back door of her conscience, their seductive voices speaking of his strangeness and danger. Of the difference in their positions. Of how he would never glance twice at her. Of how he didn't need her.

Her chest constricted tightly... and then released with a slow exhalation. "Are you... Are you well, my prince?"

Surprise flickered through those eyes. Saddening, bringing a sinking feeling to her heart. Had none ever been concerned for his feelings and wellbeing before?

"I have felt better," he finally admitted after taking a few seconds to absorb her question.

Now, though, he was staring at her strangely. As though he had never seen her before. As though she were something exotic and strange to be observed and documented within the recesses of his mind.

_I have never spoken to him before outside of duty._

"If... if my prince would like to join me for shooting practice, perhaps it would help him to feel more lively?" Her voice suddenly drifted off into silence, and a flush was taking up residence upon her cheeks. "I mean, just a friendly competition of the bow and arrow, of course, to take his mind off heavy subjects..."

_Ai Elbereth! I sound like I am propositioning him!_

Her embarrassment was nearly palpable, but his sudden grin seemed to sweep it away with frightening ease, leaving behind only something dazed beneath the blinding brilliance of the sun. Tauriel would never admit it aloud, but in that moment she could scarcely think coherently of anything beyond his beauty and the rumble of his rising exuberant laughter.

The prince rose from the grass to his full, starling height, towering over her with his mussed red hair spilling everywhere. "That sounds quite fun. If my lady would lead the way, we shall see who has more skill with the bow."

His crooked grin made her heart flutter. Like this, he did not seem forbidding or dangerous at all. More like a boy excited to have someone to play with.

_So starved that he did not even question twice. Just accepted._

And he was lucky. Tauriel would never do anything to break his fragile trust if she could help it, not with the memory of his tears so close to the forefront of her thoughts. Not with the images of his distant, hurt eyes stabbing and twisting at her lungs. She _wanted_ him to trust her. To think fondly of her.

Maybe to be friends. A woman could wish for that much, at least.

Grabbing his hand, she pushed aside her embarrassment and pulled him along with her to the training grounds. Hang what everyone else thought! She couldn't bear to think of how his hesitant smile would falter should she turn away now.

And maybe... just maybe... it would bring more life to that tiny smile. Add some meat to his happiness. And hide away the shroud of tragedies long past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> golodh = a Noldorin elf  
> Golodhrim = the Noldor  
> telain = plural of talan
> 
> A talan is rather like a tree-house (literally). They appear in Lothlorien, though, where the wood-elves live in the trees. In Mirkwood, as many of you probably already know, the elves live in a system of caves. This is, actually, a rather Sindarin tradition in my opinion, as the city of Menegroth (and Nargothrond later modeled slightly after it by Finrod Felagund) were both elven cities built in caves rather than above-ground. If anything, Thranduil's choice of home base may have been influenced by that, but who really knows?
> 
> Again, sorry for the long-ish note. :3


	217. Breakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is really the victorious prevailing in this battle of wills?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sauron should be enough of a warning. But just in case... Torture and rape. Mutilation. Blood. Major character death. Sociopathic behavior and obsession with a new level in badass. Sexual undertones.
> 
> This is most closely related to Lust (Chapter 43), Disaster (Chapter 47), Lies (Chapter 78) and Drought (Chapter 90).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon or Annatar

It was the one thing all mortals had in common.

So easily did they fall to prey to pain and suffering. So easily did they falter in the face of their greatest fears and desires. So easily did they crack when pushed to the brink of sanity.

So beautifully, wonderfully, easily breakable.

A little glass window with all those thoughts lying exposed underneath, ripe for the plucking and the reaping. And naught but a thin shield between the tasty little morsels and his grabby, eager fingers.

Like the crackling of dried, dead leaves underfoot was the sound of their shattering. Of a finger pressing harder and harder to the thin plane of glass that ensconced their consciousness until, beneath the unforgiving pressure, the delicate structure imploded. Was crushed with that sort of finality that ground the pitiful remains of shields and facades into little more than dust.

And that was when all their thoughts and feelings gushed out, like blood from an open wound, spilling and pooling in a shower of gore. Running over his hands in a sensuous, hot slide.

Never had Mairon met a mortal who was not as delicate as the petal of a flower. Whose deepest, darkest secrets could be spilled within hours of torture or wormed loose of their bindings with a few sultry glances and nights of passion.

No mortal who would not be broken beyond recognition in the afterglow of his tender care.

He loved to watch them writhe. Watch their minds slowly unravel. Watch their spirits disintegrate beneath cruelty and their hearts dissolve beneath blow of unforgiving malice. Mercilessness was his specialty and sadism his finest wine.

Mairon was good at his job and always had been.

He was, after all, no mortal soul. Not so easily tarnished or corrupted. Not so easily torn apart or smashed to bits. Not so easily dashed to death against a brick wall of twisted half-truths and white lies. Not even the Dark Lord himself had been able to unravel Mairon from the inside out through manipulation or punishment or false reward.

But this mortal...

Celebrimbor...

Staring at the limp body strung up from the ceiling, Mairon felt his hands clench tightly, nails ripping ragged holes in the palms of his gloved hands, shredding their leather protection with ease and slicing through the trembling flesh and muscle beneath. Within seconds the open wounds began to heal, the skin sealing over, cutting off the scarlet drops raining down to the stained stone below.

But they still ached and stung, as though salt had wormed its way inside to inflict penitence. Around his chest, the constriction stifling his ragged, infuriated breaths grew sharper. His eyes followed the rocking of that body, swaying and swaying, all weight upon the broken wrists chained to the ceiling and the wrenched shoulder bent at odd angles. Followed the trails of crimson running in tendrils down the creases of powerful muscles and thighs. Dripping sluggishly from a tangle of half-sheered raven hair.

Even like this—with his body mangled and destroyed, his spirit diminished and doused—he was so utterly beautiful. Even with his skin bloodless and gray from lost blood. Even with his eyes wide and dull, an echo of triumph in their depths. Even with his chest frozen, last breath caught on a grimace of pain and unholy satisfaction.

He had not spoken another word.

_"I hate you!"_

Not a single one.

That brittle glass had not shattered beneath beatings or touches. Reinforced with mithril, it had held steady beneath the torment. Beneath the whips and the brands and the rape. Beneath the kisses laid like open flame to trembling shoulders and bites marking up that slender throat. Beneath the softly breathed words of comfort and promise and temptation against a gracefully pointed ear.

Celebrimbor was supposed to be breakable. He was supposed to look into the eyes of his betrayer and lover and be filled with despair and horror at the knowledge of his downfall at the hands of one whom he loved. Still, the terror of Annatar flaying him open, whispering to him in sinful passion, was supposed to bring him over the edge, past a point from whence there would be no return. Make him surrender, and in that surrender bind them more tightly than could any mere night in a lover's bed between the sheets. And, in the end, he would stay... stay by Mairon's side forever...

_For Mairon would not give up his goal—the only desire he had ever possessed—for the sake of pleasing those catlike smiles and those starry eyes. But neither could he surrender his need to touch and stroke, to kiss and fuck... throw the demon haunting his dreams away..._

Except the object of his obsession had chosen death. Death rather than a throne at his side.

And Mairon's teeth bore down sharply upon his lip. Until the copper tang spread across his tongue and scalding heat slithered over his chin. Yet, when normally he would have grinned diabolically at the pain in scorn and amusement, instead his body flinched sharply.

He was immortal. A creature beyond the comprehension of the Children of Eru. A maia.

He was not supposed to be breakable. He was supposed to be _invincible._

But as he stared at that body hanging at his tender mercies, empty of spark and devoid of life, the fire wrung from its spirit with his own two hands... Mairon could not move for the agony of its sight searing its image into the deepest recesses of his mind. Could only stare and wonder...

Wonder why it was that shards of glass were boring their way into his thoughts.

Why it was not the dead body before him—torn apart with callous intent and battered nearly beyond recognition—that seemed broken beyond all repair.

Why the words _"I hate you!"_ seemed more potent than any punishment his mind could conjure. Than any suffering ever before heaped upon his shoulders or torment ever endured at the feet of his master.

And why his traitorous eyes burned as acid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> maia = lesser ainu (holy one)  
> Eru = God


	218. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter has fallen over their lives in the aftermath of tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New non-canonical pairing. Depression and lots of self-hatred. Makes illusions to past torture and rape. Lots of dysfunctional family issues and lots of contemplation of mortality and immortality.
> 
> This is, basically, the merging of the Cleansed arc and the Untouchable arc, Scowl (Chapter 155) and Isolation (Chapter 215) specifically.

The elves were leaving. Bringing to an end this age of statuesque glory.

Leaving behind the trees once golden and brilliant now lackluster and aged. For the first time in as long as Mithrellas could recall, those trees darkened to the colors of fire and wept their tears of blood, leaving behind barren white skeletons to scar what had once been the eternal perfection of Lothlórien and littering the well-worn pathways with dried pools of life-giving liquid. The beauty, once renowned, was withering away like the warmth. The magic that had once been soaked into every limb and leaf draining into oblivion.

To match her heart. The emptiness. The unhappy ending. And the long months of bitter cold ahead.

Mithrellas wandered slowly, her feet carrying her aimlessly through the pathways she had once trodden as a young woman. So many years ago. The echoes of laughter were lunging from the shadows and darting about her upon fleet, dancing feet. Pictures of Nimrodel's hair whisked away by the wind as she turned, her smile revealed in all its glory flashed and disappeared, the mere reflection of Anor upon the snow...

It was just an echo. A left over memory of things long past. Things that could not be reclaimed. One more face in a list of a thousand faces that she would never see again.

Her fingers brushed against the bark of the bare trees and felt the cold. Trailing, touching the rough flesh of each towering trunk. Soaking it in until her fingertips grew numb.

Were elves meant to feel the cold?

To feel the winter setting in upon their lives?

Her people were made to live in eternal summer, never-ending fields of wildflowers that never ceased to bloom and golden boughs of trees that never shed their leaves. A world that was never laced in delicate frost and cushioned with the carnage of coming hibernation. Not this world of seasons coming and going.

But long since had she accepted that she was different. Not of her elven kith and kin. Not of the summer stretching on forever. Rather, she was the wife of a mortal. The rock set at the core of the river's current enduring yet longing to be free to float away downstream to whatever end might come. An elf who wanted to merge with the cycle of life and death and become something other than what she was. To become just as fleeting and mortal as her love and her children and her home...

This world, she did not dare leave behind. To be surrounded by green fields that were never burnished golden and trees whose leaves never tumbled down to decay upon the earth...

Slowly, her eyes drifted shut, and only the wind accompanied her soft footsteps upon the snow. Caressing at her cheek with a bitter sting.

So cold... so cold...

She glanced upwards, and ahead of her was a figure walking in the opposite direction, boots silent as they carried his lithe form with a warrior's steadfast balance and deadly grace. Eyes of chipped glass and scorn burned. A mouth set in an unyielding frown slashed open her reverie. The man did not look familiar to her eyes, but like to a dark golodh from across the sea. Tall and broad and sharply angled.

Staring at her with his brow furrowed. She met his gaze and held on with both hands, boring into the layers of ice to the liquid underneath. The miasma of hatred and sorrow. Falling apart.

Slowly, his head inclined in understanding.

Acknowledging.

Tentatively reaching...

\---

Nothing was at all as he recalled from his childhood, from years of reassuring bliss. All the world seemed to be falling apart at the seams like an old, rotting coat locked away in the dark.

His father had departed from Middle-earth, leaving Imladris seemingly devoid of home and hearth. The halls seemed to lack their usual luster of comfort. And whenever his heart ached for advice, Elrohir would arrive at the old study with the well-paced rug to find the windows open and a cold wind invading, stirring the unopened letters upon the bare-boned desk and teasing at the pages of untouched books, open where they were abandoned. So empty. So gray. So lacking.

Sweet Arwen, of course, was no longer there to spruce up the house and greet all who passed with a soothing smile. Instead, she was in Gondor. The last he had seen of her was her wedding day to their foster-brother, and she had been all dressed up in startling white, so eager and in love, throwing away her immortality and her connection. So joyous at embracing the future which had nearly slipped through her fingers and into the realm of impossibility and fantasy, but at the cost of the past.

So ready to let go of a bygone age.

And then there was Elladan. Elladan and his wife, who was so lovely and dark with doe eyes and a shy smile. Who held her mate's hand tightly as they walked in the gardens and kissed his cheek when they sat beside one another at the dinner table. Who soothed the elder brother's darkest secrets from rampaging mountain lions into tame house-cats purring beneath her strokes and murmurs.

Whose belly was rounding with their first child. Whose face was constantly glowing.

Whose smile was so radiant.

And Elrohir felt shameful jealousy churning in the lowest pits of his soul. At how horrifyingly easily Elladan let go of their mother's memory. At how happy he seemed whenever she was near...

For all of them, spring was upon the world.

But Elrohir felt differently. As the snows came over the mountain passes and he had ventured finally into Lothlórien to see his grandfather, rather than the golden trees and temperate climate, he was met with the frigidness of true winter.

So foreign and frightening. So very cold.

And now, as he walked beneath the familiar trees and recalled his childhood, it left naught but a sour, unwanted taste upon the back of his tongue. These hills and trees, he recalled them green and full, when all the world seemed a brighter and more forgiving place. When the future was still something worth looking forward to and the past paled in comparison.

And yet now home seemed a dream and the memories his only comfort. Lothlórien was not as he remembered. Imladris was not as he remembered. His family was not as he remembered.

They had moved on and left him behind. Frozen in place.

Not married. Not happy. Not at home.

Drifting aimlessly without purpose. Falling apart... falling apart...

Closing his eyes, Elrohir swallowed the knot that tied itself in his windpipe. He would absolutely not mourn when to sing lamentation was to court damnation. He would not dare release his anger when it was all that kept him moving, kept him from freezing solid. He would not give in...

His hand clenched upon the bark, digging in until blood flowed and the wood cracked.

He would _not give in..._

And then there were the footsteps.

Soft and light, barely brushing the crystalline layer of cloud blanketing what had once been unchanging and evergreen—what had once been alive. Glancing up, he beheld _her_ , a pale-haired ghost floating down the path in the opposite direction, the pads of her delicate fingers brushing each tree as one might a beloved child reaching for comfort or a coiled snake prepared to strike.

Blue eyes looked up, meeting his surprised gaze firmly. Yet so very sad and distant were they, something utterly broken and utterly cold. Like a star shattered and drizzling back to earth.

And he couldn't look away. Could do nothing but stare.

And feel that connection buzz to life with wonderment. The kindred soul entwining with a hesitant touch. The sudden flare of heat that scorched through the stabbing of a cold knife, slicing the blade as though it were mere butter. Melting...

He could not stop his feet from carrying him to her side. Drawn inexorably.

_Melting..._

Or his hand from reaching out to hers in greeting, lifting the cold digits and massaging heat back into their soft pads. Pressing his lips to knuckles and letting his breath chase away the wind that came down from the north as a plague.

_Melting until nothing was left but curious warmth..._

"My lady..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> golodh = Noldorin elf


	219. Ignore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Fingolfin. Curse the woes of young love in times of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so, _so_ sorry to keep you waiting! This has been a very long and ridiculously busy weekend for me, and the next one is not looking that much prettier. But I am still writing everyday, so they _will_ be posted.
> 
> Anyway, just a little idea I toyed with in regards to a pairing I literally have never written before. Basically romantic angst and backstory. I don't even know if I'm ever going to do anything with this idea, but it's here, so...
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

Maddening. It was absolutely maddening.

How he would watch her waltz across the room upon winged feet, her dark and sleek beauty somehow outshining even the most exotic, adamant of pale-haired Teleri and the most vibrant, blinding of golden-maned Vanyar. How he would take in every angle, every inch and every movement, and feel his heart throbbing violently against his ribs, pounding and rattling at the bars as though it wished to leap from its cage and fly to her upon gilded wings in offering and martyrdom.

Maddening. He was utterly and completely in love with her—Anairë.

And the day she spoke civilly to him would be the day Dagor Dagorath was upon them. If even then.

"You are still watching her." Like a phantom, Arafinwë appeared at his shoulder, and Nolofinwë felt his heart leap into his throat. With shame. And with no small amount of resentment. "Have you not surrendered to the inevitable defeat yet, brother?"

Oh, he would have liked to. Dearly, at that. But he simply _could not._

One look at her, and all his resolve to stay away, to find another sweet girl with fluttering eyelashes and a lovely smile to marry and start a family, it all vanished like the morning mist. Left him stark naked in plain daylight. As hopelessly, helplessly, blatantly in love as ever he had been. Unable to tuck it away or hide it from sight—not even his own.

He _knew_ that she knew. That she noticed. She was an intelligent and cunning woman with a calculating gaze.

He knew that she knew. And knew that she did not care.

More than anything, he despised the flicker of her eyes washing over him as one glances upon an insect on their windowsill, resting for a split-second—the second that brought shards of hope stabbing deep into the core of his being—and then darting away as if she had not noticed at all. As if he was not worth noticing. As if he was not a prince of her kin. As if he was something less than a person. 

As if he was not even _there._

And he knew he deserved it. The thought made him inwardly wince, brows pulling low over eyes that clenched shut against the onslaught of unpleasant memory.

How was he to know that the silly, horrid girl living down the street from the palace with her ugly temperament and her snarky personality and her stubby nose would grow up into such a glorious creature? How was he to know that, one day, he would look at her and see his entire future staring back at him, a reflection of something just slightly beyond the grasp of his fingertips?

How was he, the young and foolish, spoiled prince in the turmoil of his youth, to know that a few cruelly spoken words in the heat of temper would redirect the trajectory of his life so drastically? So permanently and so painfully?

_"You are ugly and rude and completely horrid, Anairë. I am shocked your parents can even stand to have something so terrifyingly garish in the same room for the shame of claiming you!"_

_He had pulled on her braids and poked at her shoulders. Anything to make her look into his eyes as he parted his lips to spew vicious prods and barbs. Anything to make her pay attention. Anything to make her aware of how utterly he hated her..._

_"Just go away, Nolofinwë. I do not wish to see you right now."_

_Of course, young and callous as he had been in those days, the frail tremor of her words had not reached his ears. Only the poisonous bite of her fangs, sinking themselves into his pride and stinging so wretchedly._

_"But you know I am right."_

_He could not make himself stop. And he did not want to. Did not want to cease. Did not want to apologize. Did not feel sorry for such awful comments—such awful lies that tasted like grit and sand in the back of his throat._

_"I said go away!"_

_On the verge of tears, and he remained oblivious... until..._

_"No one will ever love you with your horrible temper and your whiny voice. No man would ever marry someone like you and risk procreating something just as frightening. You will be alone forever, a spinster in an empty house with a cold hearth!"_

He remembered picking that fight. Remembered instigating and stoking its flames, though in retrospect he could scarcely understand his own actions, irrational as they were. Remembered wondering after why her refusal to spend time with him had made him so angry. Why he had felt the need to say such things when in reality he rather enjoyed her company. Why he _needed_ her eyes upon him and no one and nothing else, forget how that goal might be accomplished.

Now he understood what had drawn him so to her, even then. And too late.

For he remembered the slap that had followed as well. The stinging mark upon his cheek that his mother had fussed over later in the evening, that had bruised and lingered for almost a week to display the source of his guilt and shame. He never told his parents how he came to receive it, but he suspected that his father had guessed by the look in his eyes every time he had seen the blotchy black and purple painted on white in the shape of a petite hand-print.

That look that made Nolofinwë sick to his stomach with guilty conscience.

Because that was the _only_ time he had ever seen Anairë—in all her fiery passion and steadfast stubbornness with a spirit forged of steel and poise enough to make the Valar weep—actually cry her eyes out. Tears had poured down her porcelain face as she looked up at him. Her eyes had been huge and stormy gray and shimmering, so stricken. So deeply hurt.

So very frightened.

After that, he had never spoken to her again. Had heeded her unspoken warning, never quite forgetting the sting of his cheek or his pride, and had stayed away. She had drifted out of his young life completely when he left to study at the academy and become acclimated to political life.

And crash-landed back into its very center when he returned to find her grown up, flirting and socializing her way through an army of men with embarrassing ease. And he had wanted her eyes upon _him_ and him alone.

Only she _remembered._

He would approach, open his mouth to speak a trifling compliment and ask for her hand in a dance, only for her take note of his presence and abruptly turn away to address another suitor as though he were invisible. He would engage her in conversation at the table when he sat near her during those fancy dinners at the parties, only to have his voice mystically tuned out by whomever happened to be sitting on her other side regardless of whether their mouth had been open or closed.

It did not matter that he was a prince. She ignored him and spurned him. Perhaps rightfully.

None of that changed the fact that he was in love. So very in love. Not just with the grace with which she danced or the elegance with which she walked, but with her effortless ease when speaking and the sneaky little glint of amusement that appeared in her eyes and the twitch of the corner of her painted lips when she stifled a laugh. With the stubbornness that outdid even his own and the pride that would put his older half-brother's to shame.

With all of her spirit and all of her flawed perfection. He didn't deserve her, but he yearned for her nonetheless. Wasted away his chances at another wife and another family, unable to think of any other.

And he _could not_ stop. For one could never deny their care for their One, not for long.

He would not have put it past her to be the first to ignore the pull forever.

"You know that I cannot surrender," he finally replied, glancing at Arafinwë from the corner of his eyes. His younger brother's lips pursed slightly, a look coming over his face that was pinched in irritation and faint disapproval. And yet his blue eyes widened and softened in understanding mixed into a gag-worthy tincture with bitter pity and resignation.

"Of course not." A hand patted at his shoulder. "I know not what to say, brother."

"I think there is nothing to be said."

He would pine ceaselessly. He would wistfully watch. He would daydream his life away.

But she eclipsed all others, whether or not she desired or intended to usurp gravity's place as the force at the center of his universe. And, drawn toward her flame, Nolofinwë knew he was steering only toward disaster and heartbreak. Toward the inevitable fall.

He knew. Knew also that he could never turn away.


	220. Color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter is slowly passing into a chilly spring of the soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of romance. Or maybe just people using each other. Soul-mates definitely hinted here. I'm almost tempted to make Elrohir choose to be a mortal now, just to be sadistic, but I don't know if I can do it. 
> 
> Anyway, continuation of Scowl (Chapter 155), Isolation (Chapter 215) and Winter (Chapter 218).

His hands were warm.

That was the first thing she noticed about Elrohir Elrondion beyond his dark glances and his stagnant bath of self-hatred.

His hair was starkly black against his pale complexion, but his cheeks were ever flushed with anger or with bashfulness, never wane and blanched. It was plain that he did not know what to say to her as they walked side by side upon the snow-covered paths, their bodies touching only where her hand curved into the crook of his elbow and the awkward, warrior-calloused palm of his opposite hand rested atop her knuckles.

Together, they traversed, leaving not even footprints upon the ground to mark their passage. Eventually, the tense quietness broken by the creaking of barren trees ceased, driven away by the cold and the moon. Left them with only companionable silence and the whisper of memories echoing upon bark. With the heat of his anger simmering under the cap of black emotion and her sorrow near to overflowing from its vessel of icy control—but both of them bubbling at a steady temperature and held in place, knotted and bound by the opposite.

Somehow balancing. It was... peaceful. Pleasant and warm, as were his stroking fingertips upon the back of her hand.

Words needn't be spoken between them. Mithrellas leaned against his shoulder and felt her eyes drift shut against the sight of whiteness and gray in every direction. To block out the heaviness of winter descending upon the land, the chill brushing its frostbitten fingers to her cheeks and the darkness of the sky cutting off the heat of Anor.

It was nice, this silence. For the first time in a very long time, Mithrellas felt her breath slowly escape her lips in a sigh, not of regret or despair, but of contentment.

His eyes glanced down at her with the coming of the soft sound. From beneath her lashes she could see his eyes, so terribly hot—white-hot stars set in alabaster, the glare of a golodh carved out of stone—and yet when they settled upon her there came the crack in their shell. The tiny liquid gleam of curiosity and wonder. A strange and inexplicable sort of softness.

A sigh to match her own was released, his breath tickling at the wisps of her hair atop her head. They continued to walk side-by-side and arm-in-arm even as his eyes dropped shut. Walked until they had completed a circle and came back to where they had first met. Where they had first started their small journey.

And then they parted, moving in opposite directions. Not even bothering with a fare-thee-well.

Because the next day, again, they met in the same place beneath the same skeletal trees. And Mithrellas once again enjoyed the warmth of those broad palms and the high color of wind-licked cheeks.

The strange softness of hollow eyes.

\---

Eventually, it was hard to imagine life without that warmth. Without his touch melting away the snows of her winter and leaving something new beneath. Something slowly blossoming beneath the soft brushes of his fingers and the caresses of his blazing eyes.

Perhaps it was foolish. She, Mithrellas, the wife of a mortal, the widow of a dead man, playing at courting with a bitter elf aged well beyond his years. They were a recipe for discord and failure waiting to burst forth as a rotted, withered bloom. But they yet still complimented one another so subtly, so perfectly. Allowed one another to be soothed of harsh thoughts and jagged memories when all there seemed to be in the world was turmoil pulling them downwards.

Elrohir, with his stiff smiles and low, hoarse hums, was erasing the gray that had enveloped for so long her existence, weighing her down as a wingless bird. Was painting over the scars in the wake of isolation and separation, the recollection of leaving behind all that she loved so dearly, that so crippled her spirit. Was giving her the weightlessness of her feet upon the clouds to replace the feeling, day by day, of the little life and vibrancy she had once possessed slowly slipping away.

When she was at his side, she did not feel transparent. Did not feel the thinness of her material raiment as it stretched and pulled. Did not feel as though, at any moment, she might disappear entirely like mist and smoke.

She looked at her hand and saw the healthy flush of life instead. She looked at the snow and saw the thousand-color array of light gleaming off the miniscule crystals. She glanced up at the once-evergreen trees and came to appreciate their blue shadows of their quivering arms in the red light of the setting winter sun.

It was not happiness. Maybe it never would be—for either one of them, broken and lost as they were in their own tragedies—but it was release.

It was something other than the frightful decay. The descent into a shadow of death.

It was enough.

Enough to hold his hand and soak in his color until it shone through her flesh. Enough to lean against his shoulder and hear again a heartbeat strong beneath her ear to negate her loneliness. Enough to stand beneath the boughs of Lothlórien and watch together new buds blooming upon the white, naked branches. 

Until spring came upon the world to match her blistered heart.


	221. Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew Sauron was not vanquished forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sauron-ness. Pessimism and cynicism. Sexual undertones of a dubious nature. For this story to make sense, I'll put some of the vocabulary in the beginning AN instead of at the end.
> 
> Eruanna = Gift of God (i.e. grace)  
> Annatar = Lord of Gifts  
> umbar = doomed fate
> 
> Also, this is the AU (long-lost in the past) where all of the House of Finwe go back to ME after they're reborn. Thus, Celebrimbor is in ME when Sauron comes back the second time. That's right, in LotR at the end of the Third Age. That's when this takes place. As for his body-ness, nothing in the book ever says that he takes the form of a giant eye (only metaphorically refers to one), and so I've given him a body. He's not allowed to "look pretty" after the whole mess in Númenor, but I wouldn't exactly call him pretty here anyway. So yeah. Forgive the confusion if there was any. If not, continue with your life and ignore my babbling. :3
> 
> This is a continuation of Lies (Chapter 78) and Breakable (Chapter 217), but takes place after Drought (Chapter 90).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Sauron = Annatar

_Eruanna._ What a strange and tragic word.

At first so innocuous it sounded. But with the sweet, cool ravishing of such gifts came, too, the awful temptations. The bitterness and the envy and the danger around every corner.

So often the greatest of blessing turned out to be naught but curses draped in jewels.

It was a lesson all of the House of Fëanáro learned through gallons of crimson and oceans of tears. The greatest craftsman ever born—born with His blessings, graced with genius, perseverance and ingenuity to such extremes that no other before or since could even hope to compare—had also in his blindness taken the wrong path, tripped and stumbled over the cliff into the unforgiving abyss and shattered into more pieces than could ever be pasted back together.

The culmination of such grace, they were, the Silmarilli. _His_ greatest work—the greatest craft that could be made from the hands of the greatest craftsman to ever walk in a mortal shell—and it had led him and all he held dear to utter ruin. For all his intelligence, for all his fire and for all his brilliance, Fëanáro's gift had, in the end, been his doom as well.

And he, Telperinquar, was the second coming of that talent and spirit and fire. But not of the ill fate and doom that had followed. He had believed he had learned the lessons of the bloody First Age well.

He had been wrong. So wrong.

As Fëanáro, Telperinquar had the ability to forge complex and glorious wonders beyond the imagining of any other simple minds, be they elven, dwarven or mannish. It came to him as second nature, like breathing and thinking and seeing, to mold and create. As though the heat of the fire against his flesh, the sweat slicking his skin and the glowing metal beneath the tender care of his large, dexterous hands...

As though it was _meant to be._ As though his body had been formed by the One for the hostile, delicate environment with intent. For the task of creating out of metal and stone something of beauty comparable to the works of the Valar.

But he had thought to never use it as had his grandfather. To never do anything so foolish...

Foolish... he laughed now at the thought.

For he had been graced twice. Or so it had seemed. And the second gift...

_Annatar._

Golden and beautiful. Sultry and vivacious. A craftsman of his own league, a kindred spirit with which to intermingle and befriend in a way he could bond with no other. Another whose obsession with the work of the forge and fire was on par with that of a Telperinquar, who _lived and breathed_ for his craft.

They had become more than mere friends so quickly. And at the time, Telperinquar could remember lying prone in their bed, twisted up in the damp sheets and layers of golden curls, so warm and content. Stroking his fingers softly over the dips, curves and tendons of his lover's statuesque body until every angle and shade of complexion was ingrained upon his memory for all of time. Could remember thinking that this was a blessing he had never thought to ask for, never expected to hold within his tremulous fingers.

A blessing turned curse.

Because it had been the temptation—the dark emotions following as a plague upon his House. The Ring of Power... the whispers of his lover's heated voice in his ears... the madness of weaving magic into the metal and gem... of creating something that could bend the forces of the world...

So easily had he been manipulated, his gift used for evil, and his greatest love turned to hate.

In the end, it had been the hand that taught him skills unknown to any mortal creature—the hands that in the darkness of night rent him with ultimate bliss—that had spilled his blood until his screams were weak. That had ended his life without regard or remorse.

_Eruanna... ar umbar..._

And so desperately he wished that he had not been the receiver of such grace. Such accursedness.

Because he could now not look away from the garish heat. Could not force his feet to move from where they seemed rooted to the earth in iron and stone. Could not even flinch with the pain of the earth's blood whipping across his soul. All he could do was watch, wide-eyed and breathless, the dark figure that approached, that burned as it came within the sphere of contact with his spirit.

The face was sickly gray, sharper and wilder, teeth more those of an animal than a civilized being. But the framework was familiar in its cant and the shape of eyes, in the intrinsic handsomeness of the strong jaw and straight nose. The hair, once golden and curling in sensuous waves was now pale, washed of all color, straight and dull. But the eyes remained the same—the same intensity of regard, the same lusty hunger and the same predatory gleam as they beheld his faintly trembling form.

_Sauron..._

Upon his back, the scarred runes seared white-hot. The connection between them held still firm, binding tightly the elf to this madman, this traitor and murderer. Helpless to resist, he did not fight as fingers arose to brush against his cheek, sharp nails long and blackened upon skeletal fingers tracing downwards to the corner of his lips, tickling faintly upon his skin.

No beauty was there in this creature. The result of his greatest blessings... his greatest curses...

"I did not think thou wouldst return to my side so willingly, my lover. I expected a battle for thy acquiescence at the very least…"

Telperinquar knew that he should turn and run away as though Morgoth himself were upon his heels. Exposed for what he truly was, Sauron ought to have been hideous and disfigured to his mind's eye, a creature of ugliness to match the putrid, rotting spirit decaying within the dark raiment. And yet, he was captured as easily as an unsuspecting butterfly in a net of finely woven thread, gossamer wings pinned down so that he might be flightless.

Their eyes met, and he fell and fell into the core of the earth. Felt it eating away at the corners of his mind, the fire and brimstone in the shadow.

The touch was not painful, but tender and loving. Feigned care, he knew in his heart of hearts, for Sauron was incapable of love. He cared not for Telperinquar beyond the want of his body and the need for his talents. The elf knew he was being manipulated and used, strung up like a marionette to dance for the pleasure of his captor.

And yet a knot was formed in his throat, tears burning behind his eyes.

Because, when he was pulled close and dark lips brushed against his forehead and mouth and throat—leaving him trembling and shuddering beneath an earthquake of sensation—he could not make himself pull away from the point of instability. Could not force himself to reject the comforting touch of his One upon his body and spirit when for so long he had been so cold and distant from intimacy and closeness.

They were bound as tightly as any fated pair. And part of him did not want to be free of the manacles about his wrists and ankles and throat.

They kissed, long and deep and lazy, and Telperinquar knew he was falling—he should hate and scorn and scream and attempt to gut this monster, yet could not force himself to reach for the sword at his belt or the knife in his boot—and falling and falling—he simply could not do it, wanted to instead hold on to this heat and comfort and never, never allow it to slip as water between his fingers again—and falling and falling...

So easily. He wondered if they would sing his name in disgust until the end of time.

Because, for all his gifts, he shared the same weakness as the rest of his kin. Lacked the strength to resist the mithril thread reeling him inward to the source of his suffering...

Lacked the resilience to turn away from his own doomed fate.

When a hand—more familiar in its breadth and roughness than his own—grasped his and pulled him away toward that fortress rising as a single peak of desolation on a barren, broken landscape, Telperinquar found his feet carrying him willingly forth of their own accord. Eagerly to whatever ill end might await, no matter the tormented screams of his logical mind's rebellion. His fingers clutched tightly to that hand—that gift and lifeline—and refused to let go no matter how loudly his mind pleaded for reason and sanity.

But there was no reason to be found. No sanity to coat the inside of his raging turmoil and seal it away.

 _Eruanna_. It was no honey-coated word dipped in the essence of joy or good fortune. It was strange and tragic. It left a bitter taste on the back of his tongue.

For this Spirit of Fire, it was but the downfall. The reprise.


	222. Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it isn't about fitting into the group, but about fitting in with the right person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sappy romance with allusions to Valthoron's dark backstory. Discussion of cultural differences. Prejudice and ostracism.
> 
> This is a continuation of Starve (Chapter 216), but is also related to Born (Chapter 212) and Shame (Chapter 109) rather closely as well. Obviously, Valthoron is my OMC who makes his very first appearance in Cheat (Chapter 5) and never goes away afterwards.

Standing on the outside, toeing the threshold to the inner sanctum of acceptance, was an affliction to which one grew accustomed. Slowly and painfully.

But it was an affliction to which Valthoron had long ago adapted. No longer did his heart feel leaden each time wary glances were cast toward his towering height, broad build and strange, exotic face. No longer did he wince in shame whenever glares strayed toward the wild array of vibrant curls that steadfastly refused to be tamed into a braid to hide his birthright and curse.

He was not of the Golodhrim or of the Sindar or of the Silvani and Avari. If anything, he was the product of all their greatest faults shoved and mixed together into something strange and searing upon the tongue. Something that made noses wrinkle in vague disgust at the flavor and the scent and the sight.

Thus had always been the way of his life. He was _avoided._ Like a disease.

He was not at all used to being dragged around by his wrists, forced into shooting contents right and left and coerced into drinking games with the guards in the cellars. All of those experiences were novel, concepts he had never before even entertained, for the gentle and wild wood-elves with their bizarrely conservative and intuitive ways typically stayed far from the burning touch of his presence. As wood was prone to flinching back from the flame that might eat it alive if given the chance.

But Tauriel seemed immune to the lick of red that usually blistered all those too near and too daring. Was somehow able to look past the blatant mark of otherness when even Valthoron himself could not.

She did not even seem to realize it. But her regard and kindness meant much more to him than any inclusion in silly games that ended with everyone rolling drunkenly upon the floor in a stupor or than the competitive snarls and barbs hurled back and forth between toothily grinning archers. More than the camaraderie and friendship newly experienced from all angles.

Certainly, inclusion was nice. But it had never been Valthoron's way. And though the simple folk and the commoners had seemed to come to accept his presence amongst them as a fellow, he knew that he did not _belong_ within their ranks.

After all, he was no wood-elf. And the ways of his hot blood and vengeful spirit were not their ways, cool as the starlight in the black of night running its fingers over a rippling stream's curves and dips. They lived in the moment and did not brood in the past or stare toward the distant future in dark hunger, but took pleasure in the world and each other...

"Why do you sit here alone, my prince?"

A wry smile came upon his lips as he looked upon her, Tauriel. Her tiny frown was enchanting, and he could not help but notice the little crease that formed between her slender brows whenever she was vexed.

"I thought we were past formalities, Captain."

Her annoyed, scathing look was gift enough to make his day. "Of course, _Valthoron._ Why are you sitting out here alone like a recluse? They have just opened a new barrel of Dorwinion indoors; you are free to join us in revelry."

_I do not belong in there._

"I am content here, and I feel no need to make myself into a drunken laughingstock."

She huffed, but, rather than stalking off, she plopped down in the grass beside him, so close that he could feel the heat of her body radiating upon his skin even through his clothes. Her burnished hair was flicked over one shoulder, and her sweet scent clouded his world for a moment in dizzying incense. He came to his senses barely quickly enough to catch her softly-spoken words in the twilight, half-sullen and half-worried. "I thought you would be happy. They even asked after you."

He knew was she was trying to do, but she needn't take it upon herself to try to fix a millennia-old problem that was not her own. Though he daren't say it aloud, having her beside him was far more comfortable than speaking to those who once had stared at him in blatant fear and unthinking disgust simply because he did not look the same or move the same or act the same as did they. Her presence was far more reassuring and satisfying. After all, she was the lifeline, the one who had held out her hand first in good faith, transcending the innate prejudice. Her hand that he grasped with all his might and clung upon.

"I like the quiet and the stars." _And having you sitting beside me. I need nothing more than that._

Perceptively, her green eyes narrowed. "It is a strange mood you are in, Valthoron..."

 _Strange because I think I might be in love with you?_ Longing was deep-set in his bones—to tell her or to kiss her—so fetching was her image with the glisten of Ithil and the dew of Telperion lacing droplets of the moon into her hair and upon her eyelashes. _Strange because your regard means more to me than anything else?_

Belatedly, he felt her move closer. Felt her hand touch at his wrist so softly in silent questioning, the fluttering sensation of a feather upon the nerves drawing him back to the moment. She was _there_ in a way no one ever had been before. Not like his distant grandfather or his fragile father or the guards who squeezed his shoulders and shoved playfully in sparring.

Different. But a different that felt right. That _belonged for the first time._

Reaching out without thought, he entwined their fingers and squeezed gently. Her eyes were startled and widened at his sudden touch—at how his thumb carefully traced the tendons of her graceful hand in lenitive circles—but she did not pull away from the simple embrace of palms. Instead tightened her fingers about his own and released a sigh.

That _felt so right._

"Stay with me," he whispered. "We can watch the stars."

Part of him feared that she would withdraw then. Feared that she might pull away the hand he cradled within his own and sneer down her nose at such presumption. Feared, for none could wound him in the way of actions or words anymore except her. Tauriel could have rent him apart with ease, with catastrophic efficiency bordering on methodical, sterile cruelty.

But her lashes lowered instead, and her smaller form pressed against his side, hair spilling in a silken fall over his shoulder. Burning warmth soaking into his being as she settled into the curve of his body, fitting them together naturally.

Contentment washed over him. Rose up in his throat and choked with unspoken emotion.

This was exactly where he belonged. Nowhere else but at her side, wrapped tight in soft joy and the dome of the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Golodhrim = Noldor


	223. Choke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One cannot hope to save everyone, no matter how much they wish to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genderbent character. Angsting galore. Romance interspersed between fighting. Self-hatred/survivor guilt stuff.
> 
> This story happens probably just before or after Scowl (Chapter 155) and before Winter (Chapter 218) and Color (Chapter 220). It is, of course, also part of the same arc as Loveless (Chapter 99), Cleansed (Chapter 107) and Life (Chapter 112). You won't understand who the girl is if you haven't read them. She is _not_ an OFC.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fem Maeglin = Lómiel (play off his Quenya mother-name Lómion)

"Something about you has changed, brother."

Truly, Lómiel hated it when they fought. She hated seeing that gap between them widen.

"To what you refer, I could not say, Elrohir. Speak not in riddles!" Elladan sounded so frustrated and vexed as he faced off against his sibling, closest kin in blood and spirit, with confusion. He did not understand. Was too close to the scene to focus upon the full picture of their rotting bond. To close to its happenings to _see_ what it was that wrenched them apart. But she was not.

And Lómiel hated that it was she who came between them.

Each day she spent in the gardens of Imladris—holding hands with Elladan and speaking in soft voices, laughing in the twilight hours with the gentle blades of grass underfoot and the scent of rose upon the air—each day they grew closer and closer. Their strange bond of comradeship and friendship absorbing more and more sun, twining more powerfully and inexorably toward a resplendent season of blooming. Blooming into something that outshone even pure friendship and mutual understanding.

To the point where Lómiel knew that she loved him dearly, more than ever had she loved any other. Knew that she could never release him from her tight grasp lest she fall into ruination for a second time.

And each day, as she fell further and further in love with the silver flecks in his darkened eyes and the rare dimples lining the corners of his lips, Elladan seemed to grow happier and more content. Something beautiful and warm seemed to slowly seep back beneath the new-fallen pallor of his drawn skin, giving back that damask flush of health and thriving as he released the putrid, disease-ridden burden of hatred and vengeance so prominent in his blood and bone.

Life was being born beneath that skin, within the core of that soul. And it was breathtaking.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, Elladan? Have you _forgotten?"_

But all the same, she stood at his side and stayed silent about the truth of the matter as the twin brothers squared off against one another. The truth that, as Elladan began to tower up into the sky, Elrohir began to wither without the sunlight. Out of balance with one another in a way they never had been before.

_"I have forgotten nothing!"_

So close had been their bond, forged in the playful years of their youth in peace and sunshine and the long, restless millennia of their suffering in the ravages of the past. Rare was it to see them apart from one another or in discord with one another. Rare and saddening above all else.

Because it was unraveling, that bond. Each moment spent at her side drew her Elladan closer to Lómiel's breast and further from the confidence and care of his younger brother. Strengthened the love that was bringing the love-stricken couple both back from the brink of complete despair and hopelessness, giving them something pure to cling upon in the coming darkness upon the horizon. But left Elrohir in the wake of their passage, stumbling in the dark without so much as a candle's flame to show their footsteps left imprinted upon the dark earth before the wind and the rain washed them away.

The newly-born romance and the brotherly bond were not compatible. Like water and fire, they met in the middle, clashing into chaos, erupting in frustration and a shower of blinding steam scalding the flesh.

"Then explain to me _why!_ Why do you smile and dance with _her?_ Why do you dare to make revelry when you should feel _guilt_ and _sorrow?"_

Lómiel only wanted him to heal. Wanted Elladan to move on from the darkest era of his life and embrace a future that would not end in ruin as once had her own. Perhaps it was selfish on her part, for she knew that if he lingered she would lose all hope of one day holding him within her arms and kissing tenderly his lips in the way of a wife to her husband—a woman to her lover. But all the same, the thought of the consuming shadows infringing, leading Elladan toward a disastrous end, terrified her. And thus, she refused to cease dragging him away, toward the light.

Elrohir, likewise, grasped tightly to his brother's hand and pulled in the opposite direction, never even suspecting the ruin that was creeping upon him with predatory stealth and savage hunger. The younger brother desired companionship—the trust and closeness the pair had shared since their tenure within their mother's womb—and he did not want to surrender his self-hatred or his lust to wreak havoc upon those who carried the blame for his personal tragedy. He did not want to heal, but neither did he want Elladan to leave him behind.

She hated that Elladan would be forced to choose. To let her stitch closed his wounds and forget about hunting down the enemy in penitence. Or to go on falling into the abyss that was the never-ending curse of vengeance.

"Is that what this is about? My love for Lómiel?" He stood between them now—his brother and his lover—but Lómiel could well imagine the black look upon that beloved face.

Imagined it matched the twisted visage overshadowing Elrohir's handsome features.

"That _woman_ has made you forget everything you ought never lose sight of for even a moment! She has forced you to betray yourself and your oaths!"

With sorrow, she realized that her bond was growing out of control, spilling over the edges and taking up all the energy the sun had to give. That each day Elladan spent with her in the gardens, fawning and speaking and flirting until his spirit was light and trilling as a soaring melody upon the sky, his bond with Elrohir was choked in the blackness beneath, dying slowly the most agonizing of demises. And she realized that there was nothing she could do too halt the process.

They were drifting apart, ripping at the seams. Until now. Until all the silent resentment culminating into something vicious and destructive boiled over. Something sharp and adamant, slicing their strong bonds apart and leaving them completely separated by principle and choice and passion.

One clinging to the past, one looking to the future. No longer could they coincide harmoniously.

"Please, fight not..." Her hand clasped about Elladan's upper arm just as he took a step towards his twin brother in menace. "Please, Elladan..."

He froze, turned to look upon her with slightly widened eyes. But even as he stared, the narrowed edges of his dark lashes relaxed, a certain sort of softness coming over the ice in his eyes and the hard set of his jaw when he looked upon her in affection. A look that made her warm to the bone in undeniable pleasure.

But she then looked at Elrohir over her love's broad shoulders, and any warmth in her blood died a cruel and swift death at the razor-edges of the daggers in the younger brother's eyes. When the other twin looked upon her, it was with malice and disdain, a dark sort of dislike that was outlined in the very cant of his spirit, in every corner of his body and the very set of his lithe bones.

There was a scoff, and the younger spun upon his heels. Walked away without another word and left them alone, Lómiel shaking and clutching at Elladan's arm for support as her knees trembled with strain.

Her heart aching and pounding in her throat. Cutting off the air.

For, in helping one she had only further sickened the other. So easily could their places have been exchanged—could her Elladan have been the soul left out in the cold and the snow to die of exposure whilst the other huddled by the warmth of a stoked hearth with a full belly and arms filled to the brim with blessings—that Lómiel felt literally ill with fright.

She only wanted to help.

But she could not help Elrohir. Because he would never let go of revenge and reach for help, not as his brother had. She could only look up into Elladan's eyes and hope he would forgive her for the ruin befalling his crippled family. For thrusting herself between him and his closest of kin, his twin brother.

Only hope that there might be some reconciliation in the end.


	224. Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you never reach for what you want, the prize will always slip from between your fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual undertones. Soul-mate stuff. Hints at Second Kinslaying, cultural presumptions and prejudices.
> 
> Basically the prequel to a story arc I began way back in February or March, Bewitching (Chapter 25), Languid (Chapter 27) and Settle (Chapter 62). Thus, it is one of my rarepairs as well as a slash pairing. Mpreg probably will not result from this arc, but we'll see where it goes, I guess.

Every line and angle of the stranger spoke of golodh descent. If anything, the hunter was every recherché cliché Daeron imagined a hot-blooded deep-elf to be. Tall of body, broad of shoulder and searing to the touch. Too bright to look upon directly but too distracting to look away from for long.

Something terrifying, sculpted from unyielding marble with a heart that might as well have been stone. A monster that could as easily rip him asunder and devour his innards hungrily as it could kiss him and cradle his body close with tenderness in that powerful grip.

And yet he was inexorably drawn despite.

Would see the vibrant shade of hair and wish to run his fingers through its curls, relishing how they clung as vines to his hand, lavishing their silky attention to his skin. Would take notice of the spattering of freckles on that eternally scowling visage and wonder how long it would take to count each and every one, memorizing their patterns across those noble cheeks and the long, elegant nose.

Would look at the eyes, the only green and lively glimmer in a creature made purely of fire and rage, and would _want_ so very _painfully._ To hold that face in the cup of his palms and find every different shade of verdant in those depths. To watch the lashes of russet widen as his fingers played along the thin lines of pale lips, judging their softness against his musician's calluses.

To see their searing, branding heat cool and soften with passion as bodies—slick and hungry and writhing—twined their way together and never came apart.

It was in Daeron's very dreams, the essence of that stranger. The deep hum of his voice echoing in the shadows. The swift and methodical movements of his conservative hands. The length and dexterity of his long, white fingers.

Even Lúthien, in all her otherworldly, ephemeral grace and presence, had never incited this level of need and admiration from the most animalistic corners of his spirit. This itching, burning feeling beneath his skin that seemed to want to claw its way out. That screamed for him to follow the hunter through the forest, to grasp him and throw him down into the grass to rut like an animal upon the flexing muscle and tendon of that lithe, lust-worthy form.

What he felt for Lúthien had been quiet and pure. There had been lust, but little. More had it been her enchanting beauty and her sweet—if naive of self-centered—disposition that had drawn him forth from willing seclusion. And Daeron had been more the best friend and confident—more the overbearing and overprotective older brother—than ever had he been her lover in even thought.

It was, in part, this difference, so primal and intrinsic, that made him nervous.

That had him backing away when those green eyes glanced toward his hiding places, though his feet dragged with the urge to stay and surrender to longing. That had him keeping silent whenever the urge to voice his presence or sing softly in pleasure rose as a caged bird within his chest.

This was not Lúthien. This was a nameless golodh. A stranger with the unholy fire.

Dangerous. Frightening.

Exhilarating.

Part of him wanted so badly to step forward. The rest of him wanted to run away and hide. To turn a blind eye to the truth swinging an open hand toward his exposed cheek. To pretend that the world still revolved around the songbird voice and sky-tinted eyes of a woman far out of his reach. A woman who was not the mate of his soul. Who would never love him as he loved her.

Yet he did not want to let her memory loose and watch it flutter away upon painted wings. He did not want to search for another butterfly to find that only those with black, bent and battered wings were slow enough to catch and claim as his own.

But Daeron knew, too, that, in the past, his hidden emotions had brought nothing but suffering upon his withering heart and spirit. Long nights lost in tense thought, staring up at the stars and wishing hopelessly that some miracle might happen to bring him together with _her._ Longer days watching her dance to his voice, their arts entwining as beautifully as he dreamed their hearts and bodies might if only she would glance upon him twice...

Only she had fallen in love with another. Was _destined_ for another.

Could he really do that again? Could he watch his soul's fated in darkness and silence, praying for an answer from the cold and silent Valar that might never come? Could he wait until all had slipped through his fingers and again he stood alone in the wide world, his image growing thinner with each passing moment as the longing simmered down into grief and regret?

Could he stand by and watch another take his place, as had been the case with Lúthien twice over? Could he simply pretend, for all of eternity, that his will was not shattered and the pieces not crushed to glassy dust?

Could he torment himself that way for a second time when something could be done to stop that awful, free-falling trajectory toward the crags and rocks hundreds of feet below?

Or could he reach out and grasp, for the first time, his truest desire and feel his hands close about its softness? Shoving aside the fear of pain and rejection, of discovering something black and infected with poison beneath the lovely porcelain exterior. Forcing himself to take the first step toward happiness that the deepest wells and pits of his soul strived toward for purification and salvation. Could he catch the little sliver of chance needed to keep his sanity's cracks from deepening? The sliver that might offer him more than he had ever hoped to have within his grasp.

He wanted that possibility at happiness.

In the end, it was but a simple choice.

Daeron stood in the shadows, watching the quick, darting movements of the hunter with his wind-blown and untamed mane of vehement red and his eyes more alive than all the forest and the sky and the earth put together. He stood and watched in silence, thinking back to the days he had spent observing Lúthien but never speaking of his great love for her until it was far too late. Until they were ripped apart and cast to separate ends of the world.

No happiness would come if he drew back and cowered now. This much he _knew._ If he did not even dare to attempt to grasp, even blindly, at that prize which all sought in their deepest of hearts, there would be nothing but emptiness.

If he did not reach out, this chance—as had all others before it—would slip away into the shadows and become lost to his sight in the thick mist of twilight. And, this time, there would be no second chance waiting just around the corner of time's great paths, for there was but one fated in all the world who could complete him. Who could make his entire being burn and ache to combine and join and erase the jagged edges left in their wake with nothing more than a presence and a distant touch.

With his pulse throbbing deep in his throat, Daeron watched. And waited. And reached.

When all was quiet and the world held its breath in wonder, he parted his lips to sing.


	225. Difficult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angrod has returned, is hale and whole and healthy. But something still feels wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions just about all of the nasty things in the warning section, so heed. Some sexual stuff, too.
> 
> Basically tying Puppy Love (Chapter 165), Loved (Chapter 196) and Odds and Ends (Chapter 202) with the Defiant arc, in particular Flowers (Chapter 159).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto

Many years it had been since they had been together as man and wife in the tender bliss of the Noontide of Valinor, and his love for she who held all his heart and devotion had not changed or diminished. Eldalótë remained his only flame in the darkest of nights, the white bloom that could not be stained with the blood or filth of his personal tragedy. The image that soothed his shattered spirit in the days when all he wanted to do was lie down and die for the shame and the horror of the hell that had become his existence.

Now, though, he was by her side again, and the nightmare was ended. His sweet blossom was showering her pale petals upon him, brushing her purity against his broken remains.

But between them the connection, once so filled to the brim with vivacious spirit, felt... different. Somehow wrong and stretched and strained and twisted uncomfortably about their throats. Something heavy rested upon their bond, an iron weight dragging at a spider-silk thread of understanding, bending it downwards until it strained with the tension.

And Angaráto knew exactly what it was that sat so heavily between them. Knew, but could hardly part his lips to utter the words. The reasons.

Why it was that, when Eldalótë leaned against his side in an embrace, his skin twitched with revulsion and his heart stuttered in primal terror. Why it was that, when she pressed a kiss to his bare flesh in tender affection, he felt the urge to flinch away as a skittish colt, to throw her violently off and flee.

Why it was that, when they lay together in their shared bed he could only wrap his arms about her and hold tight, languishing in her warmth and yet shivering at the distance. Wishing that there was more to be had, but unable to offer even the simple brush of his lips upon her temple.

He could not make love to her. Could not even kiss her.

It was... difficult.

No, his love for her had not changed or diminished in its most intrinsic form. If anything, he loved her more with each breath he breathed deeply into his lungs, so cool and full and sweet, reminding him off all the reasons he had never ceased to fight the inevitable defeat.

But touching her felt wrong.

Putting hands that had pleasured the Dark Lord intimately and disgustingly upon her pale, soft skin was a revolting sort of sacrilege. Kissing her with a mouth that had licked at the Dark Lord's toes made him nauseous and dizzy. And lying entwined with her in the same way the Dark Lord had lain entwined with his own shivering, agonized form in the wake of violent, visceral joining...

There mere thought left him gagging.

At first she seemed to understand that he needed space and time to recover from his ordeal. That there were some horrors he simply would not discuss for a long time, so fresh were they upon his mind. He had, after all, been pulled from the pits of Angband with a collar around his neck and manacles upon his feet. A slave and a toy to be played with until worn to tearing and then thrown aside as trash to be thoughtlessly discarded.

But he was afraid that that delicate strand of understanding would snap beneath the weight of the stories and memories locked up inside. And so he had never told her the truth of the matter.

_About killing those poor elves ravaged and rent to the bone, poisoning them remorselessly and watching the spirit drain from their eyes. Still, he felt not guilty for his actions, but the hands that had murdered his kinsman now squeezed her hand, painted her palms with their blood..._

Had never told her the games of life and death played in the truest form of hell upon the earth. Had never mentioned...

_The raping. The torturing. The watching. Being forced to choose which limb was to be removed from the body of his kinsman in his own stead, being held down and forced to watch as it was hacked free and blood flowed as a river over the floor to swallow him up..._

Had never dared tell her of the Dark Lord upon his dark throne.

_Of being upon his knees before that throne of iron and rust, chained and collared like an obedient dog heeling to his master. Of going to that bed, in which the sheets were stained burgundy, willingly in the way of lovers, in sacrifice for a greater purpose. Of sometimes lying awake afterwards, flesh scalded from rough touch and cheeks tear-stained with shame, but lower body throbbing with bliss... and humiliation..._

It was difficult. For how did one explain?

It was not that he loved her less. It was that he loved her _too much._ Too much to allow her to sully herself by touching his hands, kissing his lips, joining with his unfaithful body...

She was that perfect blossom with the fragile, flawless white petals, the one hanging suspended against the forces of reality itself, lingering airborne above an ocean of blood and death. The little hope and the little prayer. The little thought that kept him _alive_ in those days of hellish torment. And, with all his being, Angaráto prayed that not a single edge of her sweet petals would be stained by his own hand.

Not like those flowers he remembered so clearly within his mind, crumpled and scattered and soaking until they sank beneath the thick red blood and left him in silence, sprawled out limply across the cold floor, fading and stretching and thinning with the horror of what had been done...

Eldalótë was a holy creature to be guarded, protected and cherished with every ounce of one's being. But never harmed. Never dirtied. Never disrespected. Not by the man who loved her more than his own life and breath.

But she still tried to kiss his lips. Still tried to hold his hand. Still tried to seduce him into their bed.

Did not understand.

And he could not explain.

In an endless loop they spun, of confusion and remorse and wishes long past their due-date. One never quite reaching the other as they were thrown outwards, fingers slipping in their frantic downhill tumble. And Angaráto knew not how to slow their velocity, to take away the momentum that only seemed to build and build. To take them faster and faster until all the colors blended together into a blur of image and sound and feeling.

And misunderstanding. For each day her eyes drew sadder and colder with horrified confusion and trepidation. With chilling _realization._ As if she had known all along...

And he could not bear it, the thought... that she might believe he loved her not at all... Not anymore.

Because never had he loved her more than he did at that moment. When he watched her garden in the buzzing afternoon beneath Arien's rays. When she cleaned the dirty dishes in the bubbly, frothing sink. When she hung the laundry out to dry upon the line and watched the sheets billow.

He _loved her._

That would never change, no matter the obstacles in his path. No matter the memories and their clawing fingers. No matter the dark thoughts slinking in their corners.

No matter the creeping shadow upon his heart. Forever, she would be his Eldalótë. His white blossom.


	226. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Others say Celebrimbor should be wary of the visiting maia. But Annatar has quickly become his Achilles Heel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly just sexual undertones and rather unhealthy obsessive behavior. But Celebrimbor is of the House of Fëanor, after all.
> 
> This story is like a prequel of sorts to Lust (Chapter 43), Disaster (Chapter 47), Lies (Chapter 78) and Breakable (Chapter 217), though it is obviously related to other stories as well in the background context.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Galadriel = Artanis  
> Sauron = Annatar  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë

It was not mere beauty that captured and enraptured the last of the infamous House of Fëanáro.

Having grown up in a family of naturally and intensely attractive men and women, Telperinquar was not drawn to anything so shallow and empty as physical prowess or elegance of the face and form, not when he knew what ugliness could be lingering underneath such an inconspicuous facade made for the sole purpose of deception. To him, beauty was nothing more than an outward image painted over something intrinsically different and intriguing and unsettling. Something hidden and dangerous, worthy of searching out but also potentially harmful and equally worthy of wariness and caution.

It was nothing to be concerned with in the end, beauty of the body. For it was as oft a lie as it was the truth.

And, thus, Telperinquar liked to take pride in the fact that he knew some of the most stunning and breathtaking beings walking Middle-earth and felt not a drop of lust for a single one of them. Not even his cousin Artanis, who was a great and profound beauty among even the glory and perfection of the elves. Telperinquar did not shy to admit that he was more attracted to Narvi of Khazad-dûm than ever would he be to the haughty and wild-spirited daughter of the House of Arafinwë.

Though, admittedly, Annatar outshone even Artanis is perfection of face and form with incredible ease, it would not have been enough to draw forth the attentions of the Lord of Eregion in of its outward appeal. There needed to be _substance._

And substance had been provided, offered upon a silver platter for tasting. Many other things there were about the golden-haired maia that bound up Telperinquar's arms and legs, left him breathless in that overpowering presence and wordless in the face of that smile, stumbling over himself like a newly-minted colt who had never so much as wooed a woman to his favor before.

It was the intensity.

How Annatar could walk into a room and fill it completely no matter its size, no matter who might already be present. All eyes would immediately be drawn to the pale form in awed wonder. When Annatar was present, Telperinquar felt it pressing against him from all directions, washing over him, blocking all else from his sight and senses but that porcelain skin upon the handsome face of his fellow smith.

It was the pure intelligence.

Being able to sit and speak plainly to another about his passion. Being able to lean across the dinner table and hold a riveting discussion of metallurgy or jewel-cutting of which even the most talented of the Gwaith-i-Mírdan could scarcely make heads or tails. Being able to hear that low, melodic voice thrum in excitement and delight, vibrating through the air around him...

It was the feeling of the powerful spirit brushing up against his own.

Not burning as many others described the feel of a maia in their midst. Not like touching an open flame and feeling the sting of reddened skin protesting as it was roasted and peeled away.

Instead, Annatar would draw close, peering over his shoulder or brushing against his side, and Telperinquar would shudder from the base of his spine down to his toes in utter _awareness_ of the body nearby, of the warmth radiating from its center and raining down upon his skin. The spirit in of itself was as a star radiating iridescence to put to shame even Anar, but it was the heat that encircled and entrapped. The simmer under the skin that glowed and writhed.

As a son of the blood of Fëanáro, rare it was for Telperinquar to feel scalded.

But the spirit of this maia stoked his flame. It was not cool to the touch as a splash of water meant to douse, but rather an inferno that swallowed him whole. Washed over every inch of his body and cradled tenderly. Blanketed his bare skin with a strange feeling of camaraderie and safety and _attraction._

To the point where Telperinquar _craved_ that touch. Wanted to languish in the presence of the other all day and all night if only to have it close. Wanted to touch that skin coated in a thin sheen of gold but still so pale, just to see if it was as metal left beneath the sun to his chilled fingertips. Wanted to run his hands through the untamed curls spilling over broad shoulders, wondering how they would feel if he slept within their tangles and nothing else.

Wanted to cup high cheekbones and tilt that head down so that he might stare into those eyes. Eyes that spoke of the true nature of the being with such a sultry, delicate appearance.

That spoke of the molten core. Of playfulness and passion and seduction. And of the organized chaos of creation from destruction.

Eyes that left the elf panting and shivering in the darkness of his bedchambers when sleep eluded and his body itched and trembled. Eyes that had the elf imagining them looking down upon his coiled and impassioned form from above as they—

It was an obsession. Telperinquar _knew_ that. Knew the danger. Remembered the tragedy. Recognized the look of mania in his own eyes when they were reflected back from the polished silver surface of a mirror, the truth of the matter lying out naked in the brightness of noon.

_Silmarilli... Family... Revenge... Attraction... Freedom... Atonement..._

The House of Fëanáro was a den of obsessions. A den of tragic downfalls.

But he knew now the ugly truth of the matter. That, when this heat struck him down and trussed him up and held him captive, he could not flee and could not think rationally and could not untangle himself. Could not drive it off or put it out so simply as he had thought. Wanted only to hold it closer and closer until it merged with his being.

If this was what Turkafinwë felt when he looked upon the lady Lúthien, Telperinquar knew he could never again think his uncle a possessive psychopath. Because it was _agonizing_ , this want. The very thought of allowing Annatar to slip through his fingers... of seeing that glorious visage smiling crookedly at another... that warmth of spirit wrapping its arms in an intimate embrace about someone else...

Telperinquar knew the taste of true obsession. Of the blood of his kith and kin. The fey gleam in the eye that led Fëanáro to the sin of slaughter and the reckless passion of blind charge into battle. The overwhelming pull of lust toward another person that could not be quenched or stifled, only be fulfilled or remain tormenting and unrequited. The heady desire to protect what mattered most even at the cost of honor and reputation and sanity, even at the price of eternal damnation and the smear of innocent blood across pale warrior's palms.

When he looked upon Annatar, he felt the fire in his own blood ten times more fiercely. Felt the possessive desperation. The willingness to do almost _anything_ to grab hold with unshakable fists...

And it was within his reach. Watching and waiting in the depths of fire-opal eyes. If only he would reach out to touch...

And pray that he did not get burned.


	227. Veneer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you imagine how difficult it would be to make Sauron actually like you? And yet, somehow, Angrod has managed the impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, pretty much all the nasty things in the warning are here. Heed the warnings. The fact that it's from Sauron's POV should be hint enough, I think.
> 
> Basically a strange take on the Defiant arc, particularly after Flowers (Chapter 159) and Fight (Chapter 207).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

It was positively glorious. 

Mairon would almost go so far as to say he had never been so attracted to any living creature before in all his long years of existence. As he watched carefully the interaction of the eager and seductive elven slave and the disgusting, disfigured "master", he felt his lower body bubbling with wicked heat. Felt it licking its way up his spine and down to his toes. Knew his eyes must be narrowed in calculative interest and desire.

For Angaráto Arafinwion was _glorious._

It was not merely the physical beauty, though he would admit that the son of Vanyarin blood was indeed a fine specimen of elven grace and refinement, his anatomy so perfectly aligned and his muscles so wonderfully engraved into the pale alabaster of his flesh. But Mairon was of the Ainur, and he knew physical perfection backward and forward, inverted and twisted around, scar-less and flawless by nature but nevertheless so disenchanting. Did not find it any more attractive than the ugly, twisted visages of the orcs or the monstrous sneers of the inhuman Balrogs.

It wasn't the defiance either, though he had at first greatly admired the spirit of the downtrodden, chained prince brought low to kneel in the filth and lick the toes of his greatest enemy in supplication. Not oft came the day that someone spat in the face of the Dark Lord and lived to tell the tale, and Mairon had been grudgingly interested, even respectful.

Even less oft was it that a slave who entered the Dark Lord's bedchambers departed and survived the night of wracking agony sure to follow. In fact, it was a feat Mairon had never witnessed. Until now.

By some miracle, untold and unholy, Angaráto had lived. Had _thrived._ His flush was healthy and rosy, growing fuller by the day with purpose. His eyes were brightly lit with inner flame, red-hot iron with devious cunning. His body was torn open, cut, bruised and abused nearly to breaking. And yet there was always a smile for the master whose cruel hand inflicted only punishment upon the fragile mortal cage.

Elves were delicate glass baubles. So difficult to craft, but so easy to shatter.

And yet this creature was reinforced.

Skin bared indecently and body ravaged with vicious bites and claw-marks. And yet he reached out eagerly to touch and kiss and stroke as a lover. Draped himself over the hulking, lamed form of skin-crawling black flesh with a sultry simmer to his crooked smirk. Leaned in to tease his breath over an ear with insidious whispers upon his heady voice, raw from screaming and crying in passion.

So well did the lovely creature play the ultimate game of life, death and sacrifice.

It was a veneer of devotion that was flawless. A work of art worthy of appreciation of the highest order. There was the tincture of cruelty mixed to perfect equilibrium with the extreme masochism and fanatical devotion of a servant giving all his spirit and soul to his master. All the treasures, slaves and material gifts in the world could not manipulate the Dark Lord as words from lips stained red from violent kisses and spilled blood, lips that once had spat upon his face in revulsion but now worshipped with seeming wholeheartedness.

Beneath that facade, though, Mairon knew there was hatred of the purest form lurking. That the elf felt the same disgust slithering beneath the thin membrane of his raiment each day that did Mairon. And yet when the Lieutenant faltered beneath a branding touch or a stabbing word of his master, wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle or take a knife to the egotistical bastard's bared throat, the golden-haired slave just smiled and bent with the blow, seemingly unaffected in his permanent presence at the feet of his lord. An animal eager for punishment and reward at his master's discretion.

Reeling said master in further and further with that innocuous image. A spider dressed as a mouse, and its web lusting ambitiously after large and potentially dangerous prey.

Angaráto _hated_ the Dark Lord beneath that smile and those lust-driven, glazed eyes. Beneath those low and soothingly crooned words. Beneath the soft-spoken half-truths and white lies and the coy suggestions. Beneath the tender caresses and soft kisses and blood-drawing nails. _Hated Melkor._

And yet he pretended so gloriously. Still he had the Dark Lord—the most powerful being created by Eru in the days of old—eating out of the palm of his hand like a tamed lion. All the elf need do was sit upon the Dark Lord's lap, wrapping those toned arms delicately about that monstrous body, folding legs intimately about wide hips in offering, and the Dark Lord would eagerly give anything and everything the slave desired.

Had Mairon actually been loyal to his "master", he would have found such a display to be disgraceful and disturbing. But this... this show... this game... was amazing. Worthy of his attention. Worthy of his admiration.

Each day longer he watched the elf evolve into the perfect pet upon an iron and ebony stage, watched the same elf devolve into a cold-eyed and vengeful spirit behind the curtains, Mairon was more entranced. Wanted more and more to reach out in pleasure and not in pain...

To have that veneer turned upon _him_ and not his master. To experience this recherché being to the fullest in the midst of ecstasy and agony, taste that aged wine upon his tongue no matter that it might be poisoned.

Glorious... absolutely glorious...

For elves were not meant to be so dark and stained and yet flourish as though beneath the sunlight and open sky. They were meant to be flowers that withered in the face of toxin, leaves crumpling and browning and falling to earth as their petals curled into fetal position and wept. They were not made for carnal satiation and torment and sin. They were not made for this blackest form of manipulation and seduction and blasphemy.

And yet so well did Angaráto play the part. The part of a flower burning red and black from shadow but growing only taller and hungrier, more eager for fresh meat to satiate its violent disposition. A flower that had learned to be ruthless, heartless and carnivorous.

Perhaps too well...

Ai! the beauty of corruption... The permeating stench... The intoxicating addiction...

So well did he play the game. By day the faithful dog and by night the backstabbing traitor. But Mairon felt his visceral innards coil tighter. Because, even with that thin layer, gilded and chained, to protect that tender, vulnerable flesh beneath, there was no kindness or weakness to be found under the shell, the veneer gradually fading to transparency. No delicate, broken creature. Only something reborn from the ashes of utter destruction, formed anew into a form unlike that which came before...

Angaráto could pretend all he wanted, but Mairon could _smell_ it... was attracted with a sanity-defying pull...

To that scent of a kindred spirit.


	228. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel fallen from grace. If you can even say he was an angel in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see... semi-graphic torture and murder. Basically just Sauron becoming evil.
> 
> Connecting up Kneel (Chapter 34) and Nullibiety (Chapter 167) among several other (Sauron-related) pieces.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Morgoth = Melkor

In the beginning of all things, the Ainur were created by Eru Ilúvatar. Each had their own purpose, their own intimate theme, and they sang together in harmony, weaving their voices as elaborate works of art to please their Father upon his gilded throne in the Timeless Halls. And the Ainur were flawless beings without true physical form to mar and without knowledge of malice to smear across their purity.

Or so the story went.

But so seldom do schemes run their course as planned.

The world was created from the Ilúvatar's great themes, a reflection of the vision that disillusioned those innocent beings, and the Ainur descended upon the Void and wove together the foundations of the earth that they had seen in the climax of their great music. Brought to bear the great oceans and rivers. Ripped open the eternal blackness of ever-night and created the wide sky. Painted upon the ground a thick carpet of lush green to soothe the feet and crafted great works each of his or her own hand to contribute to the perfect symmetry and beauty of their creation.

Mairon had been one of those Ainur.

Once, he had been an aimless spirit wandering the labyrinth of the Timeless Halls. He had been bored and floundering under the laxity and the languishing. When the Father crafted him, he pieced together a creature in need of a purpose, and Mairon had been left purposeless and lamed with empty hands and an empty existence.

But then there had been the vision. The sight of something tangible and touchable and breakable. Something that could be molded and shaped. Something that could allow him to complete his purpose—the task for which he had first been sculpted of the matter of the outer universe.

That was why he had descended with them. To _make something._

_Something. Anything. If only to shape it in his image of beauty and perfection._

He had _helped_ the Valar create their green world with their two pillars and their giant lamps. Had labored hard and long beneath his master's watchful eye, learning and growing. Superficially content with his life, because was this not what he had desired? _Was it not this reality that he had lusted after?_

But the more time he spent in the paradise of the Valar, the more he despised it deep within his core. Like a play scripted to the letter before it even began, time itself unfolded around him, dragging him along with its ebb and flow helplessly. Mountains were formed in elegant rows, fences of the great forests and plains. Oceans were planted, and their floors were perfect in shape and curve, creating a shoreline gently sloping in graceful designs. And Mairon remained the faithful servant Aulë, kindhearted and eager to help those in need of his services.

Ignoring his false reality. Living in the illusion...

Of perfection. The Valar were searching for perfection. And in their searching, everything seemed utterly wrong. For this place—the place that, in their vision, had been so strange and alive and exotic—it was not this bland disk of predictability. This world where everything functioned so _harmoniously._ With a schedule and a plan. Without dissonance or disagreement.

But he followed. Mairon was nothing if not loyal, and he did as his lord and teacher instructed him. And took pleasure in the learning. In making beautiful jewelry and trinkets, twisting them to fit his wild imagination. A mere catharsis for the disquiet in his breast, so that he might turn away from the feigned indoctrination and pretend...

Until _he_ had come along.

Melkor, who offered something so radically different. So strange and unbelievable and wicked. But something Mairon so greatly _desired._

A world where he could do as he pleased whenever he pleased without another's discretion or approval. A world where lines and shapes were not laid out in perfect patterns, could be altered with the flick of a wrist and a heavily-spoken word. A world where everything was not set in stone.

A world that he could shape and change to fit his mind's eye. In any way he wished.

It was that seductive image which led him here. To the fall.

And what a fall it was. From the pedestals of hypocrisy to the realm of reality. So beautiful. So _freeing. Exhilarating._

Because the world was not perfect. And Mairon was not perfect. His resentment of his peers and his masters and their innate idiocy and idealism and egocentricity was unnatural. His lust for more than what he had been given, anything he could reach out and grasp and hold tightly, was a sin. And the fleeting moments when he looked up into another's eyes and felt pure malice seep from the very core of his spirit... they were like a curse and a blessing combined.

He was _not like them._

Did not mindlessly follow. Did not let go of what he desired only because supposed morality and harmony stood in his path and told him to cease his efforts. Did not shy from claiming what he wanted, no matter the cost in morality and ideology. Did not hesitate to throw down his enemies when they dared put themselves before his path.

The first time he held down another and tortured them to the brink of insanity was like bliss upon one's tongue, flowing over and over and over the edges of their chalice until they drowned in a glorious death and were reborn anew. Mairon felt his blood writhe within his veins with excitement and passion as he listened to the screams, watched the form twisting and speckled in crimson. Watched the gory artwork spreading out upon the ground until it lapped eagerly at his boots, bloody wings and arms and legs splayed wide.

As he killed for the first time another being and watched their raiment cease to rise and fall in that never-ending rhythm. As he stared at their carcass and felt shame and pride war until the bubbling golden feeling of the afterglow arose to blanket his thoughts...

_So beautiful, his creations..._

None could stand in his way. He would simply not allow it. Mairon would claim what was his to take and damn those who decided to stand in his way and tell him he was wrong. _He would have... would take... would relish..._

But he wanted more... always wanted more...

Always wanted more _power._

More and more and more...

Until it consumed his every waking moment. It was that which could offer him the path to his greatest desires and wishes. To the day when the world bent before him, humbled and reshaped and reformed.

And Melkor was the key to the locked door withholding that which he wanted—that power after which he so lusted and longed with wistful abandon. Thus, Mairon embraced the hidden little part of himself that ever had he kept tucked deep within the shadows—the part that lusted to rend and tear apart all who stood in his path to creating a world in the image of his own design and the part that hungered to escape this cage painted through the air to keep him inside—and smiled coldly in the face of right and wrong.

For what were they when compared to the lingering eternity of suffering in _nothingness?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = Holy Ones (kind of like angels)


	229. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do when you don't want to admit the ugly truth, even to yourself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sauron warning. Inappropriate use of rings (not the way you're thinking). Implied sexual content. Mental illnesses. Rape and torture.
> 
> This is most closely connected to Grace (Chapter 221) along with all the other Sauron/Celebrimbor stuff.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

Some days, it was difficult to tell which world was the real one and which one was the nightmare.

The endless days of staring off into the distance with nothing to do left him aimless and empty. The sky was always a thunderous gray, layered in a choking coating of ash. Lightning rained down in white-hot branches from the heavens to scorch the already-blackened and cracked earth. There was no green here, only rivers vaguely muddy and poisoned cutting across barren rock, flowing down from the towering wall of mountains fencing in this hellish realm.

And off in the distance, there was the rising peak of the solitary volcano, constantly rumbling and spewing its filth into the sky, noxious and angry like a vent for all the earth's malice and hatred. With hazy eyes, Telperinquar watched its ebb and flow of liquid earth and fire, trying not to see...

_Not to see those eyes in the depths. They burned so hot, branding his flesh again and again. Filled with such heartbreaking cruelty. Such harrowing, sadistic glee..._

There, on his balcony, he would sit and watch the unchanging earth rocking. Waiting patiently until the end of the day—until the sun in the west dulled and all the world fell to black as pitch around him, drawing a curtain over his senses so that he could see not even his own slender digits right before his eyes.

He did not mind, though. Not truly. Better the blackness...

_Than being able to see the truth._

And then he would retreat into his chambers. Would lie upon the silken sheets of his vast ocean of a bed and languish in the nude, relishing the softness running in heavy streams over the curves and smooth angles of his bare legs. Would wait patiently until he heard the door opening, the hinges creaking ever so slightly...

_Like the doors of a cell swinging wide to the patter of booted feet upon ice cold, unforgiving stones. What came next was—_

The fluttering of sultry eyes and the broad smile behind bloodless lips hiding deceptive fangs. Sickly pale flesh would near-glow against the dark background, the form gliding as a ghost silently across the room to settle upon the mattress beside him. To drape itself over his body. To embrace him close and wrap tense muscles about him as a mouth descended...

To bring him to bliss.

_—was the screaming and the writhing and the blood splattered everywhere. A hand closing around his throat, cutting of the sweet tang of oxygen even as soft words of passion brushed against his skin in contradiction—_

In the aftermath, he would be content. Would curl into that body and feel nothing but the heat and the tenderness and the languid jelly of his lax muscles trembling in his outstretched limbs. Beside him, that presence would linger, stroking clawed fingers through his messy hair and trailing them over the twitching, shivering layers of his bare skin.

Telperinquar would fall slowly into sleep and dream...

_And there was nothing but pain. Pain as never he had experienced before. Looking up into those eyes, he saw not love and devotion within their tumbling waves of flame. Saw instead the ugly reality hidden behind the gold-plated veneer. Saw that rotted, wicked spirit sneering down at him in disdain..._

_"Tell me," that voice always demanded._

_Always, he remained silent._

_And always there came more and more pain. More and more blood. More and more broken, opened and torn wounds scattered across his body until no inch seemed untouched. Until his feet gave out with the agony and his wrists screamed from the strain and his fingers clawed at their bonds, trying so desperately to escape this nightmare..._

And he would wake up. The process would begin again as he arose from bed and went to bathe. Spent his day pretending that all was right in the world. That the blackened plains were something beautiful instead of stripped and gory. That the mountains were walls to protect, rather than to detain. That the phantom who visited him at night was gentle as a crooning lullaby, something closer to his soul than a mere passing bedmate. That the other really _cared..._

That the iridescent glow of fire-opals set in gray-cracked alabaster softened upon his form in adoration...

_When he knew very well that they narrowed in calculation and glowed with hunger so predatory it left him shuddering in the wake. Left his blood racing wildly with a shot of pure adrenaline at the sudden movement of scalding eyes. Left him watching as the one he loved—and despised—more than anything drew closer and closer and closer..._

_Knowing he would be betrayed... That everything was a lie..._

Such a beautiful lie...

The lovely, rose-tinted nightmare from which he did not wish to awaken. All around him, it settled so deceptively, so peacefully. Allowing him to look away from his disgusting reflection.

For what did the mirrored inversion offer him but suffering and lamentation? At least there was pleasure to be had in this delusion of love. At least there was sustenance upon which his spirit could thrive in such inhospitable conditions. Against all the odds.

The lover of the Dark Lord. The prisoner locked in the topmost spires of his hideous dark tower piercing open the smoggy, toxic sky. The captive kept only for the sexual satisfaction of a sadistic rapist...

_"If only you had given me what I had desired..." Soft kisses. And the feeling of runes being carved as lines of acid into his back. "If only you would give in, I would not need to harm you..."_

_"You see, my love, you_ belong _to_ me _..."_

But he pushed aside those dangerous, unbalancing thoughts. Did not allow them to linger and burn their twisting and knotted images into the back of his mind. Did not allow them to mar his idealistic perception of his glorious lover with the soft, luxurious pale hair. As he looked out across the blackened plains, shielded from the blinded stars, Telperinquar thought of nothing. Nothing at all except the next moment. Nothing at all except those fiery eyes. Nothing at all except the illusion.

Nothing at all. And certainly not of a trifling golden ring that rested about his trembling finger.

_Still red-hot. When the metal cooled and his shaking hand dared pull it back from tender and violently stinging skin, a charred shadow of its width was left in the wake, branded into a permanent band that no amount of scrubbing or clawing could hope to remove. A vile mark of possession._

This was all a dream. And he was not certain he ever wished to awaken.

Not to the other harsh reality.


	230. Contagious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turgon reflects on his wife and daughter and their similarities. Surprisingly, he isn't angsting the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something cute to offset the overflow of evil Sauron pieces as of late. And it's not meant in a creepy way, so please don't deliberately misinterpret now that I've stated clearly my intentions. Anyway, fluff and crushes.
> 
> It's related to a lot of stories. Breeze (Chapter 21) and Tight (Chapter 37) the most.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Turgon = Turukáno

Itarillë had her mother's smile. Undeniably.

Of course, she also looked very much like Elenwë. Like mother like daughter. Had the same golden hair and soft, delicate fingers from her softhearted Vanyarin bloodline. Had the same blue eyes, crystallized droplets of the sky fallen to earth, wreathed by pale lashes.

Yet he could not help but notice something more of his wife in their child. Notice that, when she spun around—barefooted in the gardens in her flowing, pale gowns—and spotted him standing behind her, a wide grin formed upon her young, soft face. A smile so beloved and so painfully familiar beneath the golden flow of curls and reflected in deep blue eyes. 

A little reflection of a past bygone...

\---

_As a child, Turukáno had never been particularly happy._

_In fact, he had been a rather stern-faced and serious child. Everyone said so. With a father heavily entrenched in politics and family disagreements. With an older brother concerned with living up to their sire's standards and reputation. With a mother who smiled and doted and fawned but could never play with him or understand him._

_Was it any surprise that he spent most of his time alone?_

_Was it any surprise that he was not particularly joyous?_

_Most of the time, he was simply lonely, off in his own little world with a book in his lap and the evening din ringing through his ears. But, of course, he never said much of anything about this niggling, unpleasant feeling to his parents or to his brother. Not to his cousins who oft visited but never stayed for long. Certainly not to his aunts or uncles or grandfather, who would all undoubtedly shove aside the worries and problems of a child as inconsequential._

_Not to anyone._

_Until the day she came along. A day that he knew, even then, he would be unable to forget for as long as he breathed and thought and dreamed._

_In the gardens of the palace, he sat minding his own business, reading in the afternoon light beneath a conveniently shady tree, enjoying the temperate weather and wondering how much longer his father planned to make them stay here in mind-numbing boredom. The second son of the second prince wondered when his father's meetings and gatherings and council sessions would be finished so that they might go home to their townhouse in Tirion where at least he could hide away in his own chambers to brood and scowl._

_It was then that they appeared._

_"Why are you hiding back here?"_

_Looking up and up and up, his sight was filled with a sheen of gold. The reflection of Laurelin burning into his eyes, bouncing off of two identical pairs of silken curls._

_Two figures stood over him. A boy and a girl with gold hair and blue eyes, clearly brother and sister. Their faces were curious and questioning as they leaned over him, half-blocking the brilliance of the light, their dark outlines blurred at the edges._

_Turukáno did not know what to even say to them, these strangely friendly children. None of the courtiers' children ever dared speak to him, let alone ask him questions so rudely._

_They sat watching one another in complete silence. Until the girl-child crouched beside him in the grass, her skirts spreading in a pool of soft blue around her. Leaning over, her hair spilled against his arm as her huge blue eyes took in the words spread across the pages of his novel._

_"Reading is fun and all, but it is a perfect day for playing in the gardens, not a cloud in the sky. It would be a shame to spend it reading when you should be making the most of the excellent weather!"_

_And then she smiled at him, her pink lips stretching and dimples forming. Something about it was just so lovely, outshining easily the Trees and the stars and the holy visages of the Valar all combined into one. It left him with a curling feeling of warmth bubbling up beneath his ribs, climbing its way out of his throat in an intelligible sound of half-confused wonder._

_Wide-eyed, he looked upon her, this girl and her contagious smile. And the stern-faced second son of Nolofinwë felt his lips twitch up hesitantly at the corners. Bashfully._

_"Yes, I suppose..."_

_Her giggles were prettier than the twittering of the birds and the operatic poetry of the courtiers. Prettier than his mother's soft laughter and his grandmother's faint chortles._

_Prettier than anything._

_"I am Elenwë, and this is my brother Laurefindil. We were wondering if you wanted to come and play with us. You just looked so lonely over here all by yourself on such a lovely day that we thought perhaps you would like some company."_

_Her hand reached out, curling around one of his own, tugging his fingers firmly from his book and easily hoisting him upwards. Normally, Turukáno would scowl and snipe at anyone who made him lose his page in a book, but even when the cover snapped shut and the novel tumbled its way to the grass he could not summon even a droplet of annoyance._

_Not in the face of her welcome._

_"I... Okay..."_

_As if he could say "no" with her tangible joy writhing in the air, embracing and engulfing him until it was on every side of his being. Of his physical body and his cold-as-ice spirit, melting..._

_It was just how she was. A ray of sunshine and heat and sweetness all intertwined into something that outweighed pure gold in value and that saturated more fully with warmth than even the strongest of fires in the spirit. And the young prince felt his heart flutter._

_He had never had a friend like her before._

_Elenwë..._

\---

But, rather than the usual flashbacks of blood and screams and suffering, it was a pleasant reflection of memory. Of sweeter times in brighter places. And though the grief never vanished from the aching emptiness where a chunk of his heart cleaved out by the death of his beloved wife, Turukáno did not at that moment feel the overwhelming resentment and heartbreak that usually accompanied thoughts of her face and form. 

Thought not of her scream just before he heard the snap of her body against the jagged ice below. Not of her shocked eyes as she reached out to grasp him but was too far away, her fingers slipping upon his cloak. But rather her honest and kind character and her willingness to reach out and help others. Her ringing laughter echoing through the gardens and her warm fingers wrapped around his hand.

Itarillë had a contagious smile. Just like _hers._

And the ever-present warmth that followed the sight of those cute dimples and the wide-eyed glimmer of blue eyes and the bell-like laughter... it was there. Not a ghost or a faint and faded memory. Tactile and wrapping him up in a blanket.

He received the hug from his daughter and felt the corners of his lips twitch upward.

The stern-faced king was smiling.


	231. Good Riddance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation in Nargothrond comes to a bitter close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Treachery. Espionage. Misunderstandings. Probably a healthy dose of insanity and/or obsessive tendencies. Blatantly implied incest and adultery.
> 
> The end of the Nargothrond arc starting with Whispered (Chapter 120). Hidden (Chapter 125), Cut (Chapter 138), Evidence (Chapter 162), Tease (Chapter 175), Pierce (Chapter 200) and Twisted (Chapter 204) are the pieces directly associated with this story, though there are other related arcs and stories.
> 
> Obviously some of the actions and dialogue in the second part are taken from _Of Beren and Luthien_ in the Quenta Silmarillion.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Orodreth = Artaresto

They did not know he was there, watching. Or maybe they had known all along and they simply did not care.

He would not expect much rationality or caution from a pair of murderous traitors.

"I do not understand why you are so upset, Curufinwë." As usual, Turkafinwë's voice was low and rasping, faintly tinted with amusement and disdain. Toward the news of Artafindë's death, he was colder than the Helcaraxë. 

"He was our cousin and our friend. Is that not enough reason to be upset?"

Unlike Turkafinwë, Curufinwë sounded strained, his voice rough, distraught and shuddering with emotion. Artaresto could not see his angular face, half-hidden as it was within the dim lighting of the room, but he could see the trembling of his hands as they clenched taut in the fabric of his tunic. Could see the way teeth bit cruelly at his lower lip until blood welled.

The brothers faced off against one another. "He was _your_ lover, but he was _my_ enemy," the older grumbled, voice both chastising and annoyed. "Artafindë was foolish and reckless and too soft for his own good. He was not _strong enough_ to hold himself tall in a world of war and survival. We needn't have a king who has not the strength to protect and support his people in their darkest hours, and the only reason you wished for him to survive and give up his farce of a noble quest was because _you needed him."_

Accusation at its most blatant. Curufinwë turned away as if in shame, dark hair falling into his face and over his shoulders, hiding him nearly completely from view. And he said nothing.

In Artaresto's breast, resentment bubbled. If any reconciliation had been possible, it would have been at the cost of the younger brother's pride in openly admitting his love—or at least the basest form of affection—for Artafindë. In openly admitting some sort of commitment and respect, some sort of need and belief in honor and nobility of royal blood. And yet, though clearly Curufinwë _cared_ , he stood by and said nothing in the face of his older sibling's disrespect and disregard. Like a puppet, a sycophant too frightened to speak out for fear of rebuke.

And then, as silken and slippery as a serpent, Turkafinwë approached his younger brother, wrapping long arms around the slightly smaller form and cradling it close. Offering feigned comfort and sympathy in the face of open distress and upset. "But now you do not need him. _We_ do not need him. _His people_ do not need him. And for his loss, we have gained..."

"Why would you say something like that?" Infuriated silver eyes flashed in the dark. "He loved you, Turkafinwë. Considered you as a brother."

The older brother sighed and shook his head as if in regret. But Artaresto knew there was no regret to be found in such a twisted and unpleasant creature with such an empty and shriveled heart. "Because it is true. Artafindë was weak and spineless. Good riddance."

And Artaresto felt his blood boil at the same moment he watched Curufinwë's head dropped down to rest upon the older elf's chest. As his shoulders began to tremble and quake as his breaths hiccupped and gasped.

As he searched out comfort with his lover's murderer...

_How dare they speak of him so! How dare he mourn for my brother..._

And Turkafinwë was smiling. Cruel. Cold. Vicious.

Satisfied.

_How dare they believe they have won..._

\---

The new king looked down at them from the throne and felt his skin prickle uncomfortably, like spider legs crawling up and down bare flesh. Everything about _them_ left a bad feeling, dirty and tainted, in the very air. He did not even want to _look_ at them, for they reminded him of the whispers in the privacy of half-lit rooms and the cold smirk of victory upon bloodless lips...

But they were here. And, hopefully, he would never need look upon their faces again. 

Curufinwë's eyes were downcast, firmly focused upon the toes of his worn leather boots as he frowned, his visage the very reflection of his sire in a low mood. But Turkafinwë was smiling broadly and spine-chillingly as ever, just a hint of tooth showing from between bloodless lips. A monster if ever there had been one, trapped within the flimsy bars of the cage of startling beauty.

"You have called for us, _my king."_

It took every ounce of self-control Artaresto possessed not to curl his lip upwards in revulsion at their sight. But he still looked down upon them, as the highest of nobility looks at a flee-bitten, ragged and homeless vagabond that might sully his gloves were they to shake hands. He did not bother to hide his hatred from them or from his subjects, whose mouths frothed equally with thirst for blood and vengeance for their beloved ruler now dead.

Because of _them._

He did not even bother to disguise his glare or his sneer.

"I did, indeed, Turkafinwë, Curufinwë, my cousins." _How it reviles me to even name you as kin._

"And what is it you want from us?" Turkafinwë asked, and his voice was mocking...

_Rude... Cocky... Arrogant..._

Everything about Turkafinwë ruffled Artaresto's metaphorical feathers in the wrong direction. Had he been a less-civilized and more violent creature, he might have tried to strangle the silver-haired man with his bare hands right here and now for such a slight. But Artaresto was not a violent creature and had taken an oath never to harm with his own two hands unless absolutely necessary, and he would not break such a promise for the sake of these two traitors.

He had something much better in mind.

"I want you to leave this city before the night is out. Were I less of a weak-willed, honorable man, I would let my guards slaughter you like the swine you are and leave your bodies to rot in the forest for your treachery. But I would not sully my hands or the hands of my people so with your blackened blood..."

A smile bent his lips, entirely cruel and unpleasant. A satisfied reflection, resonating disturbingly...

"Thus, I would demand that you never return to Nargothrond. Neither bread nor rest will you be granted within the fences of my realm, so I speak as King of Nargothrond."

Shocked were the younger brother's eyes. Hurt, even, for a moment, before everything disappeared once more. But no pity did Artaresto feel in his heart, for he knew with whom Curufinwë's loyalty would always lie, for whom he would sell his honor and his soul for mere grains of sand in the recesses of time. No matter how the second brother might have cared for Artafindë—if at all, he had, for all their friendship and lover's bond—he was loyal absolutely to Turkafinwë.

And Turkafinwë was laughing softly before the words had even fully departed the new king's lips.

"Let it be so!" The laughter rose and rose, echoing through the halls and over the heads of the subjects, who shrank back in fright and discomfort. In wariness at the display of madness, dangerous and wild.

Then the laughter slowly faded into silence, and Turkafinwë turned away, Curufinwë at his side with a cruel smirk perched upon the lips that had last night been swollen from biting and dipped in the saltwater of tears. Looking up that face now, there was no sorrow to be seen.

Be it a mask or the truth, it mattered not. Artaresto knew the truth.

His people had no need for such emotionless, reckless and sinful betrayers.

_Good riddance..._


	232. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond reflects upon his life as it comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of character death implied. One actual death scene. Implied assault and non-con. Depression and self-hatred issues. Foresight issues. Just lots of disfunctional family issues as well.
> 
> Related to the Cleansed arc, thus also to anything with Elladan/Fem Maeglin and Elrohir/Mithrellas. I'm not writing out all the chapter names this time. Too lazy.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Gil-Galad = Ereinion

The shoreline was finally drifting into view after weeks of nothing but waves upon the endless horizon. Truly, the sands were quite golden in the fading light of day, something ethereal and otherworldly. Something plainly not of the realm of mortal creatures as it gleamed and glimmered, pearl dust awash with the waves and the wreaths of writhing sea foam. And then, appearing from the hazy mist of the ocean, was the port. White and towering as some ancient city of alabaster and sapphire, its white-washed spires and arches rising to welcome the newcomers.

To welcome them home. At last.

And Elrond stood upon the deck, hand clenched tight upon the white railing, gazing with bright eyes in anticipation of the end. In anticipation of happiness after so many years...

\---

He said goodbye, but Elrond only vaguely remembered. There was the vague image of a man, tall with a crooked smile and stubble upon his cheeks, a golden mane spilling around his face as he lifted his twin sons—one in each arm—so that he might press kisses to their faces and listen to their giggles.

Skinny little arms tangled about the man's neck, clinging tightly. "Ada..." He did not want his father to go. He never did.

"Worry not. I shall return." The powerful embrace was so warm and comforting. So secure. And Elrond whimpered when it released its hold upon him, when he was lowered back down to the ground and left shivering, suddenly bereft. With that feeling he could not name niggling in the back of his brain.

So young had Elrond been that, at the time, he had not recognized it. That faint twinge of dread.

"I love you. Be good for your nana..." He began to walk toward his ship, stepping upward until his form appeared upon the bow, hair scattered with the cold wind. His hand rose, waving at the little ones.

His eyes had been different that time.

Always, he came back. But that time, he didn't.

\---

She said not so much as a goodbye. There had been no time for such trivial words when screams wormed their way through the open doorway and the cracked windows, sending shivers through the frightened twins. Instead, she hugged them close and pressed them tightly into the closet together, and Elrond could recall only the blurry images of his brother and of shadows within. Of the bright light glowing from the crack at the foot of the door.

"Stay quiet and do not come out. I will come and find you."

The pillared shadows of her feet outside their hiding place disappeared. And he could hear her footsteps as she ran across the room. As she left them behind.

The feeling was back. The feeling Elrond remembered. The cold chill crawling up his spine when he watched their father walk away for the last time.

He wanted to call her back. To scream and cry and demand that she hold them tight and never dare to leave them behind. To make certain that that ugly and unwanted feeling stabbing needles into his heart was false. That history was not repeating.

But he stayed quiet and cuddled close to Elros instead. Waited silently for her return.

Waited silently and hoped and hoped to hear her voice...

But, when again feet broke the static line of the light crawling beneath the door, it was not his mother standing upon the other side. It never was again.

\---

Maglor was the foster father. The one who smiled and sang them lullabies when they cried and had nightmares in the early hours of the morning. Elrond always recalled his touch as something gentle and feathery skimming across his skin, as if the supposedly cold-blooded murderer were afraid to press too hard with the tips of his fingers. As if he were afraid they would disappear, shatter into mist and be sucked away in the light.

Maedhros was the protector. He was distant and his eyes were very dark. Frightening and threatening. But for all his uninviting appearance and personality, ever did he offer comfort and guidance when most the fosterlings needed calm and soothing words of wisdom. And, sometimes, Elrond thought that the redheaded prince of tragedy loved them and cherished them just as much as did his brother, though rarely did he show his affections.

One could not have asked for better parents.

But the twins' tenure as the fosterlings of Maedhros and Maglor had ended. The younger of the brothers hugged them tightly and kissed their foreheads in farewell, a gleam in his eyes so sorrowful that one could not look upon it for long. Already, the rims were reddened and swollen with tears that refused to fall.

The older brother did not touch them or kiss them. Never had he been a demonstrative man. But his eyes were soft with worry and grief when he looked upon them.

"Be safe, little ones," he told them only.

It was ironic and heartbreaking. For that feeling was ever-present, and Elrond was old enough to know what it meant to feel this dread and longing. Old enough to know that they would never see these two brothers again. Old enough to know this was goodbye forever.

That knowledge made Elrond ache as he walked away. And he would never tell anyone but Elros that, later that night, he cried and wished...

Wished he had never left them behind...

\---

Never had he truly been _alone._

Elros had always been by his side. Always. They had shared a womb and a cradle. Shared their mattresses and their blankets and their parents and their adventures. Shared their triumphs and their joys and their sorrows and their secrets. Rarely could one be found without the other, for they were bound as close as two separate souls could be.

But that was about to end.

And he would _not_ cry.

Not at the wedding of his brother, who looked so happy with his mortal spouse upon his arm and his mortal friends crowded about passing around drink and laughter. Not when Elros turned to him, grinning— _And was it his imagination, or was that face more weathered than he remembered?_ —and looked so contented and proud. As though he had found his place in the world. As though this were exactly where he belonged.

And that place was not at Elrond's side.

"I should be going now, brother."

"Leaving already?" Elros slapped his shoulder in a friendly greeting, but between them lay something awkward and unspoken. Elrond forced a smile, though perhaps it appeared more as a grimace.

"Ah, I will depart in the morning. Surely, Ereinion will be wanting his councilor back as soon as possible." It was an excuse, and a poor one at that. But a poor one would do just as well as a subtle and manipulative one. They knew each other too well for silent words to be hidden. For intentions left unsaid to be misunderstood.

"I shall see you another time then." Elros patted his shoulder and retreated to his wife's side. Elrond headed for the door. Neither dared look at one another, lest they acknowledge the lie.

The younger brother fled. In the morning he departed Númenor. And he never did go back.

\---

There was no real goodbye for his best friend and king. Just the knowledge that they may not leave the field of battle alive. That they may have to stand by and watch the other perish in violence and bloodshed. And Elrond had believed himself prepared. He had seen comrades die in the midst of madness and chaos before. Held his hands over their gaping wounds and comforted them in their last moments of agony and struggle.

But nothing could have prepared him...

For the way that body spun around, eyes searching until they clashed—

Until Ereinion was staring straight at him, wide-eyed with knowledge, lips parted and dark hair flying about his smudged and sweaty face. Aeglos tumbled from his fingers, and the clang of the blade hitting stone resounded through the air like an electric current.

No more than a step did Elrond take before the light blinded him. He lifted a hand and blocked his eyes from the garish rays, crying out at the wave of hideous, blackening heat that raked its claws over his exposed skin and left him blistered.

Silence fell. Even the din of battle had faded out.

Then he blinked his eyes open to find everything between himself and his best friend's murderer was empty space. Devoid and scorched to the last particle. Erased.

There was nothing but ash to mark the passing of his king. Of his best friend and confident. Of his last rock of stability in his crumbling world. Nothing at all.

How his knees kept him upright, Elrond would never know. In that moment, had the enemy struck out in violence, he would have been obliterated. For he could do nothing but stare at that emptiness where Ereinion had stood no more than ten seconds before.

Where there was nothing...

_Nothing at all..._

\---

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, a gleam of silvery hope rising from the blackened ruins of the life he had once called his own. And she was the most wondrous thing to ever happen to him in his long years of watching those he loved come and go as fleetingly and devastatingly as mortal men.

But she was a constant, he had thought. Never would she leave his side, nor he depart from hers.

Never would they be parted.

And yet here they stood, her gaunt and blanched face half-hidden beneath a hood of velvet, her once-silver hair now white and wispy against the translucent membrane of her skin. Eyes once such a healthy, lively blue were paler than the tint of ice upon water. And no smile marked her lips as she looked at him, her lover and husband.

She looked at him as though she were seeing _through_ him to somewhere else. Somewhere that was real. Somewhere where this hell was the dream. The nightmare.

"This is farewell." Elrond reached out and lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her cold knuckles and squeezed so tenderly, worried he might bruise or break her frail body with his strength. "But we shall be reunited."

It was then that she looked. Eyes focused but so distant and empty.

"I love you," he added, almost desperately, pressing a second kiss to her hand. "And I shall miss you dearly."

Her eyes lowered as she released his hand without a word of acknowledgement or love or devotion. As she walked away with her guard and was lifted upon a horse. As she was carried over the Bruinen and out of the Valley and out of his life.

And all he could do was watch until she was gone. Until he could not see her distant form. Until he could not _feel_ her presence against his soul. Until his Celebrían was out of reach entirely.

That night, he cried for the first time since losing Elros. But only once. Still there were preparations to be made and a house to be run. Paperwork to be completed and trading agreements to be finalized. Patients to be healed and children to be cared for. There was still _life._ And there was not a moment to be wasted.

\---

But it was hardest saying goodbye to his sons and his daughter.

One, he would never see again. He hugged Arwen tightly and felt the tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he took in her sight and her spirit. A woman, glowing radiantly with happiness and already pregnant with her first child. Ready to live her life to the very end as a mortal and pass beyond the edges of the world with her husband.

At least he knew Aragorn would make her happy and keep her safe. Felt it with burning surety in the marrow of his bones.

And then there were his sons, one smiling and one frowning.

Elladan he was certain he would see again one day, for his heir had chosen the path of the Firstborn and not the Aftercomers. The oldest twin stepped out of his father's embrace and pulled his wife close so that they stood together as one, their burdens lifted from their shoulders beneath the other's magnetic pull and tender caresses. So in love and so ready to live. They would keep Imladris as home, and one day they would come over the sea with the remaining elves, back to Elrond's embrace.

About his oldest son, Elrond was not worried. If anything, he was relieved and grateful to see at least one of his beloved twins pull himself up from the quicksand of shadow and vengeance.

But Elrohir was an uncertainty. Distant and dark were his eyes, as ever they had been since the departure of his mother to the Undying Lands. As they exchanged their farewells, Elrond feared terribly that his youngest son might chose a path apart from his brother only as an escape from facing his fears and letting go of the distant past. Might evict himself from their family out of penitence and misguided self-hatred if only to keep himself from moving on. To keep himself from living.

When he embraced the younger, Elrond hugged tighter and stifled the urge to sob all the harder.

"Please, be safe," he pleaded softly. "And be happy."

_Whatever you choose, please be happy. And never regret._

\---

After so many years of goodbyes, Elrond was ready...

Looking upon the approaching docks, his heart leapt into his throat, throbbing insistently. A slender figure was waiting, hood pulled down to reveal a familiar face with eyes only a shade paler than the midday sky and hair spun from the finest mithril. And she was smiling as she moved closer, stepping out onto the dock and gliding toward the ship finally making land.

He moved in tandem, hand sliding along the railing, toward her. Pulled by her own personal brand of gravity. By the need to take in her scent and feel her skin and kiss her lips...

And hear her voice speaking his name...

Elrond was ready for the end to begin in a welcome home and a sweet "I missed you".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Ada = Daddy, Papa  
> Nana = Mama  
> Aeglos = snow-spear (Gil-Galad's spear)


	233. Scarred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tolkien never tells us why Eöl hates the Noldor so passionately. But really, how many reasons can there be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm a horrible person and because people hate things for a reason. Death scenes. Implied possible rape, psuedo-cannibalism, child murder... whatever other awful things your brain can think up without my help. Dismemberment and disembowelment. Irrational mental processes, vomiting and mental breakdowns. Crying. Somehow managed to be hurt/comfort at the end.
> 
> Related to Wrong (Chapter 114), Sweeten (Chapter 115), Hands (Chapter 116) and Touch (Chapter 127). Basically just a fake backstory from my own head-canon. I didn't even bother to name the extra OCs.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aredhel = Íreth

One never believed tragedy would strike them where it would scar the deepest.

However, the sad fact of the world, Eöl discovered early in his years of bliss, was that reality was kind to no one. And that every corner and shadow was a danger lurking, waiting to strike. None should be ignored and none should be taken lightly.

It was not safe to be lax. It was not safe to let down your guard. Not even for a moment.

But the younger Eöl had been foolish. Had naively believed in the safety of his people. Of their small village in the forest. For thousands of years, no darkness had troubled them under those eaves. They had lived peacefully on the same land for as long as his parents and their parents recalled, secure in their prosperity and their livelihood. Content in their existence amongst the trees and the birds and the wild creatures of the woods.

Even the spreading rumors and stories of newcomers from over the sea with gleaming star-swords and fierce, ice-chip eyes—bringing with an unnamed and infectious darkness of the old world—could not bring anything more than vague whispers of disquiet to his heart in those days of fierce and wild joy. After all, there had been no reason to cast suspicious eyes back into the past and all the reason in the world to look toward the future.

Like the birth of his second child.

They were hoping for a girl-child this time. Someone to keep his wife company when he and his son were away on the hunting trips for days on end and to teach the ways of herbs and mending and weaving and artistry. Or that was what Eöl told himself as he crossed his arms and scowled through the flush upon his cheeks at his wife's knowing smirk.

"I shall be fine for a few days without your constant attention. Our son is more than capable of looking after me, Eöl."

Naturally, he did not like leaving her alone for _any_ period of time as she grew heavier and rounder with his progeny, let alone _a few days._ But, as she said, his fully-grown son was more than capable of watching over his pregnant mate for such a short period of time. And it would be beneficial for all parties involved, giving the soon-to-be married young man a chance to experience the woes of parenthood whilst Eöl had a well-deserved break from his constantly emotional and uppity wife. He should have been pleased, or at the very least slightly relieved and grateful.

And yet...

Maybe it had been paranoia, the nagging at the back of his mind. Or maybe premonition, the fierce urge to take her up against him and never release. But no matter what it had been, the feeling had not settled well within his consciousness, instead prodding and prickling with worries and discomfort.

Eöl had only wanted to make certain she was safe.

His arms were about her all at once, stroking the curve of her side and the swell of her belly, resting his palm against it and feeling with abject fascination the flutters of the tiny life blooming beneath. "I know, I know, my love..." His cheek pressed to her dark hair and he breathed in her scent until it saturated his senses and left him lightheaded and full only of her presence. "But the rumors..."

"Are just that: rumors," she chastised softly, frowning up at him with her full, dark lips. "Besides, we can take care of ourselves, husband. I may be pregnant, but I am a warrior. You need not hold my hand all the time, and our son is grown—"

"Yes, yes... I know..." Eöl sighed. He still had not liked it. But he agreed despite.

"It is only three or four days," she reiterated.

_Only three or four days, and then he would be back. And he would not depart her side until their family grew from three to four. Until his newborn daughter was cradled within his arms..._

Eöl closed his eyes and imagined it.

Some days he still imagined it as he dreamed it had been.

\---

Still imagined coming home to her welcoming smile and brilliant eyes. To his son's embrace and warm laughter echoing through their home.

Still imagined that the life he lived now was the dream—the nightmare. And not the torturous truth.

It was a nice thought, that the smoke rising from their village—their home since long before Eöl had come into the world—was just a celebratory midsummer fire swirling into the dawn after a long night of revelry. That the quiet was due to the drunken revelers staying cuddled up in their beds until long after Anor sprayed her golden light down into the dappled clearings.

But it was too silent. And the smell was not of burnt wood and incense.

But of burnt hair and flesh.

Sickening. Spread out everywhere until no inch was unpolluted. Until all there was left of his beloved home was blood, ash and rotting flesh.

Could one ever get such a sight out of their heads once it had been implanted?

Eöl could not erase its scars from his mind. Forever were the violent slashes and bruises left in the wake of walking down the center of their gathering of houses and seeing ravaged bodies lying half-eaten and half-scorched where they had fallen, empty eyes looking up at the sky in agony and horror. Of stepping in the grass and hearing the crunch of dried blood and charred bone beneath his boots. Of seeing friends and women and young children cast aside like broken toys, their limbs missing and their eyes staring.

Of feeling his heart pound so hard he gagged and his breath pant so quickly it was air that pumped through his veins instead of blood.

All he had thought of was _her._ Of her and his son and his unborn daughter in their house.

Their house with the roof half-collapsed and the door ripped off its hinges. With bloodstains spilling down and down over the steps in a river, a body barely visible in the shadowy opening of the doorway left behind. His son's arm completely gnawed from his bloodstained corpse, stomach ripped asunder and entrails spilled over the floor, leading in a trail of blood and intestine toward the kitchen.

To _her._

One look at what they had done to her was too much to bear, and Eöl fled the house and retched outside. Fell into the grass whilst his head twirled and rocked, his vision going white and fuzzy with shock. Too horrified to even tell the others what he had seen as they gathered around him with their blanched faces and stricken eyes.

_"It is only for three or four days..."_

She said everything would be fine. She said...

_"We can take care of ourselves..."_

How did one ever _forget?_

Forget the whispers in the shadows. The rumors of crazy, murderous beings with fey eyes from the West. The signs all seen but recognized all too late of impending war.

Of impending darkness spreading, reaching with its fingers farther and farther...

Lying in the grass, chin slick with bile and eyes boiling with tears, Eöl had never felt lower or emptier. It was an aching pit opening up where once his family had been, widening until he wanted to scream for the pain. Anything to fill up that space and close the gaping, bleeding wound left behind.

Anything.

Anything was better than the grief. And he knew in that moment who to blame as hatred washed over his open wound like a soothing balm, blackening his dark eyes. He knew who was _responsible_ for the return of he who had plagued their peoples upon the shores of Cuiviénen. The Dark Lord who had stolen their children and wives in the night and carried them off to a symphony of screams...

Had returned.

And it was _them_ —with their cold eyes and their selfish ways—who had brought him back.

\---

"Why do you hate my people so?" Her voice was different. Softer and kinder. A woman raised in luxury and plenty, not the wife of a hunter living off gathered herbs and venison in the deepness of the forest.

A golodh.

How did he answer her question?

For, no matter who or what she might be, he could _not forget._ Though his body might be unbroken and his skin unblemished, he was scarred over every inch of his spirit. Bitter and alone and angry at the world for the ill fortune he had been dealt as punishment for the crimes of another people.

At the injustice of the fate of his family. At the greed of his lover's kinsmen. At their callous disregard for the wellbeing of others in their quest to satisfy their own avaricious and venomous urges.

But he did not want to explain his turmoil to her when they lay together in the twilight, pretending all was right in their tiny reality. Did not want to speak of the sight of his wife's mangled body or tangling his feet in his son's innards as he fled in terror, tripping and stumbling, from the only home he had ever known. Of knowing he would never hold his second child in his arms, would never even know if it had been a son or a daughter only a few weeks from his or her welcome into the world.

Part of him knew it was not her fault. Íreth would hardly hurt a fly, let alone harm someone with intent in her heart and mind. It was not her way, no matter how she would like to pretend otherwise.

So, instead of rolling over and putting his back to the exotic sight of her pale, elegant face and her black, luscious hair curling around them in waves, Eöl pulled her close and rested her head against his shoulder as he would have once done to his wife. Breathed out a long breath and sucked in the scent of the woman curled up against his body so intimately. A scent so different from the one lingering as a ghost in his memories, but one no less loved and desired.

"Let us not speak of it," he rasped. "I am tired."

She said no more. But her arms twined gently about his form, fingers stroking his bare back so very gently. As though she could hear in his voice the truth that he did not wish to speak aloud.

Shamefully, he leaned into her silent support and closed his eyes when the tears spilled. Just this once.

And she never asked again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Anor = the sun  
> golodh = Noldorin elf
> 
> Quenya:  
> Cuiviénen = waters of the awakening (where the elves first woke up)


	234. Last Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before departure. The night of goodbyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sappy hurt/comfort mixed in with angstiness. Basically in a nutshell.
> 
> Related to just about every Maglor-related piece I've done. Vardamírë is my OFC who serves as his wife. Her first appearance was in Blush (Chapter 48) I think.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë or Laurë (non-canonical shortening)

"You will be leaving in the morning."

They were alone in their bedchambers. Vardamírë in her sheer nightgown and Makalaurë in his nightshirt, the pair staring at one another through the reflection of the silver mirror upon her vanity as she brushed her pale hair slowly. Every few moments, she would glance toward him, take in his face so ashen in the striking light of the candles, and look away just as quickly.

The fleeting looks did not prevent her from noticing his hands clenched in the fabric of his shirt, twisting anxiously. "You could come with me."

But he knew she wouldn't.

Knew that she did not want to abandon these shores for a mad quest led by his insane father. Knew that she did not want him to throw away his life so recklessly for a prize he did not even desire. Knew that she was angry that he had dragged her children into the fray, was pulling them toward disaster.

Knew that she was heartbroken and betrayed by his actions and words.

And now the silence lay heavily between them, broken only by their breaths and their awkward whispers. What did one say, though, when they knew...

Knew that in the morning they would say goodbye...?

And not a fleeting goodbye, but a goodbye for decades. For millennia. For _ages of the world._

_When would they come home? When would she again hold her sons within the cradle of her arms? When again would she hug her husband close and feel his presence resonate with her soul?_

_Would she_ ever _feel again that bliss and security?_

_Or perhaps..._

The thought of standing upon the shore forever, staring into the distance and praying to see their faces beneath white sails, waiting for eternity in vain hope, left her cold to the bone. Left her stricken as though by a physical blow, that he would put her through this hell at the mere word of his father. And for what, but a trio of coveted glowing rocks and the head of the Dark Lord nailed upon the wall like a trophy?

_"I thought that, if given the choice, you would choose_ us _... our family..."_

It hurt.

But how long could she remain cold when she knew that her last chance was slipping away? After tomorrow he would be _gone._ Her sons would be _gone._

Her _life_ would be _gone._

"But I cannot. You know that..." _Know that a quest for vengeance and a war fought over vain greed were no place for a woman. For a family. For a_ vulnerability.

Her slow and steady brushstrokes faltered with the decisive crack in her words. Finally, she turned to look at her mate where he sat perched upon the end of their bed, elbows braced upon his knees, head cradled in his hands, hair hanging in his face. Makalaurë looked sleepless and haggard, his face drawn and lips blanched, his eyes averted as she stared.

"I am sorry... so sorry..." Shattered in voice, she could hear how close he came to weeping in desperation.

Over the past few days he had repeated those words again and again, but to stubborn and cotton-filled ears. Always she had scoffed and turned her head away from his apologies, brushed away his despair and his fright. After all, had he not brushed her aside just as easily and thoughtlessly?

Yet, this was their last night together.

Her last night as his wife.

_I might never see him again._

If the quest of his father failed, Makalaurë could be lost to her for all time, locked away and damned to suffer forever in the cage of binding words. In his own voice, he had spoken the Oath never to rest until revenge was claimed and the Silmarilli recovered, Manwë and Varda as his witness, and such words could not reneged or forsworn.

Could not be thrown aside. Not even for her.

Did she truly wish to spend this last night of togetherness with him in silence and resentment?

Setting her brush aside, she rose to full height, her silken gown flowing around her calves as she moved. As he watched her glide across the room upon quiet, graceful feet. As he looked at her with those distraught eyes, circled with dark bruises from sleepless nights of turning toward her back and being ignored.

Vardamírë came to a halt before him, reached out and cupped his sharp cheekbones, tilted his head upward toward her gaze. Until they connected. "I know you are, Laurë."

She stroked his face tenderly and pulled his head against her breast, sliding her fingers into his loose, tangled hair. "I know..."

"So, so sorry..."

"Hush..." 

Carefully, she grasped his hands and lifted them upward. Pulled him to his full height and wrapped her arms about his neck so that she might rest her face against his shoulder and hide in the blackness of his messy hair tumbling down. So that she might hold him once more in the stillness and intimacy of their chambers, feeling every inch of his presence sliding against her body and mind and soul.

So that she might feel his arms about her waist, holding her close as they began to rock slowly, their forms melding taut to one another until every ripple and curve settled into place. Like coming home for the very last time, their last dance in the dark and the quiet before the thunderstorm broke over their heads in a violent roar.

Like saying goodbye.

"Please, come back..."

About her, his arms tightened minutely. A hand rose, stroking through her silvered hair and down her quaking back. "Hush, my love..."

"Please!"

A sigh ruffled her hair, washed over her forehead and her tear-streaked cheeks as they twirled effortlessly, tangling together. "We will meet again, Vardamírë. After all, what am I without you but utterly incomplete?"

_But how long... how long will I have to watch and wait...?_

_How long must I stand in silence, your reflection in the mirror vanished, dancing around the room with empty arms?_

"Truly, I am sorry. Sorry that I am putting you through such hardship. Sorry that I have involved our children. Sorry that I was such a coward..." Low and rough as crushed velvet were his syllables, a strained and tormented melody to accompany the rhythmic movement of their feet. "I should have been stronger. Should have fought harder."

_Should have put you first._

"But I still _love you._ More than anything. Never forget that."

"I know..."

And she wept with his arms around her and his tears in her hair.

They came to a slow halt, her gown still drifting down to settle upon her bare legs, and she lay against him with her eyelashes fluttering. As though she were made of the finest blown glass, he lifted her and laid her down upon the bed, tucking her against his body as he settled beside her. In a haze, she felt the tender kiss he pressed to her brow. And then her nose. And then her cheeks. And then her lips.

"It will not be forever. I promise. _I swear."_

_I will return. And this shall not be our last dance._


	235. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thoughts of Nerdanel shortly after the Exile of the Noldor from Aman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions murder and such. Mostly it's just depressing depressingness.
> 
> Related most closely to Vital (Chapter 41), Puzzle (Chapter 59) and Tactile (Chapter 153). But it's related to quite a few other arcs as well.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Loving the Spirit of Fire was like loving an open flame with one's bare fingers.

Sometimes the heat of that golden and orange flicker tingled upon her fingertips, a caress that bore shivers down her spine in the dark nights when beside her he lay. His breath upon her lips as he teased her with airy kisses and breathless laughter. His hands upon her hips, slowly tracing downwards until they stroked her center and brought her blood to boiling.

It was the gentleness and tenderness that enraptured and ensnared, dragged in the prey. The pure seduction that reeled with unnamed, inescapable force. Warm enough to give a subtle warning of the unpredictability and recklessness of temptation, but cool enough to lure further and further beneath its light.

Into its hot core. Until it was too late to draw away.

But then there was the sting.

The angry flash of eyes that easily glowed brighter than the Trees when in the grips of rage and upset, lined in thick black lashes and doubled by the cruel twist of lips rising over teeth. Too many times she felt it become too much, the flame leaving her skin flushed and reddened where she had come too close, peeling where his acidic words had melted away her flesh and his sarcastic scoffs had shoved aside her feelings.

Quickly, she learned that one could not have the sweetness and the softness of his love without the bite of his temper. Such was the intricate dance of touching a flicker of the Flame Imperishable and living to tell the tale.

But until this day she had never been _burned._

Not the bubbling, blistering of flesh or the charred edges of a bloody twist of muscle. Her fingers may have been sore and raw, but mostly unharmed from momentary contact with the white-hot center.

Reach not farther. A lesson not yet learned.

For one did not court so dangerous a mate without risking devastation. Such, she had forgotten in the wake of his offered warmth and comfort. Of his low and crooning voice spilling her name upon his tongue, washing over her skin more intimately than any brush of his callused palms and cunning lips. Of the pure charm that radiated from his handsome, crooked smile and the hungry glow of his resplendent eyes when he pushed her against the wall and caged her against his rippling form.

Always, she had known something lurked beneath that facade. Known of the hatred. Known of the resentment. Known of the obsession.

Known of the inferno waiting to leap to life and swallow her whole. Burn her to ashes.

She had ignored it too long. Been blind and deaf to its roaring approach.

And burn her it did.

Burn and burn and burn... until there was nothing left at all.

Nothing.

Her husband was naught but a sin-entrenched, bloodstained murderer with a voice of pure seduction, his eyes writhing with senility as he spewed violent words of war and revenge and reclamation in the name of his dead father and prized works. Her sons were naught but his playthings, pawns to be moved to their proper positions until the moment of their sacrifice for the ultimate gain of his goal. Her family was left in decimated shambles, grandchildren vanished like morning dew, daughters-in-law left behind in the cold, wounds open and exposed to the vicious poking and prodding of the public eye.

Nerdanel wondered if, in the end, she had been a fool.

A fool to ever believe that the love of Fëanáro for his wife outshone his love for his father and his mother and his craft. That she could ever take precedence over his greatest passions and fears and overcome the shadow lurking beneath the curtain of his brilliance.

He had scorched her and left her for dead, lying upon the ground in silence, slowly succumbing to her wounds as she waited upon the shore and stared into the distance. As the flames of her hair reached out toward his distant form wistfully and longingly, pleading for his sanity to return. His distant form that, in its wildness and fey gleam, not even once glanced back in longing.

Always looking forward. Always hungering to devour. Always thirsting to destroy and make anew. Uncontrollable. Untamed. Unconquerable. Even by the soothing coolness of her devotion.

She had always been taught to be wary of fire, for it could both create the most wondrous of arts and bring about the most horrific of deaths. Of its power over the world if left in clumsy hands.

To stay away, lest she be harmed.

And maybe she should have heeded the warning. And turned away from his light.

Maybe then she would not be here, slowly withering in his wake. Husband-less. Childless. Alone upon the estate with her empty artwork and her empty dining room and her empty bed.

With her empty life. Darkened without his light and frozen solid without his overwhelming heat.

Maybe her future would not have been barren with ash.


	236. Steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanorions can be dense when it comes to emotions. But it would take a true imbecile to ignore such blatant signs of being hopelessly in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy inner monologue. Basically. Yeah, references to other stories, but that's mostly it.
> 
> Related to Starve (Chapter 216), Belong (Chapter 222), Born (Chapter 212) and Shame (Chapter 109).

The only remotely steady presence that Valthoron could ever recall throughout the ages of his life had been his father's reassuring warmth and adoration.

For as long as he could remember, it had always been Thranduil who was at his side whenever he felt so cold and alone that he was lost. Always Thranduil whose arms were open wide in offering whenever he needed the comfort of a familiar touch and the sound of a childhood lullaby. Always Thranduil whose love rained down unconditionally upon the strange child at whom no one wished to glance twice.

But, for all that he loved his father and appreciated the overwhelming devotion and hardships overcome, even that foundation had been a shaky one.

Not enough to keep him standing through the pain of disillusionment, because he wanted to hide his knowledge of his origins from his sire. Not enough to cradle him in warmth during the dark nights full of phantoms, because to trouble his father with the truth would be to bring all the memories of their dark past tumbling down in an avalanche. And the last thing Valthoron desired was to upset Thranduil needlessly and selfishly.

The last thing he wanted was to _remind_ his father of his own conception. Of his likeness to the monster who shared half his blood.

So he remained silent. No matter how steady the flow of love, it had not been enough. Not enough to lean upon when he teetered upon the brink of madness. Not enough to keep his feet from faltering upon the uneven ground of uncertainty and grief and hatred.

Thus, when a new steady force began to exert its strength upon his life, Valthoron did not know what to believe or what to expect. What to _think._

What to think of this woman who had somehow proclaimed herself his companion and shoved her way into his existence without a single word of warning or moment in which he could part his lips in rejection. No, she had just stomped her way through his barriers and made herself quite at home behind his walls.

With her sly trickster's smile and her wry sense of humor. With her huge doe eyes and her vibrant red hair. With her low, cunning voice and agile mind.

Valthoron could not claim to ever have had someone like her attached to his side so vehemently, like a leech to an open wound, one that simply refused to release its iron grip. Though, perhaps that was a cruel analogy for the bond so powerful between them. For if he were honest with himself, he _enjoyed_ her near-constant company. Looked forward to it, even, on those days when he stared at the water and could not forget the image of flame dancing upon its surface.

Never had he possessed a _friend_ with whom to spend time before. A peer and an equal, not tasked to love him through blood or misguided responsibility or fealty, but one who cared for him simply because she could _see him_ and not his hair and not his face and not his nasty temper.

It was novel and strange, but not unpleasant. And, quickly, Tauriel began to immerse him within her sphere of influence, dragging him closer kicking and screaming, without hesitation or remorse, to stand within the blinding light of her attention and affection. Of her grins as she grasped his hand and pulled him along like a doll. Of her voice as she chastised him teasingly for being standoffish. Of her blatant comradeship and competitive nature and understanding eyes.

It was an altogether different sort of support than was offered by his father's tender but hesitant embraces and soft, censored words. A refreshing sort of openness without need to hide his true feelings or need to cast aside questions and nightmares that needed desperately to be spoken aloud.

About the past. About the ache settled like a knife in his chest.

Things he could speak about to no other for the sensitivity of their content. For the brutality of their reality. For the terrible and ugly truth hidden in their gruesome and unfortunate depths.

But she would _listen._ And never once did her eyes turn away in fear or darken with disgust or glimmer with pity. To her, he was not the spawn of a monster and a murderer or a pathetic creature to be stroked and tamed and controlled. But a person. A person to be treated as any other, with quiet words of comfort and gentle but firm advice and direction to help him stumble his way through the dark.

It was an altogether different sort of foundation. Steady and balanced, more solid than stone and more flexible than the willow's branches.

And Valthoron knew that, once he had tasted this stability, he would be hard-pressed to live without it. Might lose his footing so easily if this railing were removed and he was left to flounder once more upon the steep slope he had been mounting with struggle and hardship.

He would _miss her._ And her presence. And her grins and jokes and scoffs.

Her smiles. Her eyes.

And her ability to sit in the grass and _listen._ To reach out and hug him tight after hearing horrors never spoken beyond his lips to another soul.

She held him up with strength he could only vaguely understand. Strength of which, for all his fortitude and skill, he possessed not a drop. Strength that he came to admire more than any strength of arms or ability with the bow and the knife.

And Valthoron was shocked...

Shocked that it had taken him so long to see such a precious gem amongst the bland and tasteless pebbles. Shocked that it had taken him so long to see the kindness and sweetness buried beneath her sarcastic outer shell and her biting, sardonic words.

Shocked that it had taken so long for him to realize exactly how in love with her he truly was. With his steady support. With his silent listener.

With his best friend.


	237. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Halls, as usual, do not prove to be the restful safe haven they oft are made out to be for the restless souls of the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so my midterms are finally over. Hopefully I'll be able to catch up on my publishing now.
> 
> So... murder, self-hatred, references to past non-con (semi-explicit), sexual undertones, soulmate stuff, canonical character death. That sort of stuff.
> 
> This takes place after Crash (Chapter 192) in the Cheat arc.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Amrod = Ambarussa

When Amrbarussa had closed his eyes for the last time, felt the stabbing pain of the swords in his back slipping away into darkness and death, he expected to find oblivion on the other side awaiting his arrival. Perhaps a world of eternal cold, a sightless and senseless and endless tunnel of black filled to the brim with the dark, cackling laughter of the wicked condemned. A hell in which he was chained by door-less black walls and floors and ceilings, trapped forever alone with naught but his cloudy thoughts, the shattered reverie. Left to go mad until, finally, everything that made him alive was crushed to dust and blown away so cruelly and easily.

In punishment, he expected the Void. So was sworn by his father and his brothers and he himself beneath the red torches in Aman. Reclaim the Silmarilli or be damned to rot.

But he did not awaken to nothingness or eternal torment for his sins. Nor did he awaken to a mindless labyrinth of confusion in which everything could be washed away—blood, filth and the ink in which his greatest crime was written.

Instead, he awoke to a world of gray and guilt.

There was no more room for pretending. The blissful veil of ignorance was vanished and all was laid bare to his eyes, beneath his trembling fingers. And he could not look away.

Could not look away from the facts. From the images of mangled bodies—not twisted and orcish monstrosities, but pale and beautiful—spilled at his feet. Their blood stained upon his clothing and face. Their guts twisting around his ankles and crushed beneath his boots. Warriors cut down without mercy or hesitation protecting their families even with only their bare hands. Women slaughtered as they fled, stabbed in the back and dragged down by their hair. Children, who cowered into corners and whimpered as he stood over them, a dark silhouette heralding the end.

They were the worst, the little ones. They never tried to flee. Only to hide further and further in the shadows, crushed against the wall. When the killing blow came, some did not even instinctively raise their hands to defend. Did not understand at all that they were about to die.

And the infants...

He shuddered and gagged even remembering what had been done in the heat of temporary insanity. And then spent an hour heaving though there was no food to expel from the shadow and smoke of a dead spirit without physical manifestation.

But it was killing. A crime that Ambarussa had long imprinted upon his soul. The people of Alqualondë brought to their knees with ease, the shock of the blood and the smell and the terror following the shuddering aftershocks of adrenaline-fueled battle-rage, he recalled all of them clearly. Had long accepted their reality and thus his own condemnation.

He was a murderer. A Kinslayer. Some might even have called him a monster for the stain of blood upon his hands.

Though, until that day—that dreadful day in Menegroth that had solidified the instrument of his ultimate tragedy—Ambarussa would have disagreed. He had not killed out of desire to slaughter or lust for satiation of sadistic urges. He had not murdered those men and women and children for no purpose, without reason or without cause. No matter that most self-righteous men considered the cause of the Oath unworthy and unjust, it had been sworn before the Valar and Eru himself, and it could not be revoked so simply as breathing out a denial.

The brothers had been _forced_ to carry on. To slaughter any in their path, as they had sworn. And the people of Doriath had _dared_ to put themselves in the way. To make themselves the next target of senseless bloodshed over a glowing stone they neither needed nor wanted.

It had been justified to the sixth son within the recesses of his mind. Sinful and wicked, but the choice that weighed out to a lesser of two evils. If that farce could be called a choice at all.

But after all of that. All of the death at his hands. All the horrors by his blade. After that...

Was _him._

So beautiful that Ambarussa shuddered and felt his mind go hazy at the mere sight. At the mere _memory_ of the sight.

Of the sleek blond hair hanging before glowing blue eyes that flashed in fear. Of dark, elegantly curved brows and thick black lashes fluttering as a bird's tremulous wings. Of the young, still slightly soft features and the full, pale pink lips parted in gasps.

The connection had been instantaneous. The _attraction_ had been instantaneous. But Ambarussa had not been in his right mind. When one was slaughtering the innocent, they never were. And all he remembered in the faded gray and red images of the time spent lost between consciousness and lust for death was the shocking, undeniable knowledge that it was _important_ that that young elf not escape has grasp.

Important that the beauty stay. That they be intimately connected. Closer than family. Closer than brothers-in-arms. Closer than the closest of blood siblings.

That did not, however, excuse him. Not then and not now. Not ever.

Perhaps that was why he had deliberately forgotten. Why he had chosen reverie rather than the truth of what he _knew_ he had done in that bedroom in Menegroth. To that body so vividly imprinted upon his mind, spread out with white, soft skin and wide, horrified eyes. Dead—from the shock or the horror or the pain or the loss of blood, Ambarussa would never know.

Just dead. Dead with smears of semen and blood painted across his inner thighs. Though he did not remember the joining with any clarity, he remembered the aftermath as plain as broad daylight. Remembered trembling against the wall and _fighting_ against the knowledge of his crime. A crime far more horrendous than murder in the name of an oath.

A crime performed out of desire. Not forced. Not coerced. 

He had _wanted_ to ravish the slender body. Had _wanted_ to leave his mark on pale flesh and as deep within as he could reach. And, in the midst of the high of battle, he had not thought twice about assuaging his wants like an animal. Like something less than a person.

Like a monster.

And it itched and burned beneath his flesh like hives. Ached behind his eyes as he was forced to see again and again. To watch and suffer in silence and solitude the overwhelming guilt and regret.

Ambarussa did not try to justify his actions. For what he had done to his fated, there could be no justification. No words that would make everything okay again. No actions that could soothe away what atrocities had already been committed.

No atonement that could take away the guilt.

And, somehow, these gray halls filled with the empty echo of the worst moments of his life, they were a worse torture than any amount of empty black forever-ness. A worse punishment than sitting alone in the dark going mad from grief and lack of sight. A worse fate than anything the Void could possibly have offered, for even corporeal torture, breathtaking agony biting into his skin and soul, would have been less painful than this.

Than staring his inhumanity in the face. Than breathing in this toxic realization.

Than learning to accept what he had become.


	238. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some memories never fade away. They only linger like shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm mean, but I simply couldn't just play nice. It's not my style. Movie-canon character death. Slash. Mentions of battle and war. The sea-longing coupled with fading.
> 
> This is a prelude of sorts to Shadows (Chapter 95), which is related to the Cheat arc.

There was just something different about the rain. A sort of love-hate relationship that festered within his spirit. A sort of cradling warmth with the icy chill slipping beneath the cracks.

The cool gentleness was upon his face, soft fingertips that stroked over his cheeks as a parent would a crying child's. Legolas remembered his father telling him as a young boy that when the rain fell, the Valar wept, and those precious droplets were the tears of the Valar far away in Aman crying for those who suffered, raining healing upon their spirits. Remembered finding comfort in the idea of those far distant figures of power and glory watching over his family and his people in their darkest hours. Mourning for their losses. Grieving for their horrors.

Covering his tears, so that the prince might cry silently and pretend his eyes remained dry. Until all the agonizing emotion was washed out of his body, leaving hollowness behind to fill again. Perhaps the Lady of Mercy was there, surrounding him upon all sides with her healing embrace, driving further away the overwhelming sorrow each day they lost a comrade to the encroaching darkness. Each day his father retreated in horror and fatigue, growing wane from fighting an overwhelming battle against an enemy far beyond their skill to defeat.

Always, the rain had been a comforting and soft companion. Allowing safety and sweetness.

But there were the days that he remembered none of its joy and beauty.

That the speckle of cold water upon his bare skin sent shudders of revulsion racing across his body as earthquakes over the land. He would look up upon the storm-wrecked sky and feel his heart dip down to his toes, all energy and liveliness draining from his limbs until all he wanted was to lie down and let it soak him through until he was numb.

To feel the cold. And nothing else.

Because it reminded him so of the towering fortress walls he so despised. Of standing overhead and looking down upon thousands of enemies in straight formation, their armor black and smeared with hand-prints of white. The marks of a traitor's cruelty and cowardice.

He remembered feeling the unpleasant crawl of unease down his spine when their spears shook the earth and their roars split open the night. All around him had stood his friends and comrades, facing down this nightmare. Aragorn, face set and stern, ready for war. Gimli, axes braced and eyes flashing in the dark. The men of Rohan spread about him, from the youngest to the oldest, some of their hope restored but their hands still trembling at the overwhelming tide of fear rising over their heads.

And Haldir.

Still, he recalled with perfect clarity the marchwarden's thin smile and flushed cheeks, the warmth of that strong warrior's hand braced upon his forearm in greeting, leaving behind a burn. The smell of wet leather and the golden boughs of Lothlórien floating through his head as a thick fog, addling his senses.

Of course, there had never been anything between them. Not even a kiss. Not even a caress. Legolas was a prince—the prince of another realm—and Haldir was a faithful servant of Lothlórien.

There had been nothing but the glances. The silent conversation and disappointment.

But it did not change the fact that he had taken comfort in the rain as he stood and caught the blond head in his peripheral. Taken comfort in the thought that the Valar were watching over them, knew that great tragedy and death would befall and wept, but were still _there._ So close they might reach out and touch across the vast echoes of space...

Taken comfort until he felt the wet lashes against his face at the sound of retreat and the screams of the dying. Until the rain blurred his vision, splattering until he wiped it away with his shaking hand. Only to find those familiar and beloved eyes fixed upon his face, distant and losing light so quickly...

But so tender. Reaching out as if with an invisible hand to touch...

Falling and falling and falling like the rain.

And Legolas could not drive it from his mind. Could not feel the cold touch of the Valar's tears and not have that ever-present ache build until he thought his chest might burst open in a shower of gore and despair and loss. No matter that he stared out at the beckoning ocean waves slamming into the coast hundreds of leagues away. No matter that Gimli stood at his side, hand upon his arm in friendship and understanding. No matter that everything was over and done with, the war long finihed and the dead long at peace.

Always, he saw that fortress. That army. That man with his smile.

And his sweet, dying eyes.

Always.

But at least when he stood upon the coast and stared up at the pale and sickly sky—pelted with rain until it curled his hair and soaked through his clothes to the bone—at least he could pretend to be the prince he should be. Cold and impeccable. Always controlled. Always detached.

At least he could cry and pretend his eyes were dry. Because no one could see his tears. Only _theirs._

Small mercy though it might have been, he took comfort.


	239. Jaded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the ugly truth of Valinor and the fates of those left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More stuff about the Exile of the Noldor and the First Kinslaying and how they affect the family members left behind. So, social injustice and ostracism. Prejudice. Things like that.
> 
> Totally OC-centric. It's all about Istelindë (Maedhros' wife from the Disconsolate arc) and Teldanno, Curufin's second son from the Locked arc. This story, however, is pretty much the beginning of a follow-up sub-arc of Tea (Chapter 203).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

There were just some things one should never see in a child's eyes.

Though she was not a mother herself, Istelindë _adored_ children with all her heart. Loved to hold babies as they cooed and wriggled cutely at her bosom. Loved to hold little ones upon her lap and admire their chubby cheeks and shy faces. Loved to be around them, to speak to them, to play with them and to coddle them incessantly.

Always, she had wanted one. Or two. Or perhaps a half-dozen. Such had been her tenuous dream in the predawn of marital bliss, one which had never fully faded but remained gray with the loss of her husband.

Although that dream had never been fulfilled, there was still a little light flickering over her wane existence, one which brought her the pleasure and hope and comfort for which she so terribly longed. Filled up the emptiness, the aching chambers left vacant and cold by her arms wrapping around naught but uninviting chill when she reached out toward her mate to whisper of her most intimate wishes in his ears.

Filled up the part of her that wanted a babe to call her own, though she knew it was not to be. But she had him, her sister-in-law's son. She had her sweet little nephew.

Teldanno was still very young, not quite breaching yet the years between child and adult but neither tiny and naive in the years of stumbling and questioning and pure curiosity. Small and slender with big eyes, he could melt her heart with but a glance of verdant and the pout of full lips. Could wheedle anything and everything he wanted from her with but a few soft-spoken words tinted with wistfulness.

Some days, he seemed perfectly normal. Innocent and pure as he sat upon the lush carpet and played with toys or curled up upon the sofa and read fairytales.

But he was far from a normal child.

Istelindë would sit with him for hours when his mother was too tired or too worn to watch over him. Would play with the boy and sing him songs and make sure he ate. Would try anything to take his mind away from his mother's tears and wails slithering from beneath locked doors.

Would do anything to make him forget all the bad things in the world and smile.

But Teldanno did not smile.

If there was one thing that constantly pulled upon Istelindë's fragile heartstrings, it was the fact that her sweet nephew was never _happy._

Oh, he could be amused to the point of cackling. He could laugh, and his laughter echoed through the house as a shadow of his sire and uncles come back from her memories as a frightfully tangible phantom. He could scowl to put all but his grandfather to shame. He could even pull off the overwhelming visage of charm and poise with which all members of his bloodline utilized to their own whims and fancies. Well Istelindë recalled that charm upon her husband's face, the flirtatious half-grins and pretty words that brought her resistance and modesty to its knees.

But there was no trace of a smile on the boy. Not a genuine smile. Not like the ones she saw on Maitimo's face when she braided his hair in the evening, stroking fingers soothingly over his broad shoulders until all the tension drained from his muscles. Not like the ones she saw upon Curufinwë when he stared love-stricken upon his wife's visage, lost in a world all his own wherein only they two existed and all was perfect. Not like the broad grins she recalled from Turkafinwë when he stomped through the door after a hunt, covered in dust and mud and sweat, panting and exhausted, but breathless and giddy with joy and satisfaction.

None of that was there. None of the enjoyment. None of the passion. If anything, her sweet nephew was too serious and distant. He was good at craftsmanship but had no ingenuity or interest in its intricate inner workings as had his grandfather. He was talented at all forms of writing and arts but found painting and sculpting and poetry to be mind-numbing. He read texts far advanced beyond his age with ease, but seemingly only out of the purest form of boredom and indulgence of his tutors.

He never did much of anything to enjoy himself. Except try to make everyone else happy whilst pretending that all was well in his small and broken world.

In a world where anyone within the dreaded House of Fëanáro might as well have been Morgoth in the flesh and the soul.

He pretended well. He would look upon sneering faces with a blank expression and keep walking, talking animatedly up at her with that smirk. He would ignore harsh comments and teasing from the other children like one stricken with deafness and impassivity, instead spending all his time alone as if he didn't need their company or friendship. He would never express upon his face the fierce pain she knew must pierce his soul with each harsh word and speared glance, because he did not want his mother and aunts to worry.

But no matter how much he pretended, he could not hide the truth from her calculating gaze. His spirit was jaded and dark. His fire was not the harsh, hot-burning blaze of his father and grandfather. It was, instead, an insidious smolder, blackened from years of scorn.

No child, not even old enough to understand the reality of their situation—the truth of his father and uncles and their crimes, the prophecy for which the Noldor had been exiled beyond the vast ocean, the reasons why he and his mother had been left behind—should ever have that look upon his young face, in the depths of his wide eyes. No child, not even old enough to understand the complexities of love and hate and the cruelty of the world, should have such a look of lustful _resentment_ when he thought no one was watching.

Istelindë hated that look whenever it flashed over his delicate features and tainted his green eyes. She hated it, but knew there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Nothing she could do to make him understand. Nothing she could do to soothe the suffering of his mother. Nothing she could do to change the perception of his father.

And nothing she could do to alter the horrendous and vicious actions of those who sneered down their noses upon the innocents left behind in the wake of disaster, using them as scapegoats for fear and bitterness and loss gone without mourning. For neither she, nor her sisters-in-law, nor her mother-in-law nor her sweet little nephew had _anything_ to do with the destruction of Alqualondë and the slaughter of its people, nor for the desertion and exile of many a son and husband and father.

It was not fair and honest. It was not the perfect world she knew they all longed to embrace and believe in wholeheartedly, that illusion that shattered like a pane of one-sided glass when the Trees went out.

In this imperfect world, her sweet nephew was a victim of circumstance and pettiness. His heart was too heavy to feel the lightness of bliss.

And there was nothing to be done but to cradle that small form into her arms and wish things could be different. Wish that she could brush the ugliness and acidic sting away. Wish that she could make him smile with all his spirit.

Wish and wish and wish, even knowing none would ever reach fruition.


	240. Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor on the inconsistency of correlation between intent and consequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions war and the kinslaying, including a tiny hinted mention of filicide. The rest of it has to do with social situations, especially unjustified prejudice.
> 
> Related to Waste (Chapter 87), Remorseful (Chapter 133), Blood (Chapter 183) and Painted (Chapter 184), as well as Fantasy (Chapter 173), Tea (Chapter 203) and Jaded (Chapter 239). There are probably dozens of other related stories, but I won't list them all. Too much work.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Curufinwë Fëanáro

There were not many actions for which Curufinwë Fëanáro felt true guilt.

Most of his people despised and feared everything from his eyes to his face to his name. Feared his voice's natural charisma. Feared his hands' talent in the making of wonders. Feared the smirk of his lips, curving upward in sadistic satisfaction.

Feared. And hated.

It was not the grudging respect they had once possessed for the firstborn son of the King, the Crown Prince of Tirion. Handsome and charming, but a predatory and unforgiving creature nonetheless. After the Darkening and the Exile, there was no respect to be found anymore. Only the purest form of revulsion and disdain.

Fëanáro was a monster. Emotionless. Heartless. Cold-blooded. Vicious. Remorseless.

That was what they said. And he did not care. Truly.

Because he _did not_ feel sorry. Not for swearing revenge upon his father's killer—For whom amongst his people could claim for even a moment that they would not do the same? Not for pledging to recover that which had been taken from his hold—For no man would deny his fury and humiliation at having the work of his heart and soul snatched from between his fingers.

Not for slaughtering the Teleri upon the soil of their homes. Not for shedding their blood, spilling it upon their white ships and smearing it over their pale docks and staining with it their sparkling bay. They had placed themselves in his path, denied friendship and kinship with his people and shoved his devotion to his father back in his face, calling him a selfish, greedy and foolish man. Fëanáro was not ashamed to admit that he had been angry and betrayed and more than a little out of his right senses.

So he had taken from them what they had denied him. Their greatest works. Their fathers and brothers and sons. Made them understand what it was to stand alone, raped and left upon the ground to suffer but, in the darkest part of the heart, yearning to get up and crawl. To get up and pursue. To get up and track down the attacker, rip them asunder with all the vicious intent with which they had been torn apart.

He would not deny that he took pleasure in the educating. Or that he felt hollow afterwards. But it had changed none of the facts.

Had changed not his lack of regret. His every intention had been to cause them the safe suffering upon which they turned their backs and closed off their hearts.

And afterwards, he had abandoned his half-brothers and their people with their insidious sideways glances and their half-stifled whispers of going against his word and his order. For removing their obstacle, he did not feel remorse either. It was, he felt, merely a preemptive strike, a precaution against the mutiny he knew was smoldering and bubbling within the ranks.

If they wanted to throw away their kinship with his House, let them! But Fëanáro would not be scorned twice by his treacherous younger brother.

No, he had not felt even a moment of guilt over abandoning Nolofinwë. Let the prideful bastard crawl back to Tirion upon his hands and knees! Let him grovel and beg for forgiveness like a dog to its master, the Valar!

He had not forced them to traverse the Helcaraxë. He had not forced them to undertake such suffering and hardship for his sake or the sake of his quest. He had _thrown in their face_ the chance to turn back when their loyalty and faith in his leadership faltered!

And yet they blamed him and scorned him. Hated him. Hated his sons. Hated his daughters. Hated his grandchildren. Hated even those who faithfully served his House and those pitiful few who had turned their backs upon the sin and wickedness in cowardice and betrayal of their oaths of servitude.

They could hate all they wanted.

But Fëanáro did not regret Alqualondë. He did not regret Losgar. And he did not regret Dagor-nuin-Giliath, throwing away his life in pursuit of vengeance, drawing one meager step closer to seeing Morgoth rotting in chains, brought lower than the lowest flea.

If there was anything that he regretted—any catastrophe that he had not intended—it was the destruction left in the wake of his vibrancy and vehemence.

Regretted leaving his children to suffer in his stead when it had not truly been their burden to bear. To face hatred of their blood and unjust violence against their homes and prejudice against their families simply because they shared in his crazed blood and impassioned oath.

His intent had never been to cause his family pain. Never.

But he knew that he had. That still he did. Without trying. Without living. Without breathing. His grandchildren were sullen and spread apart from the shattered glass of family bonds snapped and torn. His sons were lost in a haze of tragedy and madness with nowhere to turn and no one upon whom they could lean and trust. His wife sat alone in their empty house and his sons' wives spent their days beneath the heavy hands of silent sneers and poisoned darts of words.

The House of Fëanáro was jagged and broken. That, he had never wished. Never desired. If anything, he had trailed after glory and the satisfaction of sitting upon the throne rightfully, his own with his jewels perched upon his brow, confident in his kingship and content with his life's work. His sons would have been at his one side and his wife at the other, their faces smooth with contentment and joy.

But intentions did not govern the consequences.

It was only that which brought him sorrow, staring at the portrayal of his children floundering in the dark, losing themselves one by one. The tapestries were so real he thought he might reach out and touch, the tactile surface turning from woven thread to flesh and blood and heat beneath his fingertips. Maybe he could have reached out to touch them, to let them know that he was there...

That, somewhere, he cared at least a little. Somehow, he _felt for them_ at least that small bit.

In the Halls, however, he could only watch the world unfold. And not allow himself to regret anymore that which was past, no matter that his plans had unraveled into a future he had never foreseen and never expected and never desired.

And, one day, he would make sure all who dared use for scapegoats his delicate family would know his fury and his scorn and his hatred a thousand-fold more potent than their weakly concentrated, barely acidic sting. Those who used and threw away his children as toys, cursed them with suffering and wished upon them ill fortune, would feel his wrath. Those who spat upon the skirts of his wife and daughters, the true innocents whose hands were untainted by blood, would lose tongues and throats. And those who _dared_ torment the children of his children—so tiny and weak and helpless looking toward adults for guidance and finding only bitterness and unfair disgust—would _burn_ for sins that made oath-induced murder seem petty.

It was an awful, terrible cycle. And Fëanáro knew how it would end. That any crusade of revenge and justification would ultimately lead to disaster and destruction no matter the intent.

Yet, when he smiled and pressed his hands to the woven thread, Fëanáro thought that, perhaps, the intent was all that had really mattered in the end.

And those people with their fear and their hatred...

_They knew nothing._


	241. Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valthoron has a promise to keep, no matter how much he would like to do otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was dared to make this prompt angsty. So I did. Family feels. Hinted mpreg. War and stuff.
> 
> This is Valthoron's POV of Shadows (Chapter 95). It is also closely related to Rain (Chapter 238).

_“Why aren’t you ever happy, brother?”_

_“I do not know what you mean, Legolas.”_

_In his lap sat the tiny pale-haired form. Everything about his younger sibling spoke to him of Thranduil, from the adorable, mischievous grin to the impatient scowl to the impertinent little snickers._

_And then there was the sheer stubbornness. It was rare, but he knew Thranduil to be this ridiculously obstinate on occasion. Of all the family traits to inherit..._

_“You don’t ever smile,” the little one insisted. “Here, I’ll show you!”_

The problem was that he hadn't known _how_ to smile.

Never had Valthoron been a creature of great joys or great happiness. There were the smirks, witty and sarcastic, filled to the brim with wicked amusement when the fancy and hot blood struck true. There were the crooked grins, broad and toothy, of a warrior in the midst of a battle, slaking his predatory instinct and visceral will to survive upon his enemy.

And then there were the sad little curves of the lip, phantoms too quick to label and too rare to judge. The feeling of bubbling affection that arose whenever his father looked upon him with loving, adoring eyes or embraced him with welcoming arms. Yet, genuine though the feeling might be, there always was that little pinprick of despair laced within the lattice-work of intricate emotions and bonds. Always the itching knowledge that, at any moment, his father could look at him and see someone else. Some _thing_ else. Something monstrous.

Fear would come into those beloved eyes, and Valthoron would feel his hesitant smiles dashed against the rocks of disappointment and disillusionment, brought down like a towering fortress with its foundation blown into a thousand brittle pieces.

As a child, he frowned. It was safer that way. Less painful.

As an adult, even a hug or a soft assertion of love could hardly draw so much as a twitch forth from the straight, stern line of his mouth.

No, he did not know how to smile. Did not particularly believe he ever _had_ known how to smile.

But that sweet little boy had taught him. Even against his will. Without even his notice.

_"Like this!" Tiny fingers dug into his cheeks, pressing his lips up in a mockery of a grin, all grimace and tooth and painfully contorted skin._

_"This is silly..."_

_“It’s not silly.” The child crossed his arms and frowned up at him with a bizarre sort of seriousness, like a parent scolding a child for saying something crude or heinous. Huge blue eyes narrowed upon the older elf. “You have to smile and be happy, or I won’t play with you anymore.”_

_In the afternoon sunshine, holding his precious younger sibling against him, Valthoron_ was _happy. But looking happy was another matter entirely._

_Truly, he did not know_ how _to express his wonder or his affection for his little sibling who could so easily bring him joy with but a few sweet words and unflinching hugs._

_He loved this child. Nonetheless, smiling was beyond his abilities._

_But then he looked down at the boy, still pouting up at him with a mock-serious expression and huge, teary blue eyes. Scoffing, he reached down and tickled the child’s belly, watched Legolas howl and try to escape his grasp as his wicked fingers trailed up and down the boy’s sides._

_All the while, that bubble of warmth so familiar in his chest whenever the innocent child was near—for Legolas was one of the few people who would never look upon him with scorn for crimes not his own, who would love him no matter what color his hair was or how strange his face might be—that feeling was rising again. Choking and yet releasing at the same time._

_This little one was precious. So precious. And he would do his best to protect Legolas no matter what, if only to make sure that his brother always remembered how to smile. Always remembered what it was like to be truly free of burden, truly ecstatic in the sunshine beneath Greenwood’s canopies._

_He was too busy promising to notice that his own voice had joined his brother’s birdsong giggles and shrieks with a lower melodic line of deep, rolling laughs and shouts._

_Too busy to notice that his own mouth had moved of its own accord, bending upward..._

There were not many people Valthoron would claim to love wholeheartedly and without abandon. His father, who had raised him. Tauriel, who had saved him.

And Legolas, who had freed him.

The child had grown, of course. Become a warrior of great merit, a prince of proper poise and standing. Where once there had been huge eyes like the sky and chubby cheeks of the young, there was now the sharply handsome features and a gaze filled with intelligent calculation. The young prince could hunt spiders with the best of the guard and shoot an arrow at five hundred yards and still hit the target every time.

But Legolas never forgot how to smile. There were always jokes to be heard, always games and competitions to be held. Always fun to be had to lighten up the dreariness and hopelessness that slowly strangled their beloved Greenwood.

Always, a warm embrace waited whenever Valthoron returned home, a bright smile glowing down on him, parting the lingering shadows as a curtain so that he might breathe once more freely the air and think beyond the memory of his father’s frightened eyes and his grandfather’s unforgiving voice.

Always, Legolas could somehow draw a smile forth from his straight-lipped, stern older brother. And Valthoron helplessly went along, unable to keep away the joy that seemed to follow the youngest prince like an aura…

But now his baby brother had slipped through his fingers—been wounded beyond recognition…

Now Valthoron cursed war and cursed the Valar. Because if anyone had been undeserving of such a fate, it had been his brother…

Yet, cursing did not change the reality…

_When Legolas returned from the war, part of Valthoron had expected a warm, excited embrace and many tales spewing forth in an eager voice, telling of the battles and of the wonders. He had expected brightness to rain down upon his head, to find many long months of darkness fading beneath the personification of the midday sun._

_He had expected that smile._

_But there had been none._

_The fire that so Valthoron had adored in his younger brother had been all but extinguished, and the brightness that he so loved to languish beneath—that offered such beautiful comfort in times of stress and sorrow—was darkened. Shadowed._

_Innocence lost. Valthoron knew that look better than anything else._

_After all, it was the look upon his face in the mirror each morning, reflected in the river whenever he bathed, flashing in the eyes of his companions as they looked upon him with unease and upset._

_Something terrible had happened to Legolas. And there was nothing to be done._

_“You already know what I plan to do,” his brother had said._

_And Valthoron had. Often enough, he had been tempted to the same path. But in the end he had stayed, been tied to this world that offered so little bliss because here resided his family—his father and his brother and his lover. And they were all he had, the only things in this world that could make him happy, bring light upon his stark features._

_“You must promise you will continue to be happy. You and Ada and Tauriel.”_

_“Legolas…”_

_Blue eyes—so different from those he remembered—looked upon him with such sorrow and despair. Lips that once would have curled into a broad grin were instead downturned at the edges, strained and pale with lines of aging. The corners twitched, but a grimace arose only, pained and stiff._

_“Promise you’ll still smile, brother.”_

"I promise." Stricken, he looked up at the stars overhead, wondering why Elbereth would allow this atrocity. Why she would torment him so, and why she would allow such a terrible fate to befall his brother.

He remembered holding that babe for the first time in his arms. Remembered cradling Legolas close, sighing down at the cooing child. Playing games in the afternoon, tag and hide-and-go-seek that would inevitably end in tickling and wrestling in the dead leaves and dirt.

Afterwards, they would rise, dirty and smudged like commoner’s sons. But Valthoron’s heart would be pounding with glee and his grin would be broad as tiny arms wrapped around his neck and demanded to be held and spun.

As that soft little voice called him brother and told him…

Tears boiled over, but Valthoron refused to turn away when the pinpricks of light wheeled and blurred overhead. When the image of that child became fuzzy and rife with agony, a washed-out image of what had once been a beautiful and fiery spirit brought to its knees.

Legolas was _leaving._ And Valthoron did not think they would ever meet again.

But even so, as he knelt in their clearing and wept, he thought of the brilliance and vibrancy that had so personified his baby brother. That had brought light to their family that had been sorely missing. Felt his lips curl upwards as salt burst across his tongue, hot and acrid.

He would keep smiling as he had promised. Until the very end.


	242. Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon has demons he will never speak about. That he can never speak about. For the shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have to read Pretend (Chapter 45) for this to make any sense whatsoever.
> 
> Dysfunctional family interactions. Secret/alternate identity. War, non-canonical character death and cowardice.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë or Arakáno

Before him, so innocuously placed upon the grassy, emerald rise of the hill overlooking the white city below, was the grave of his king. His predecessor. The inscription, curling and elegant in his younger brother's hand, read Nolofinwë Arakáno of the House of Finwë, High King of the Noldor.

It lied.

Findekáno knew this intimately. Felt guilt wrack him down to the center of his bones as his eyes traversed the tengwar again and again.

It should have been _his_ name written there for all to see. And it should have been _his_ body buried beneath stone, not the body of his young and reckless brother. Not the body of the sacrifice he had so eagerly and heartlessly pushed forth to shield him from the ravages of duty.

But, upon finding his youngest brother crouched over his father's body, the oldest son and heir of the House of Nolofinwë had been selfish. Had looked into his future as the king struggling to hold together his exhausted and terrified people as they were slowly torn apart by their strange reality and had panicked. Had pushed away the supposed bravery for which he had been named Astaldo and instead turned-tail to flee like a coward, throwing forth his youngest brother—whom he should have comforted and protected—as a sacrificial piece of meat to a hungry wolf.

_"You shall take up his name, and Arakáno Nolofinwion shall cease to exist. We cannot afford to lose our strong leader now."_

_"But, brother..."_

_"I am not your brother. Not anymore."_

Stricken and horrified eyes had looked up at him from a dirtied and tear-stained face, all sign of confidence and security vanished in a landslide of grief. But, all too quickly, the young and vulnerable appearance melted away, and the boisterous confidence and arrogance faded, leaving behind the stern and penetrating appearance of the father. Truly, in that moment, Arakáno had appeared every inch their father, cradling that limp form in his arms as he stood, stern-faced and cold-eyed.

As he hid the body away and played at the grieving father setting aside his emotion for the sake and survival of his people. Sacrificing. Giving. Both kind and unyielding, the powerful and respected leader that they needed to lead them into their new lives across the sea.

There was not time for stumbling around in the darkness. There was not time for panicking or breaking the mask. There was not time for anything but wholehearted acceptance of the role—of the new life. And Arakáno had adopted his father's life as though it were second nature, fitting into his shoes as though they had been crafted to fit.

Had become so much like their sire that Findekáno sometimes forgot that it was, in fact, not his little brother who had died that day at the Lammoth. That it was not his father who gave him precious wisdom and advice whenever he needed guidance and support, who hugged him close and rocked him gently when he needed comfort and always seemed to know what to say to calm his racing heart when he was distraught.

But now that man—that living lie kept so secret—was dead.

And Arakáno did not get to keep his true name. Not even in death. It was all a lie. A farce.

He had lived as their king and sacrificed himself as their king. Had performed his duty a thousand-fold over and again. Whilst Findekáno was hiding away with his tail between his legs.

Never had the newest High King felt so ashamed of himself—so disgusted with himself—as he was at that moment. Looking down upon the grave of his brother knowing that, if he had done his duty as the crown prince, the person whose corpse rotted beneath those stones—beneath that lie—might still be alive and breathing. Would still be living and laughing and smiling and fighting.

If he had taken responsibility—if he had taken up the reins he had been born to hold and become the ruler he had been molded to be—would his little brother have lived through all this war? Would Arakáno have been happy and carefree? Would he have been married, perhaps a father?

If Findekáno had done his duty, at least his brother would have had that chance.

But Findekáno had taken _everything_ for nothing in return. Arakáno could not marry, because Nolofinwë had been married. Arakáno could never play childishly and enjoy free time, because Nolofinwë had been stoic and responsible. Arakáno could not even go to his older siblings for advice or to confide or even for a shoulder upon which to cry, because Nolofinwë had been their father.

Arakáno could not live his own life, because he was living the life of another.

Because Findekáno could not bear to do his duty as prince.

And now Arakáno was gone. Killed performing the duty—shouldering the burden—that should never have been his to bear.

"It really should have been me." Swollen-eyed, throat tight in sorrow, the oldest brother stood and traced his fingers over the name again and again and again. Wishing it said the truth instead, if only so that his wistful mind might imagine life free of the brand of guilt and shame.

And helplessly, the new High King could not help but wonder if things would have been different...

If only... If only...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lammoth refers to the Battle of the Lammoth, which is never mentioned in the published Silmarillion
> 
> Quenya:  
> tengwar = letters (plural) or written language  
> Astaldo = the Valiant (possibly with Valarin influence)


	243. Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An outsider looking in upon the quirks and oddities of the fourth son of Finarfin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, the outsider in an OFC I made up on the spot. I tried not to Mary-Sue her. She may never even appear again, other than to torment poor Aegnor. I haven't made any plans for there to be romance, we'll put it that way. This is just a bit of fun to alleviate my boredom and screw with characters.
> 
> So... not a lot of warnings. Some normal sexual undertones, because any woman would find Aegnor to be sexy. And some obsessive-compulsive behaviors, albeit rather tame ones as of now.
> 
> I suppose it's related to the rest of the Modern AU stuff, so Ballad (Chapter 75) and Decay (Chapter 81), in case you were curious about the couple that runs the shop.

She hadn't meant to notice. But it was kind of hard _not_ to when she really stopped and paid attention.

After all, the wandering stranger _was_ the most handsome male specimen of the human race Sarah had ever had the pleasure of looking upon. With his broad shoulders—only emphasized by his plain button-up shirts—tapering to a slender waistline and his long, sleek braid of golden hair that would inspire jealousy in any natural blond, he was undoubtedly gorgeous to the point of ridiculousness. And she was not afraid to admit that, watching the way his muscles rippled beneath the layers of his clothing, more than once she had imagined what he might look like with those layers peeled away and his bare body spread out on her comforter at home.

But, no matter how pretty his face might be or how mouthwatering his body might appear, he was also undoubtedly one of the _strangest_ people Sarah had ever encountered.

It just wasn't _natural._

Every day, he always wore a new pair of slacks—dressy and pressed, but always black—and always wore a white button-up—crisp and clearly well maintained. His hair was always tied back into the same neat braid with a black ribbon holding the end instead of a ponytail or rubber band.

Never so much as a stain or a scuff or a hair out of place.

And, as he did every morning, he appeared at exactly seven o'clock (nearly on the dot, though there was a few seconds variation in either direction if she watched the second hand closely in the midst of her observation) at the door to the coffee shop where Sarah had her morning fix and a blueberry muffin.

He never went and sat down first, and he never carried anything with him. Instead, he always waltzed up to the counter with infuriatingly graceful and yet somehow ingrained motions, speaking quietly with the couple diligently working beyond the glass displays of steaming, mouth-watering pastries and ignoring anyone or anything else in his general proximity.

The couple always gave him the same order. He always left the counter and went to sit in the same seat two tables down from the end. And he always drank his coffee in delicate sips between picking apart his bagel, his movements pure muscle-memory, thoughtless and efficient.

So methodical that it was scary.

But all the same, intriguing.

And then, once the bagel was consumed and the coffee-cup half-empty, he would stand up—carrying the cup in his left hand and his cleared plate in his right—and approach the counter, leaving both behind to be disposed of. Then, always at seven-thirty on the dot, he exited the shop and walked down the street in the opposite direction from whence he had come. Like clockwork.

No matter how pretty the man was, his behavior was downright disconcerting, albeit subtle to one who was not looking for oddities. But Sarah was not any one of those many people who glanced at the stranger's exotic looks and then never paid attention to his odd blank stare and odd emotionless visage a second time.

None of them even seemed to notice the machine masquerading as a human in their midst.

\---

Of course, she knew that he wasn't actually made of nuts and bolts or metal and gears. But he didn't seem to be made of anything remotely resembling normal human behavior either.

After another week of observing carefully in detail—taking note that the strange compulsive behavior even continued on weekends—Sarah decided she needed to break his monotony. If only to see what would happen if she could somehow manage to force him to stay an extra fifteen minutes in the shop.

Just to see what would happen.

It had nothing at all to do with the fact that he was so beautiful and sad. That he never smiled and never laughed and never talked. Just sipped his coffee and picked at his bagel and stared at the far wall as though seeing through it entirely. As though something entrancing lay just on the other side, out of reach but so tantalizingly close.

Nothing at all to do with that.

So, on the next Monday morning, Sarah did not go to her usual corner table from whence she could watch all of the occupants of the tiny shop moving about in their daily routines. Instead, at exactly six-fifty in the morning, she sat in _his_ seat. At _his_ table.

And waited.

At exactly seven o'clock, he arrived. Glanced toward his normal spot and visibly faltered.

It was only a half-a-second of hesitation. But it was enough. Blue eyes rested upon her form, a disconcerted sort of annoyance written across that usually blank slate, as if he were silently scoffing at her for daring to invade _his_ routine.

For daring to be the rusty, stiff joint in need of oiling.

But, quick as a flash, that emotion once again disappeared. In its place was that usual mask. Completely devoid of thought. Completely devoid of feeling. A scary plaster shield covering up everything the man wanted to terribly to hide.

And Sarah had always been too curious for her own good.

She watched as he retrieved his normal order—several seconds behind schedule—and sat instead two tables down from the table which he normally occupied. Far enough away that he could pretend the intruder didn't exist, she would have guessed. It was almost entertaining how blatantly he ignored her, turning his blue eyes to stare at the same wall from a different angle, as though everything were completely normal and the strange kink in his compulsive life was nonexistent.

At exactly seven twenty-nine, he stood up and made for the counter with his empty plate of crumbs and half-drunk cup of coffee. At the exact same time—deliberately and without any remorse, cackles of glee echoing within her thoughts—Sarah followed. Carrying her mostly-full coffee cup filled with lukewarm latte.

When he turned around to leave, she spilled it all the way down his front. From chest to knees.

And discovered that his shirt—no matter the pale brown stain spreading across it—clung very enticingly to every angle and curve when wet. She could see the outline of each one of his rock hard, straining abs. An eight-pack. And the firm yet sleek bulges of his pectorals and the powerful flex of his shoulders and...

And his thighs... Oh... his thighs...

"I'm... so sorry..." Sarah was too preoccupied with the sudden sensory overload to sound sincere. She hoped he wrote it off as her human female hormones beating her rational brain-cells into oblivion when faced with sexy, wet male in a translucent white shirt.

Glancing up, she met blue eyes that flamed, bursting fireworks within a frame on nonchalance. Absolutely infuriated, they almost _glowed_ with the utter _disdain_ for which he radiated in her direction.

Clearly she had not made a friend.

"If you would excuse me, Miss."

His voice was low and balanced on the edge of politeness, but she could hear the clench of his jaw through the words. The grit of his teeth as he skirted around her and fled toward the door, giving her a wonderful glimpse of his firm (and delectable) ass to accompany the view which she had already been granted through means of her supposed clumsiness.

The glare he had leveled down his nose at her was well worth seeing that impenetrable, inhuman mask shatter, if only for a few moments. Sarah considered today's experiment to be a success and hummed quietly to herself in satisfaction.

Turning, she was faced the woman behind the counter. The woman with the pale hair and the laughing blue eyes. With the knowing smirk curving up dark, full lips as she beheld the resident nuisance.

But beneath all that was a hint of gratefulness and relief. Just a hint.

And Sarah couldn't help but wonder to where exactly her impromptu experiment would lead. Couldn't help but wonder what exactly her curiosity had gotten her into this time.


	244. Destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all about the glass being half-empty or half-full, at least in principle. If only the world were truly that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so the normal dose of angst, but also hurt/comfort stuff. Friendship. Down this road lies slash with a hot marchwarden.
> 
> Most closely related to Smile (Chapter 241) and Rain (Chapter 238).

Never had he been so far away from home.

So far from the thick, honeyed smell of the trees rising into the expanse of the sky. From the damp smell of the earth and moss bedding that formed the forest floor as a soft carpet beneath bare feet. From the thick, filling incense of a thousand secretive flowers sprouting their petals in the darkness.

Longing ached within the cavity of his chest, a throbbing fist closing tightly around his heart until his breath came short and jagged with agony.

So badly did he want to speak the damning words. So badly did he want to turn this ship around.

Run back to his father's warm embrace and his brother's crooked, affectionate smile. Huddle close to them by the fire in the cavernous halls, so very warm and safe, and never, ever allow them to release him again. Forever, they would stay wrapped together, the broken shards of a family that had never been more than a warped and chipped piece of glassware. Twisted and wrecked by clumsy hands.

But still a family. Still something beautiful, if one dared look closer.

So badly...

"Are you alright, laddie?"

The voice was familiar, though its timbre had changed over the years. At his elbow stood Gimli, ever the faithful friend and confident, ginger hair long gone whiter than the snow upon the mountaintops. But his eyes were still the same penetrating blue, searching deep and tearing him open at the seams.

He could never hide things from Gimli.

"I am homesick."

The heavy hand that rested upon his forearm patted slowly, soothingly. "Staring to the east will not make things better. Perhaps some sleep would do you good.

"At the very least, look to the west."

_To the West..._

No matter the longing in his breast for the familiarity of home, for the scent of oak and the rustle of leaves and the changing of the colors in the autumn and the blooming of young blossoms in the spring. No matter the wistful memories of his father and brother left behind, standing and watching as he rode away for the last time...

The West called. And one did not ignore the call of the West.

Like a siren, the ocean sang all around, as though echoes of bliss rode upon the waves toward the land of the suffering and the dying and the dead. And only Legolas could hear its sweet melody, ravaging his spirit and raping his ears until it consumed everything he had to give. Every ounce of his thoughts. Every ounce of his attention. Every ounce of his devotion.

He _needed_ to reach those far shores. Like he needed air expanding his lungs. Like he needed water cooling his throat.

To _live._

"Look to the West?"

"Aye." The old dwarf was watching him, wrinkled face frowning, calculating light in eyes that had lost none of their incisive sharpness with old age. "Mayhap, if you looked toward the destination, you might find some reason yet to be happy. For you were not happy at home."

It was true. He had not been happy in Mirkwood, not after hearing the sea's song. He had not been happy in Ithilien, so close to what he desired with every ounce of his body and yet so far away.

He was _still_ not happy, because the itch was ever-present. He _wanted_ and _needed_ to place his feet upon those sands. To dip his toes in the rising tide and curl them in the soft grains. To look out over the curves and troughs of the water knowing that he was where he belonged.

Where he belonged. Where he would be fulfilled. Where he would be _happy._

And was there not yet something waiting for him upon the other side?

A handsome face immediately came to mind. Soft words exchanged over the gentle embrace of hands as they walked through the golden mallyrn together. Never even had those lips brushed against his own, but the prince could picture it.

Finally feeling breath against his own. Finally knowing it wasn't all a drunken dream.

Finally.

"When did you become so wise, Master Dwarf?" The elven prince sighed. "Many thousands of years of age I hold over your head, and yet at the mere age of two-hundred and sixty-two you still manage to make me feel like a stumbling, blindfolded elfling trying to navigate his way through a maze of caverns. From whence did such wisdom originate."

"Maybe we mortals, who can never look back, simply learn to look forward instead."

_Because we are not young forever. We close our eyes for but a moment and suddenly we are old and gray and shriveled. And, for we who have not the blessing and curse of eternal youth, there is no road back to the days when the blood was fresh and the spirit young._

_One must look ahead and live their lives. Because a life in the past is no life at all._

"Such a trap we elves fall into so easily, looking always toward the past."

But he had Gimli. He was going _home._ He was going to _those arms_ and _that embrace_ and _that smile._ And, no matter how he would miss his father and his brother...

It would be different. Both disheartening and hopeful. Lonely and yet always there would be companions at his side to drive away the longing for those left behind. But perhaps one day they would sail, too, and their tiny family would be pasted back together.

And, finally, that happiness might be attainable. Finally, he might lift those shadows over his heart and be able to laugh and grin and joke as once he had been able in the days before he knew murder and war and heartbreak and death.

It would be a long road. There would be lonely days. Painful days. Many, many days of waiting and waiting for a dawn that might never come.

But would the destination be worth the wait?

In the end, if he looked instead to the West and forgot about the trees...


	245. Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There can't always be a happy ending. Sometimes the end is just as unpleasant as the rest of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depressing shit, obviously. Psychological torture, strange sort of Stockholm Syndrome, faint references to kidnapping and imprisonment. Sexual undertones. I'm not quite sure if this hits "horror" or not. I suppose it would depend on the perspective of the character.
> 
> Closely related to Grace (Chapter 221), Heat (Chapter 226) and Nightmare (Chapter 229) as well as all the older stuff related to the Lust arc. I suppose Nullibiety (Chapter 167) fits in there, too, if you're a vengeful spirit as I am.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Annatar  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

What did one do if the journey ended in nowhere?

\---

It was the Void. Or some realm like the Void. Or perhaps it was simply a form of nonexistent existence. Where there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Mairon spent the first few days—

_Were they days or second or millennia? He could not count minutes or hours here. Everything blurred into one long streak of silent blackness. There was no time. No moving forward. No going back. He could walk forever and ever and never move an inch..._

—screaming and screaming and screaming. Banging at an invisible door on an invisible wall in an invisible dungeon cell.

_He_ needed _the physical world. Needed to breathe. Needed to feel. Needed to fuck. Needed to do something other than sit here unable to feel the ground upon which his incorporeal form rested, unable to feel the faint drafts of shifting air upon his face, unable to feel cold metal between his fingers or the heat of fire and blood upon his skin._

But that ceased soon enough. He had no throat to grow raw, but eventually the sound stopped coming, and his voice would not obey. Even when he opened his mouth—to speak so that he might _hear_ words in the midst of this crushing lack of stimuli—no sound would come out. Nothing, nothing, nothing but his thoughts...

The screams had always been silent. An illusion of the mind.

Nothing here was real.

Not even him.

Not his body. Not his voice. Not his hopes and dreams and nightmares. There was no sleeping. There was no eating. There was no moving.

And no matter how his fingers incessantly ached and twitched, they were not even there. His eyes—which did not exist—would look down and see nothing where he thought they wriggled and flailed. And they itched. Itched and itched to do something or to feel something. Anything. Burning. Corrosive. Rough. Sharp. Agonizing. Anything.

Eventually, he stopped pretending to open his nonexistent eyes. There was nothing to see. And he stopped moving his anxious hands and twitching fingers. There was nothing to touch.

There was nothing but his thoughts. They were _real._ They _had_ to be real. Or _he_ wouldn't be real.

And he clung. Clung to the memory of heat and cold and pain and pleasure.

Clung to the surge of power singing in his veins when first he wore the ring upon his finger and held it up, glowing red-hot in the fires of Orodruin.

Clung to the image of that pale body writhing beneath his, skin so delicate and tender to his touch and hair like wreaths of silk about his fists.

Clung even to the humiliation and the hatred he felt for his old master and for those who would oppose the rule of darkness. To the disdain for all those who would claim righteousness and purity, pretending they were not just like him, the Dark Lord free of foolish inhibition. For all those who would damn him to this hell, let them scream and burn in a sea of fire within the vast empty spaces of his mind.

It was all he had left in this land of nowhere.

And, eventually, it became all there ever was. Because here nothing was real.

And, eventually, even that faded away. Into quiet.

\---

He wondered, at first, if perhaps they had been jesting.

_"Find a lovely young lady. Get married. Start your life."_

Over six thousand years old, and they were telling him to _start his life._ As if he hadn't been living all this time in a cruel vision filled with war and unrest and death. As if everything that had happened upon the eastern shores were some nightmarish prelude to the true story of bliss and perfection.

So easily, they thought he could forget. Just let go as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.

But they didn't realize that this was not the beginning. Not for Telperinquar.

This was the _end._

And here was nowhere.

There was no other destination. No life to lead or path to take that would move him forward past this dead-end. No young maiden he would burden with his lack of love and devotion or force to carry children to whom his heart would be cold. No quiet place to live where he could feel secure in the knowledge that reality would not decide to unravel around him once again. No assurance that his past would never again return to tear open half-healed wounds and leave him a skinned wreck lying in vulnerability upon the ground, wretched and powerless.

No guarantees to assuage the pain. No bandages to patch back together the spirit.

All he could think of—all his heart yearned for and desired—was _Annatar._ Wholly and intensely, it consumed him.

He remembered so clearly and painfully being in love with that man. With his sweet smiles and soft, burnished eyes. With his strong and yet oh-so-gentle hands. With his rolling voice, quiet yet somehow filling up a room completely with its pure heat and deep resonance.

With the nights of passion spent in a burning embrace. With holding hands and sneaking kisses in darkened corners. With watching the stars until dawn, lying in the dewy grass.

With staying up late by the light of the forge, that body settled behind him and arms around him, teaching and molding and caressing until there was only the two of them in all the world...

He _missed Annatar._

And Telperinquar did not think it would ever go away, that longing. That useless hope beyond hope. That sting of nostalgia and wistfulness.

Was it any surprise that he did not wish to force himself upon a spouse he would never love?

_Could never love. Because, even if she had hair spun of golden light and eyes that put to shame the blood of the earth, she would never have that spark. Never have the charisma that drew him with such gravitational force. Never have the intelligent gleam in the depth of her eyes of one master artisan to another. Never have that aura of power and presence surrounding and blanketing over him until he curled within its depths and felt so safe and warm..._

Because he _would never_ love another. Not like he had loved Annatar. Not like he had loved that nonexistent delusion of a creature.

In the end, there never had been a somewhere waiting for him at the end. Only an illusion cleverly hiding the poisoned, jagged spines of a lie hunting down unwary, naive prey.

Now, he was utterly alone. Sitting apathetically in the window of the healer's house, looking out over the pearl of Minas Tirith toward the crumbling wall of mountain and the dissipating shadow of Middle-earth's greatest bane and foe.

And he knew that there was nowhere to go. Not now.

There was only the fleeting memory of Annatar's love—false though he knew it must be—to fuel his movements. To make him wake up each morning and eat his soup each night. To burn at the pitiful rubble of his spirit.

Until it was all gone. Everything. And only the memories remained.

That was all he lived for.

\---

But cling to the bitter past. The memories which could never be erased.


	246. Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She just wants to understand. And to help him heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly romance. But makes references to lots of very unpleasant things. Basically, this is the cute love story of Angrod and Eldalótë colliding head-on into the Defiant arc. So don't expect only sweetness.
> 
> Closely related to Odds and Ends (Chapter 202), Fight (Chapter 207), Difficult (Chapter 225), Veneer (Chapter 227) and, of course, the Puppy Love arc and Defiant arc.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto

"Do you remember when you planted the first red tulip?"

Out of the blue, her question startled him. The timbre of her beloved voice was so soft, like kitten down in contrast to the metal shards of screams and spilled blood and echoing pain. It brought him back from the ever-present haunting that seemed to constantly consume his thoughts, and the once-prince found himself sitting in his wife's sunlit garden. Far, far away from the hellish pits of Angband. Far, far away from the past that he wished to forget.

They were sitting in the grass together with a picnic basket spread between them. For how long he had been staring blankly into the distance, sandwich dangling limply from his hand, Angaráto could not have said. Only that his wife's hand now rested upon his forearm, her eyes narrowed in concern and sadness as she gazed up into his face.

"Of course I remember."

How could he _forget?_

It was one of those memories that just never faded, no matter how much the Dark Lord had attempted to beat the happiness and brilliance from his indomitable spirit.

_"Will you show me how to plant it?"_

_Her eyes were still wide with wonder and awe. But she nodded absently despite, reaching out to grasp his hand and lead him through the grassy yard. "I know exactly the place."_

_The quaint little flowerbed sat beneath the parlor window. It was the first time Angaráto had ever knelt down in the dirt with the intention of doing menial labor—such tasks were below his princely status, after all—but he found the damp feel of soft earth and the thick, rich smell to be novel._

_Her hands guided him so easily. Like second nature was the tending of flowers to his beloved, and she did not falter through his clumsy movements and curious questions._

_But in the end, it was the prince himself who had laid that red tulip into the earth—planted the beginning of their garden._

_The next day, a purple tulip appeared side-by-side with the red. And he did not need to ask her what it meant to know what exactly her lips so silently said._

_When he proposed two days later, she said "yes"._

Now, her slender and deft hands carefully lifted his own and cradled. Angaráto hated looking at the contrast of her sun-kissed perfection with the bony ridges and broken smoothness of his form. Two of his nails were missing, having never quite grown back correctly. And his skin was littered with scars, cuts and burns that had become infected and never been tended.

He hated even more watching her lips touch that skin. Skin that had touched—

"Whatever troubles you, I wish you would tell me."

His eyes shot upwards, connecting sharply with her verdant.

But how could he tell her of those awful things? What would she think of him, her husband the murderer? Her husband the traitor? Her husband the whore?

"Some things should not be spoken aloud."

The strokes of her fingers faltered, and for a moment he feared that she would pull away entirely. Spurn his touch as he had spurned her comfort.

And yet she clung still. Went back to her gentle touches and kisses and words. "Do you know why I planted the purple tulip beside the red?"

Of course, he knew that as well. "It is me, am I correct?"

They were staring at one another again, and his palm was still against her lips as her breath washed over his calluses. "It represents royalty. It reminded me so of your personality. You'd the stubbornness and will of a king all wrapped up in the young and enchanting form of a prince. Honorable, steadfast and loyal to a fault. I thought it fitting..."

Her gaze dropped away, instead resting upon that flowerbed. There were now more tulips, red and purple interspersed together upon the bed of earth. "I thought it fitting that they grow side by side. We are, after all, bound together until the end of days. You and I."

"I am not the person I once was." _I am not your honorable, steadfast and loyal purple tulip. If anything, I'm as monstrous and disgusting as any Kinslayer or orc. A rotting, blood-stained bloom._

"But you _are."_ Her fingers traced the raised wheals of scars, up over his knuckles and fingers and wrists. "You do not understand. I would love you still if you were a Kinslayer. If you were a traitor. If you were in league with the Dark Lord himself!"

"But I _was._ I _was_ in league with him." Abruptly, he pulled his hands away from her, and the separation of their bodies was more painful than being ravaged by the Dark Lord. More painful than having his flesh stripped from his bones muscle by muscle. More painful than any punishment he could contrive, even death by slow and painful torture and violation.

He could not allow her to touch him. He could not _taint her._

"I _was_ with him. And that is not a reality that will ever go away."

"But that does not make you any less _you_ , Angaráto. Are you not still my prince, the silly young boy who courted me in the gardens and promised me forever and a day of blissful marriage? Of a home with a plentiful garden and children underfoot and time to cultivate flowers and enjoy the sunshine?"

_Do you not still love me?_

"It is not the same." _I would love you unconditionally without question..._

_No matter..._

"It _is_ the same." Serious were her eyes and firm was her voice, her low and smooth alto. "Nothing you can do or say will ever make my love for you cease. You were stuck with me from the moment we began this garden, my prince. And I refuse to let you go."

_I just wish you would see that. I wish you would let me touch you. I wish you would let me_ help _you._

_But could he tell her everything?_

Here, before the most sacred of gardens. Could he spill forth such filth from his mouth, spread his horrors and nightmares into her mind and body and soul? Could he really speak of his inner fears, of the moments in which he had faltered and the moments in which he had nearly fallen from grace? Could he tell her the truth of those darkest years of his existence, the shadows that could never dissipate no matter the brilliance of her light?

"I... I cannot..."

"You _can_ tell me. Anything. Anything at all." Hands framed his face, gentle fingers upon his cheekbones, tracing over his eyebrows and down his slightly crooked nose. "We have entwined together, and now we are more one person than two. Every part of you is a part of me.

"And I would have all of you. No matter what you think might be good or evil."

_I would have even your darkest, most terrifying secrets._

And, if there existed anyone in this world whom Angaráto could trust, wholly and completely, with the strongest outer shell of his heart and the weakest inner core, it was Eldalótë.

"It is not a pretty tale."

The pad of her thumb slid over a scar upon his cheek. And then rested upon his lower lip. "This flower wilts not so easily as you might think, husband."

And he told her. Everything.

In the garden. Until twilight came and went. Until the stars speckled their faces. And until the sun rose and spread petals of pale light across the sky..

And still, she smiled and stroked his cheek. Even through the tears.


	247. I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel knows more about her husband than she lets on. But perhaps that's for the better in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and sort of hurt/comfort. Makes references to past murder (non-graphic). Pregnancy. Dysfunctional relationships. Stuff.
> 
> Closely related to Wrong (Chapter 114), Sweeten (Chapter 115), Hands (Chapter 116), Touch (Chapter 126) and Scarred (Chapter 233).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aredhel = Írissë (Quenya) or Íreth (Sindarin)

Sometimes he talked in his sleep.

Írissë did not think he even noticed. Mayhap no one had ever told him of the strange habit. Or it might have been a result of the nightmares plaguing his rest.

More often than not, he was writhing and thrashing in bed in the middle of the night, fleeing from terrors known only to his mind. And then he spoke, his voice sometimes a stream of words fast and violent beneath his breath and sometimes loud and wailing and begging and pleading as his hands reached out and grasped and clawed for something just beyond the brush of his fingertips.

And she would lie beside him, stroke at his hair and his face until the lines of fear and grief were washed from his crinkled brows and his cries and sobs died down into slow and even breathing once more. Cradle him close and ignore how he murmured a name not her own against her pale throat and snuggled closer searching for the comfort of a mate who was naught but a flash of memory.

He cried for them often. His wife and his son and his daughter. Had it not been for the nightmares, she would never have known of his turmoil. Would never have understood his deeply hidden fears and worries. The reasons—the atrocities—that had crafted his unforgiving mind and his distant gaze and bitter tongue.

But she _knew._

Why he hated her people so terribly and passionately. Why he did not get close to anyone for fear. Why he did not want to call her wife and say he loved her.

Why he put everyone and everything at a distance and threw himself into his work like a madman.

She _knew._

And she knew that this day would be both wonderful and terrible for him, her husband and lover. Could be a balm upon his broken heart but all the same a toxin burning at the festering edges of open seams in the flesh.

She waited until they were alone and all in the house had dimmed to soft quietness. Until their candles had been extinguished and their bodies were so close that his skin burned against her form where they brushed and melded.

"I have something to tell you, husband."

In the shadows his eyes opened, the faint white sclera glowing against his blackened irises. He rolled onto his side until they were face-to-face, their brows nearly touching across the pillows. And all she could see where his eyes, his piercing gaze but inches away, tearing into her cool facade and stripping it away to reveal the nervous energy beneath. Just looking at her, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed. He _knew_ something was different. He _knew_ something was wrong.

"What is it, Íreth?"

How to speak it gently? She could think of nothing except to lean forward and press their foreheads together, brushing the lengths of their noses, sharing the soft puffs of heated breath in the cool air. He did not protest when her hands curled in the dark ink-spill of his hair, holding on in silent worry.

Finally. "You are going to be a father, Eöl." _Again._

No matter how she suspected he might react to the soft-spoken news, the sight of the pain in his eyes—upon his face, in the upward turn of his brows and the inaudible gasp that parted his lips—still was shocking. Heart-wrenching.

Perhaps she did not love him as a wife should love her husband. And perhaps he did not love her the way a husband should love a wife. They had both come here, together and curled in the other's arms, for other reasons. For comfort or for fun or for lust or even for simple affection.

But she knew him. And until that moment she did not think she loved him. And yet it was undeniable, her need to comfort her mate in his time of agony.

To brush away the tears that welled and stung upon his dark lashes but refused to fall.

"I am..." At those words, he choked. Seemed unable to draw breath through the tiny hiccups in his lungs and the trembling of his shoulders. No matter how he tried to compose himself into some semblance of the typically steely and standoffish man he normally put forth under her scrutiny, it was all crumbling to pieces.

His wife had been pregnant when she died. When his life had fallen apart. He talked of their unborn daughter often. How he wished and wished for a girl-child.

And he dreamed about them. Surviving the attack and reuniting with him through some miracle of fate. But the dreams always ended cruelly, with his hoarse voice begging them not to go away when the fantasy inevitably burned to cinders and left him barren again. Awakening to the aftermath, the burned-down world long gone cold and dark.

"I... You..." His throat convulsed again, voice cracking softly. Like a child seeking comfort, he pressed his face down against her throat, hiding his wet eyes and trembling lips. But she could smell the salt and feel the scalding heat upon her skin.

Could feel the way his fingers clutched at her nightgown, twisting the pale fabric as he clung. Could feel how his chest rumbled and hitched with silent sobs.

"I should be happy. I... I _am_ happy... I... forgive me..."

All Írissë could do was sigh softly against the dark silk of his hair and allow him to cry. Stroke her fingers across his back comfortingly, reassuringly, pretending to ignore how he cried against her. Pretending that she was not witnessing his layers of protective defense stripped away to the soft, vulnerable core.

She wasn't supposed to know.

_But I know. I understand. And I love you still._

To him, she need not speak those words. Any other woman would have panicked at his reaction, unless she knew the truth. Unless she understood the pain he must be feeling. And perhaps also the hope and pleasure and nostalgia so acute it was as being stabbed with shards of glass. A form of such bitter happiness, a reminder constantly of that which he would rather forget.

She was opening up old wounds. And he was bleeding. But, perhaps, it was the good kind of bleeding. Releasing some of the yellowed pus and gathered infection blackening the edges, allowing it all to seep away and leave behind a wound clean and ready to heal into a scar. Little doubt there was that such a scar would be a thick rope of twisted muscle and knotted skin, something both ugly and strangely beautiful to look upon, to trace beneath tender fingertips. But it would be healed, always present but firmly buried in the past.

That was fine. In the end, the scars were a part of him. And still, she loved him. Not ideally. Not perfectly. Perhaps not even entirely honestly. But it was so.

She knew too much.

"It will be okay," she whispered. "Everything will be okay."

Silently, Írissë prayed it was not a falsehood that departed her lips unto his ears. Not a lie that would take what little was left of this half of a broken man and crush it to dust. Throw it to the winds in her wake to be lost.

All she wanted was to see him smile. And, maybe, to help bandage those hidden wounds.

To see her child resting within his arms as he smiled so sweetly.


	248. Respendent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Finwë meets the mother of his firstborn son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I've been gone for ages and I'm _way_ behind with updating, though I've still been writing one story a day. I swear I'll try to catch up, but college is crazy this semester. This is the first day I've had in weeks where nothing is due tomorrow morning. So I'll try my best to get a few done at least.
> 
> Romantic stuff. And making fun of Elu Thingol and Melian just a little bit.
> 
> Related to all the stories with a Finwë x Míriel pairing, but I'm too lazy to list them all. I suppose it's most related to Dim (Chapter 193) and perhaps Reunion (Chapter 190).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Elu Thingol = Elwë

The first time he saw her, he _knew_ she was _the One._

They—he and his two close companions and friends—had only just returned from their journey, filled with visions of things previously unknown and beyond the simple imagination of the people living upon the star-studded shores. Many wonders had Finwë witnessed with his own two eyes in these past seasons that he longed to share. He had seen Valinor stretching on and on forever in emerald and golden splendor. He had seen the vast oceans writhing below, twined turquoise and steel and adamant. He had seen mountains that pierced holes in the sky with their fanged peaks.

He had seen the Two Trees in all their glory. They had branched out over his head, spreading in silver and golden threads and veins across the darkness of the sky, their dew dripping down and raining stars upon his face and his hair as he traversed beneath their boughs and marveled at their lofty heights. Never before had he seen anything—not even the innumerable stars that speckled the midnight sky in Cuiviénen as they reflected off the crystalline water of the lake—that could compare to his first sight of those mighty and glorious creations of Yavanna and Nienna.

And yet here she was. A creation of Eru himself, and a thousand times more glorious than anything he had seen yet.

Had he been blind before leaving these shores, to miss her amongst the crowd of his dark-haired, dark-eyed kinsmen?

For Finwë could have sworn upon the names of the Valar that he had never laid eyes on this fanciful creature before. Yet, he had not been gone for so long that she could have been born and grown into womanhood whilst he was away. She had just appeared, half-hidden behind a crowd of well-wishers and old friends, a silent ghost invisible to the rest of the world.

But all he saw was her. Resplendent in her raiment. More beautiful than even the Valier.

Forged of Telperion's tears, she had been, and built from the limbs of his elegant branches. Her hair was silvered and spilling down the curve of her back and hips, brilliant in the light of the stars against the dark cloth of her simple gown. And her skin was perfectly smooth, pale almost to white but splashed with just the softest hue of rose in all the right places, brush-stroking over her cheeks and nose.

It was her eyes, though, that captured him fully, ensnared and impaled and helpless.

His own eyes were stormy gray, the color of many of their people's eyes. It was common, if handsome—nothing to scoff at but neither something to marvel upon. When his eyes flickered up to find hers, though, he saw anything but the mundane gray of metal and stone.

Instead there was a swirling sheen of silver and light. Blinding and burning, reflecting the strength of the spirit writhing beneath that seemingly delicate frame.

How could no one else see it, that inner fire and passion and strength?

It was so overwhelmingly powerful in the pale gray of her irises—near glowing in the dim light of the shores—that Finwë felt it sinking down into his very bones. Each moment she looked upon his form, still and quiet in the midst of movement and joy, the heat further rose up underneath his skin, seeking out the chill and driving it from the darkest corners and deepest pits of his mind and heart. Filling every crack and every empty space left inside his spirit.

Until he was suffused. Every inch of him tingled. With her warmth. With her _aliveness._

"Who... who is she—the woman with the pale hair?"

"Ah, her..." Elwë was at his shoulder, smirking at him in vague amusement. "That is Míriel, the weaver's daughter. Her father was of your people, but her mother was of mine, and she has been living with my kin. Can you not see the resemblance?" The taller elf laughed and tossed his hair over one shoulder, the silken mithril flying in the breeze as if to demonstrate the similarities in their hue. And yet Elwë could not compare to _her_ in the slightest.

Jewel-daughter. Such a fitting name.

And she was watching him, as he was watching her. The lovely flush upon her cheeks spread further, deepening as she became aware of his eyes settled upon her radiance with worship.

"She is beautiful."

His old friend merely shook his head and scoffed. "And here I thought love at first sight was a myth. But I think, my friend, that you have proven me quite wrong."

And Finwë had not even the will to be annoyed at the sniping and teasing. Because _she_ was still looking at him, had not turned away even though her eyes fluttered to half-mast in shyness and her slender hands curled in the folds of her skirt.

Truly, everything about her called to him. Succulent and rich, both bold and pale all at once. And the silver of her gaze seemed to shimmer through her lashes invitingly. Until he wanted nothing more than to be near her, to tilt her chin upwards so once more he could look upon her in all her entirety. Be blinded by her inner glow.

He knew she was the One. The One he was meant to be with. And Finwë's breath was lodged in his throat as he abandoned the friends gathered near, full of their inquiries and questions, if only to draw nearer to her flame.

He went to her. Bowed in greeting and struggled to find the air with which to speak and breathe.

"My lady..."

"My name is Míriel." In contrast to her appearance, her voice was strong and firm, nearly blowing him over with its strength. "Well met, Lord Finwë."

_By the Valar, she is perfect._

"May the stars shine upon our meeting," he replied, voice low and hoarse.

"They are." She smiled upon him, and Finwë had never felt more complete than he did beneath her warming influence and languid voice. "They most definitely are shining upon us tonight."


	249. Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even before the rise of the Necromancer, Celebrimbor could always sense that the battle for Middle-earth had never ended. That it had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, obviously some crazy Dark Lord POV going on here. Sexual undertones. But mostly some creepy haunting sort of stuff at the end.
> 
> This is related to all of the Lust arc. But it's especially related to Grace (Chapter 221), Nightmare (229) and Nowhere (245).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Sauron = Annatar  
> Curufin = Curufinwë

"Look at it. Does it not take your breath away?"

Just the sight left his mind blown, his skin tingling and writhing in excitement, covered in gooseflesh. The tiny hairs upon his arms and neck stood on end with the high of adrenaline and power that surged like wildfire through his molten veins.

Spread out below were the lights of tens of thousands of fires. The camps of tens of thousands of soldiers ready and waiting to do his bidding and die for his cause. Fearless and thirsting for the blood and gore of battle. To rain their fury upon the terrified earth until all the free peoples bowed and pleaded for mercy, scrambling and scraping at the feet of their master and Dark Lord for every last drop of nonexistent sympathy he offered.

So close was it, the completion of his goal. Of that dream that had been sitting in the back of his mind since before the beginning of time itself.

That little vision that he longed to reach out and grasp. So close...

But it had changed since then. Something was missing...

He turned, and then his gaze washed over the porcelain beauty he kept firmly pressed against his side. The last piece of the puzzle. The missing detail that somehow completed to superb perfection this delicately balanced vision.

As if handling glass, his fingertips danced across the angles of that face, stroking over dark brows and across soft cheeks to the reddened petal-lips of which he was so fond. The visage was beautiful, albeit sharp and stern, brows creased downwards over darkened gray eyes. Eyes that were ringed in thick eyelashes, that glowed with inner fire in the dark of the unnatural night of the volcano's wrath. The eyes of a strong spirit held so firmly under his control with knots of affection and lust.

For this creature, his desire was inexplicable, could not be explained or wished away. Entranced, he moved his lover to stand before him upon the balcony. Watched powerful, limber hands curve over the railing, white on black. Observed the tilt of that head and the flash of horrified amazement in that gaze.

That face turned to look back at him, confused and somewhat dazed. "Annatar?"

In the background, Orodruin was rumbling and groaning, fire bubbling from atop the distant peak. Heat washed over them, and the scalding wind swept out the curtain of dark hair into a wreath of inky flame painted over the sky.

Never had he seen anything more entrancing. His kingdom nearly complete in its construction—the culmination of tens of thousands of years of clawing his way up the vertical, frictionless wall of servitude, ideology and indoctrination. Until he reached the unattainable freedom at the apex of the sky and looked down upon everything he had ever wanted all cupped in the palm of his hand.

And Telperinquar was there, with the dark sky overhead and the scorched, blackened rock below. His pet and lover and companion.

_His, his, his._

Forever in his grasp. He reached out and cradled a fistful of dark locks of hair, lifting them to his nose so that he might breathe in that rich, smoky scent and feel the satiny texture against his face. Something so harsh and angular and yet undeniably as close to perfection as could reach a mortal being. A creature of destruction, creation and iron. The epitome of everything he wanted to create. Everything he wanted to _rule._

Perfection...

"One day, this will be mine." _You will be mine._ "This will be our world. And whatever we want, we shall have. We will _create_ our perfect reality, you and I..."

_"Telperinquarinya..."_

\---

It echoed.

As though the man whose lips had spoken those damning words were standing here still, though before him there was naught but the plain boarded ceiling of his modest cabin. The room was dark, the candle having gone out long past in the night, and he was in his bed, safe and slightly chilly from the winter air drafting inside.

Blinking, Telperinquar sat up in bed, hair ruffled and face shimmering in a sheen of sweat, trying to still the frantic throb of his heart as it made to crawl its way up through his lungs and out his throat. His breath came out in small white puffs of panic to match, and his eyes were roaming the walls, wide and dilated, searching for the source of that _feeling._ But no matter where he looked, there was no fire. No golden light.

No molten eyes.

"It was... a dream..."

His hands rose, covering his eyes as he hung his head, allowing waves of dark hair to spill and spill. Hiding him away from the world, truthful and imaged. From the atrocities and devastation left in the wake of his foolish and arrogant creation. From those fiery eyes looking upon him so hungrily as he stood before the downfall of freedom.

Still, he could feel them. Boring into him, acidic and corrosive sinking into his flesh and into his bones and straight through the other side. Eating a hole straight through his soul, devouring until he felt hollow inside, as though part of him had been stolen away forever.

And had it not been? Had Annatar not taken a chunk for his own?

The feeling never left the son of Curufinwë. The dreams never departed. Always, they were there. In the background skulking.

The black plains and the towering mountains and the violent explosion of ash and rock shooting fireballs into the sky of a dying, dominated and decimated world. All spread out at his feet like a grotesque declaration of devotion and domination both at once.

And behind him Annatar stood, the very image of his lover of long past. The face of the man he loved corrupted with that grin of sadistic gratification as the world burned down around them, if only so he could shape it into something new. Into something of his own imagining, under his thumb and under his law. Utterly at his mercy. Every inch. Every crack. Every grain of sand.

Not even Telperinquar would be spared.

And the niggling feeling of anxiety and suspicion never ceased. Not a day went by when he did not feel it in his bones and his chest and his soul.

Ignorant fools could say as they wished, but he _knew._

Knew that Annatar was not dead. _Sauron_ was not dead. He was not a wild and fanciful imagining conjured by the broken and lonely heart of a half-faded elf going senile alone in the mountains.

His presence was real. More real than the faint moonlight whispering across the floor. More real than the cold air sucked into his desperate lungs.

More real than his hot breaths washing across his trembling, chilled hands and the livid burn of salted tears dripping upon his skin.

Annatar was tactile. Not a dream. Never a dream.

And, one day, he would be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Telperinquarinya = my silver fist (basically my Celebrimbor)


	250. Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though no one ever bothered to ask—or even understand—Míriel always had her reasons for throwing away her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an idea that I had and expanded upon. Possible depression, post-partum or otherwise. Precognition and foresight. Mentions of blood, but no explicit violence or gore.
> 
> Related to Dim (Chapter 193) as well as a number of other stories.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

As soon as she felt him bloom into existence, curled within the safety and warm softness of her womb, Míriel knew there was something different about her child.

At first, she had believed it naught but the silly feelings of a prideful, wistful mother-to-be. Like a modest woman, she had written off her suspicions as the fanciful imagination of a pregnant woman in the midst of her turbulent gestation.

That was what she told herself. Until the first time she felt him move within her body, tiny nudging kicks pressing against her as if to solidify the reality of his being.

That was when the visions began.

_Eyes formed of Telperion's tears and Laurelin's shine, wide and bright and filled to the brim with calculating intelligence. There was undeniable passion, and yet a lingering smell of rot—resentment and fear and heartbreak..._

So clearly could she see him in all his terrible glory, tall and handsome and charming. The man in her dreams had her husband's bearing but had her facial structure, a perfect blend of their best features.

And he burned.

_Hands that could craft mind-rending wonders from nothing but molten metal and stone. An imagination that could sculpt from the simplest of forms the most amazing and complex of creations. A mind that could run through a thousand scenarios in the space of a moment's time..._

They frightened her, those dreams. For, as her son grew and her belly swelled further and became rounder, the images became more violent and confusing. More horrifying.

_Wild passion flowed through his body as water did down a riverbed, overflowing with an influx of emotion and turmoil. The charisma innate in his every fiber and atom transformed, transcended the mortal plane and became something..._

Until Míriel could not sleep for fear of what she might see. Of what destiny she might behold in her mind's eye against her will and desire. Long nights she spent curled against her husband's chest, tears a scant centimeter from overflowing down her cheeks as her silent, hiccupping sobs filled the night with their subtle harmony.

She did not want to tell Finwë. She did not want to tell _anyone._

_Something that was not quite elven. Something that was no longer beautiful, but splattered in crimson and grinning maniacally. Something that could not even be called a child of the mortal realm for the unearthly, unholy gleam that lit up in its hungry, furious, cunning eyes..._

But she could not hide the truth from herself. And eventually the tears stopped even as the visions became more powerful and the strength of her spirit waned.

Perhaps she should have spoken sooner. Perhaps she should have told her husband. Perhaps she should have consulted a healer. Perhaps she should even have taken her fears and anxieties and questions to Lady Vairë and begged for clarity in matters of the dangers of foresight.

But none of those things did she do.

Instead, she wrapped her arms about her distended belly and stroked her fingers carefully over the bumps and nudges of her unborn child, already thinking of what she would name him. Already knowing what he would look like. Already knowing where his strengths and weaknesses and loves and hates would lie hundreds or thousands of years beyond her demise.

For she began to accept the truth...

_Something that thirsted for blood and vengeance. For three glowing stars laid upon a scarlet sky. And yet, alone in the depths of his mind, he still looked up at the sky and wept and begged and pleaded..._

_And asked why..._

Míriel knew she would not long survive the birth of her son. For he had become a part of her being, had taken in all she had to offer in unconditional love. Taken and taken and taken until she felt the fault line of her soul quake and crack and part where he broke off from her. Taking all of her fire and all of her spirit and all of her determination and iron will.

Taking everything, leaving a tired, wounded spirit behind.

_Why had he been cursed to be as he was? What had been so special about him?_

_What had Eru been thinking, creating him, such a monstrous beauty?_

By no fault of his own, her son was slowly killing her. But Míriel also knew that he was worth every ounce of her pain and fatigue. Every fragment she donated willingly and eagerly to the strength of his soul. For he needed to be strong and steadfast. He needed her flame and her passion and her heart.

He needed everything she had to survive the role which he had been cast.

_Damned as he was, he knew it would never end. He did not regret his oath or his words or his vengeance, but part of him knew it would never cease. Until the End of All Things, that which he longed for and desired would be just beyond the reach of his fingertips, his sworn words left unfulfilled in bleak torment._

_He knew it was meant to be. But nevertheless..._

She knew it was meant to be. And this she accepted.

Thus it was that she welcomed her son into the world, holding him gently as he squirmed and cooed, unaware of the path awaiting his eager, faltering footsteps just beyond the horizon. Unaware of the pain and the suffering he had been forged to resist and endure. Unaware of the fate of all the world resting heavily upon the immense power of his Spirit of Fire.

"His name is Fëanáro."

What else was there to say?

She had done her duty as his mother. As the only woman who would ever love him without question or hesitation. Without a drop of remorse, even knowing...

_Nevertheless, he wished there had been some other way. Some other man created to forge coveted wonders and fall to their spell. Some other man created to lead his people on a foolish quest after foolish revenge. Some other man created to catalyze the unfolding of the destiny of so many souls stumbling in the dark..._

_But there was no other man. And, if ever there had been a man upon whose shoulders rested all the great faults and mistakes of the past, who would not crumble to pieces and burn out into blackness, it had been he._

Even knowing what he would become.

Now, though, it was time for her to rest. Laying back against the mountain of pillows, her newborn child mewling in her arms and yet sounding so distant, she was resigned to her fate. Míriel had played her part in the world. Her tenure as the actress on the main stage of Eru's theater was over.

Only once did she stroke fondly his flushed cheek and downy dark hair.

It was all up to him. Her son.


	251. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were helplessly drawn together, friction and heat, and no longer can one escape the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly just romantic stuff once again. Some mentions of assault and fading, as well as a lot of self-hatred and unhealthy mental states.
> 
> Related to Winter (Chapter 218) and Color (Chapter 220), as well as the Cleansed arc.

It was hard to explain, that feeling of being by her side.

They did not oft speak, choosing instead to wander in quiet. But, as the snows began to melt and the days began to warm such that their cheeks were no longer frost-bitten and sore from the wind, he took to walking with her every day at length. For hours and hours at a time in comfortable silence. Often, they did not even have a destination, but simply went wherever their feet took them.

Elrohir couldn't say he really looked where they headed. More often his eyes were settled upon her. Mithrellas.

There was just something about her that fascinated him. That called to him in a way he could not explain.

Her beauty was as cold and pale as winter. Frost-dipped hair, white skin and ice-crystal blue eyes. No smile ever softened the frozen lines and edges of her expression, and no warmth ever melted the shields of ice that inhabited her distant gaze.

At least, not at first.

It was like standing apart, too far away to feel the other's warmth. She stood within reaching distance as they walked, but he never dared actually reach out and touch. An ocean might as well have rested between them, no matter that he wished to extend his hand and brush away the layers of snow that had settled upon her spirit in stifling heaviness.

He worried that she might melt away like a snowflake upon bare skin and be gone.

Instead, he trailed beside her. And then, as the sun began to set upon their bleak existence and the temperature plummeted until the bare skin of his cheeks burned, he followed her back to Lothlórien's faded beauty. There, they parted ways until the next morning.

But, slowly, the days grew longer and longer and their walks farther and farther from "home".

And, as the walks grew longer, Elrohir found himself drifting closer. Close enough to sometimes feel her breath upon his lips as she gazed up into his inquiring stare. Close enough to take in the radiation of faint heat that her presence offered, a star's core of warmth curtained by the cold outer layer of white light. Close enough to be fascinated by the soft queries of her tentative voice.

Close enough that, one day, he tangled their fingers together. And she did not let go.

And he didn't mind.

Truly, he did not understand. How she somehow soothed away the resentment curdling in his chest and the guilt like lead in his belly. How she somehow pushed aside the need to stay at a distance from everyone and everything if only to make sure he never forgot his sins and dared reach for happiness. How she somehow managed to make everything about this cruel and unforgiving world seem just a little softer... just a little more welcoming...

Just a little warmer and sweeter...

He should have run away from her as soon as her warmth began to breach his defenses and touch the inner part of his secret self that none had touched since the sailing of his mother and the betrayal of his brother. He should have fled back to his suffering in silence, living only off the memories of blood and rage and his mother's tear-stained face flecked in red. He should have forgotten all about his winter-white beauty, driven her image and her comfort from his mind before they had a change to take hold, twine their way through the holes and bars of his mind until he could not untangle them or cut them away.

But he could see that she was a kindred soul, equally broken of heart and suffering alone. And, when he lifted her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles, her fingers squeezed tightly and her eyes fluttered shut to hide away the effect of his simple touch. Not fast enough to keep secret the sheen of tears or the unwilling gleam of gratefulness and affection.

The longing and desperation. The tenuous hope that he might stay forever crushed beneath the fear that he would turn his back and walk away.

Leave her to fade into the background alone. Forgotten.

Mithrellas needed him. And he hadn't the heart to leave her behind, knowing what her fate would be. Not with the image of another pale woman with her translucent skin and her frail form ghosting through his memories, reminding him that he could not save _her._

But this woman...

He could feel her thaw at his touch and the sound of his voice. He could see her beauty changing from the silvered frost of winter to the tentative gray of early spring. And then the soft rose. The shroud of waiting death retreated, and the color of liveliness solidified.

It seeped back into her face and form, vibrant and new. A sweet scent that he breathed deep into his lungs and could never describe and yet never forget. A feeling he needed to suck in day after day like he needed the air to breathe and water to drink.

She had reached the spring of the soul.

Just as the snows finally faded away and the grass turned pale green beneath the hazy sunlight of early morning. The first buds were upon the trees and the birds were singing for the first time since autumn had ended. Already, he could sense that winter was finally passed for the year, and that soon no chill would remain at all to haunt until the seasons revolved again.

He came upon her—upon her blossoming smile—and was entranced.

Around them the air was warm. He held her hand, offered her a broken smile, and they walked away.

And never quite came back.


	252. Sigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes happiness comes in the strangest and most unexpected of packages. But Lúthien is hardly complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit that currently I'm on a month-long hiatus from writing prompts, as I needed a break in order to survive my finals (oh the horror of college!), but since Christmas break is ongoing I thought I would try and play a little catch-up.
> 
> If I remember correctly, this one is angst with a fluffy ending. Enjoy the tooth-rotting sweetness. Thou wert warned.

Too many feelings to count did he spin into existence, weaving the net with which to capture her heart.

Sometimes Lúthien wondered how it was that she had fallen in love with the crazy silver-haired hellion that was her second husband. If anything, she should have hated him or scorned him for what he had done to her people. She should have been afraid of him for all that he had put her through. For his wildness and senility which once had burned down upon her as a rain of fire.

And yet now, so many thousands of years later, somehow, she found him...

_Watching from a distance, she was entranced by the willowy bend of his graceful form. Even without a truly corporeal body with which to interact with the world, every inch of his being was somehow so very beautiful and bright and hot with undeniable life._

_She could not help but be attracted._

_Of course, his being shirtless did contribute to the princess's distraction._

_For all his tallness, Celegorm was just on the muscular end of lithe. When he turned, every muscle from the waist up flexed in a tempting array of snowy-pale skin and tantalizing firmness, covered in a thin network of scars and yet still somehow incredibly flawless. And when he bent over..._

_Well, Lúthien could hardly be called a chaste woman. And she could hardly be faulted for looking a second time, just to be certain..._

_Certain that the curve of his delectable rear was worth her wistful sigh..._

Charming. In a strange sort of way.

Perhaps it was his oddly addictive brand of sweetness tempered with the perfect amount of bitter and tang of salt. Like dark chocolate was the loved they shared, whereas her love with Beren had been milky and melted upon the tongue. This flavor was no less rich and no less luscious, but different.

Sometimes, he was the most adorable man she had ever met, her Celegorm.

_Especially when it came to the flowers._

_Clearly the poor man had absolutely no idea what he was doing when it came to the artistry of flower-arranging. The blooms were in varying states of fullness, some barely budding and some nearly wilting. The stems were all cut at awkward lengths, none of them even, some sheared as if by a serrated hunting knife. And the color scheme..._

_Well, she couldn't fault him for trying. They were bundled together with a leather tie and a note that made her blush to read._

_But she nonetheless buried her nose in the bouquet and breathed deeply of the sweet scent of spring overlaid with his musk, letting out a sigh as her cheeks faded from deep red to pleasant and soft damask in the light of Arien's setting._

_Who would ever imagine a cold-blooded murderer bringing his beloved hand-picked flowers?_

_In the end, it was more of the gesture that counted._

Of course, with a man like Celegorm life could never be anything even remotely resembling perfect or tranquil, for one did not have the time or energy to be serene in the presence of such chaotic vitality. Her second marriage was not like paradise, like that which she had shared with Beren in their waning years of age and grayness where quiet reigned over the thick canopies of vibrant green trees and the light of the dawn cast a reassuring and peaceful glow on their setting lives.

Being with this Noldorin hunter was an adventure. With all the fun and the excitement. But also with all the terrors and the sorrows...

_They all thought he was heartless. Something that lacked simple emotion. No ability to feel compassion. No meager scraps of remorse to be found. Nothing but the lust to blindly kill and kill and kill without hesitation or forethought._

_They had no idea how wrong they were._

_Perhaps he could pretend at distant aloofness for their sake. But in the bedroom, in the middle of the night, Lúthien could but sigh softly into the tangles of his sweat-streaked, rumpled hair as he buried his face against her shoulder in the search for comfort. No different than a child seeking the embrace of his mother's arms after a night-terror. She slipped fingers into his hair and ran them down his back, long lenitive strokes ghosting over rough skin..._

_As his tall, powerful form trembled and quivered with the fragility of a baby bird. As his breaths hitched in sobbing gasps against her neck._

_As he asked why over and over and over again..._

_And she never had any answer to give him. Only the little comfort she could muster through her own haze of guilt and regret mixed up with the affection and the need to brush aside all that made him weep in terror and horror._

_But no amount of soft touches or sweet lullabies could erase the trauma._

And the fearful flashes of the past, of years long bygone that she dearly wished she could forget.

_In which there was no semblance at all of the man she had fallen in love with in the Halls of the Waiting and the Gardens of Lórien._

_In which those eyes looked upon her and glowed with frightfully efficient and logical cunning, and yet held not a drop of recognition as they settled upon her features and widened in wonder._

_In which he did not remember their days eating strawberries and exchanging stories and sneaking chaste kisses. In which he did not recall the deaths of his brother and of his son and of himself. In which he wondered where he was and why he was there._

_In which he became so exasperating that all she wanted to do was sit down in her chair and bury her face into her hands, releasing a sigh of utter frustration in the attempt to avoid tears._

_They were few and far between, those days._

_But when they came about it was an awful reminder of what he had once been and what he would always be. The frightened and confused and tangled and twisted creature always lingering just beneath the surface, crying for help and yet lunging at all who came near enough to reach out and touch in comfort._

_Perhaps she had not done this to him alone._

_But Lúthien could not lie to herself. She had committed horrible acts against him, and some fault would always lie heavy in her heart..._

And yet there were days like today to shove aside the worst of the memories.

Days when she sat upon the porch in the afternoon sunlight and felt like all those horrible days and nights, all those long years of building Celegorm back into a person from the ground up, all that long time spent slowly falling in love bit by bit by bit...

They were all worth it.

"Come now, say 'ada' for me, Ithilien."

He was sitting in the grass, and their young son was propped up in his lap, cooing and giggling up at his father's face, grasping at the long tail of his silver braid and drooling all over the sacrificial strands.

Most people were frightened of this man before her, who was holding a baby as though he had been born for the job and patiently speaking in a voice crafted to soothe and coax. Most people believed only what they saw in his powerful body and his cold gaze and his haughty laughter, because they knew naught of the truth of his character. And none of them would ever see this side of him, so terribly gentle as his fingertips tickled his son's rosy cheeks and ruffled the first growth of moonlit hair.

The child squealed and bounced up and down, huge smile showing off the teeth only just beginning to grow in. "Nana, nana, nana..."

"Say 'ada'..."

"Nana!"

An exasperated sigh escaped the lips of her husband even as they came down to brush over the brow of his son. "You will grow up to be such a nana's boy, will you not, ion-nín?"

From that short distance away, Lúthien echoed his sigh. But, as she cradled her cheek in the palm of her hand and watched them together, playing as a father and son so sweetly on the ground, her sigh was one of contented bliss.

Truly, she was glad to be with him. Glad to hold his delicate love in her palm. Glad to be the keeper of his deeply secret heart.

Glad to be by his side. For she knew not what she would be without his devotion and love. Her Celegorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> ada = daddy  
> nana = mama  
> ion-nín = my son


	253. Fingertips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting of brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is to do with Smile (Chapter 241), Shadows (Chapter 95) and Delivery (Chapter 74) among many others. Blatant mpreg and mentions of childbirth. But it's really just fluff. Lots and lots of fluff.
> 
> Features my beloved OMC Valthoron. <3

Sixteen hours of labor, and all there was to show for it was a bundle slightly smaller than a loaf of bread.

Honestly, Valthoron was a bit leery of _touching_ the squirming infant, let alone _holding_ it. He had never even been near a child before, and from a distance they seemed so frightfully fragile, so easily harmed. The prince was a warrior, a creature that wielded a blade in the dance of death without hesitation, that could strangle the life out of an orc with the strength only of his hands.

And those same hands were meant to hold something with the consistency of thin glass?

Yet, when Thranduil looked up at him, bundle in arms, his father smiled widely and beckoned him forward with the inclination of his noble head. Not a second thought about trusting his oldest son with the life and safety of the youngest.

"Adar," he murmured, shuffling nervously to the edge of the bed, standing stiffly.

The older elf still somehow managed to look like a king even bundled up under a mountain of blankets and curled up at the center of a dozen feather-down cushions. The blond hair was still sweaty from exertion, sticking slightly to damp skin and reddened cheeks. And yet Thranduil seemed more alive—warmer, more full of heat and breath—than he ever had in the prince's memory.

"Come greet your baby brother, Valthoron."

His baby brother. The child was less than the length of his forearm with a slightly wrinkled red face and milky green eyes that blinked without focus up in his direction. Truly, it looked a little more like a strange form of abstract art than it looked like an elf, but Valthoron had never seen a newborn up close before. Downy hair decorated the top of its head, pale as Thranduil's, and yet the incredibly tiny eyelashes that ringed those eyes were dark.

He would have been perfectly content merely looking with a polite smile plastered upon his face. And then Thranduil held out the child.

"Adar, I..."

"Come now, he is but a babe. It won't do you any harm."

_It is not me I worry for._

But before he could protest again, the bundle was shoved into his hands. Awkwardly he held the child, one broad palm spread beneath the baby's head and another supporting the rest of the body, keeping the cooing, squealing creature almost an arm's length away. "Adar, truly, I oughtn't hold—"

"Like this, silly boy..." Deft hands directed him until he had the babe cradled against his chest in the crook of one elbow.

Like this, the baby was tickled by the red tangles of his curled hair. Hands so small reached upwards toward the strange sensation, and Valthoron could not help but notice that each one was perfectly formed, each finger perhaps the length of the last joint of each of his own. Each tipped in a miniscule nail, rounded upon the end with a pale crescent.

The fingers wriggled, little arms reaching upwards jerkily as the child cooed and chirped for attention. And, for reasons he couldn't comprehend, Valthoron was entranced by the uncoordinated movement.

"I have named him Legolas." Thranduil smiled at him, looking both tired and overjoyed and proud all mixed together into some form of contentedness. "Is he not beautiful, Valthoron?"

"Legolas..." Tentatively, Valthoron reached with his elegant yet callused fingers toward the child. Brushing his fingertips like the airy kisses of a moth's wing across skin so soft he could hardly bear to part from its sensation. First over the rosy cheeks, tracing downward and then back up to follow the lines where dark brows had already begun to grow.

This was his little brother.

And the tiny fingers grasped at his own, tiny palms wrapping about the slender length and tugging with surprising strength. The prince—the warrior—found he did not even mind when that digit somehow found its way into a toothless mouth, coming away dripping with saliva and smelling questionable.

He let the child direct his hand every which way, felt the tiny fingertips exploring over the rough skin of sword-graced palms and knuckles skinned so often they had grown flesh like leather.

"He is perfect."

_He is my brother. And I would lay down my life for him. Legolas._

It was hard to release the child back into his father's keeping. With overstated care, he passed the bundle back, watched Thranduil coo and sigh over the baby for a few minutes more, only half-hearing his father's words as he stared into that small face with the spring eyes.

It was a moment suspended, as though time had ceased to flow for those few precious seconds. Burned into the back of his mind, so peaceful and still sat the air in the room, the stripes of sunlight fading across the floor from the open window. The prince hardly dared breathe for fear he might shatter the moment, the strange feeling that settled as a balm over his soul.

The tingle where those tiny hands had touched his skin.

With a whispered word, he departed the room. Felt strangely the rough stone of the doorway as his palm slid across it in his leaving. Noticed barely the guards staring wide-eyed from across the hall as he swept past them at a brisk walk, heading back toward the outside. Toward spider-slaying and orc-hunting. Toward princely duties and the expected dark stares.

But somehow feeling lighter despite. And if, for the rest of the night, a tender smile curled his normally pursed lips and softened the harsh edges of his scowling face...

No one said a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> adar = father


	254. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor never dies. His sons continue to live on. And none of them ever come home. But she is still there...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to pretty much everything labeled Maglor/Canonical Wife. Please don't make me list them all! Also, spontaneous children (Ilession and Erestor) exist and are mentioned several times.
> 
> Warnings... angst, tragedy, physical scarring, mental trauma, mentions insanity, other unpleasant things, unhealthy coping methods... yeah... stuff...
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno
> 
> The Lady of Mercy refers to Nienna

Sometimes Vardamírë wondered how she remained sane.

Days dragged on for an eternity each of their own. Every crack in the far wall of her bedchambers she knew, for so long she would lie upon the mattress and stay awake in the faint candlelight, afraid to let darkness fall entirely. Many mornings she did not even want to arise from bed and walk through another day entirely alone.

They all ended the same way. She would come back to the empty house and prepare dinner, her ears listening for the sound of footsteps upon the porch, for the click of the door swinging inward.

For the sound of her husband's melodic bass ringing through the hallways and vibrating through the floorboards like a force all its own. For her eldest son's laughter and her youngest son's protests. For the crackling of the sitting room fire and the squeak of the familiar second-to-last stair.

For the sound of _them._

She was waiting.

It had been so long. So very, very long.

And still, she expected to hear him snoring softly in the morning at her side. Still expected to hear her children arguing over the last home-baked muffin. Still expected to feel hands wrap about her waist as she set off for the bakery as the sun rose, a kiss falling upon her cheek and soft love-words whispered against the shell of her ear.

But they never came. No matter if she stood upon the porch for hours until the sun was fully overhead or if she stepped off without hesitation, they never came.

They wouldn't. She _knew_ they wouldn't. But still...

Slowly the others reappeared.

Artafindë came first with his face twisted and scarred. And yet Amarië had never seemed more blissful than when she pulled that monstrous face close and kissed lips cut and deformed with all her spirit.

And soon the others followed.

Her husband's cousins and their children. One-by-one, coming home to their beloveds. To Elenwë, who stood in the highest tower of the palace in Tirion each day for five hundred years if only to breathe words of comfort and serenity to her spouse upon the wind. To Anairë, who seemed to lose every ounce of her hot-burning spirit and will without her husband at her side to take the butt of her jokes and smile in the face of her overwhelming temper. To Eldalótë, who despondently tended to her flowers with her silly golden shears, guarding her tulips as though her life depended upon their survival.

And, finally, to her sisters in all but blood, daughters of the House of Fëanáro.

Back to her companions. To Lindalórë, more broken a woman than ever had there been, one who would never be whole no matter how many years Curufinwë spent piecing her fragile cracks back together with glue and bandage. To Istelindë, who tried to be so very strong when all of them just wanted to lay down and give in to the prejudice and the hatred.

But not to Vardamírë.

Not her husband. Not her sons. Not her life.

Suspended in time, she stood, each day looking so hopefully, hopelessly toward the Halls of the Waiting, wondering if he would one day walk over that horizon humming beneath his breath, see her and smile at her with that face she held so beloved in her heart, his sons standing on either side of his shoulders as whole and hale as the day they had departed.

As bright. So bright they could only be a daydream.

For she saw what darkness shrouded those who came back from the other side. Saw the edges of Curufinwë's smile so sharp they were no longer safe to brush against. Saw the depression that ate away at Artafindë as he sat in the gardens beyond the palace, wistful and bitter. Saw the madness that clawed its way beneath Turkafinwë's free spirit and the harshness that would never fade from Turukáno's face. Saw how Nelyafinwë's strength waned in the face of adversity and Findekáno's courage faltered in the wake of guilt.

She feared what she would find. But she longed still to see.

Because the waiting would be her death.

The waiting to discovery why Nelyafinwë could never meet her eyes when she asked after her husband. Only he would tell her that he had died before his brother, and that he knew not of the fate of his younger sibling.

But underneath were the signs. Damning and damning and damning.

And all Vardamírë could do was sit and pray for guidance. Look up to Varda's stars and beseech her lady to tell _him_ that she was still here. Look back to Vairë in her halls of the past and wonder if he walked there amongst the memories, watching her. Look to the Lady of Mercy and wish that somehow he would be spared suffering, that he would _know._ That she still loved him and needed him.

That she was waiting. That she would stand forever and stare at the far wall until his image once again appeared. Until his footsteps once again filled her house. Until his voice once again rumbled against her back. Until his embrace once again cloaked her in safety and passion and bliss.

Until he was at her side again. At home.

She would continue waiting.


	255. Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the modern love story of an elf and a mortal continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to all the Caranthir/Haleth stories, but in particular Ballad (Chapter 75), Edge (Chapter 100) and Euphoria (Chapter 98). 
> 
> Some angst and self-pitying. Slightly religious connotations. Spontaneous children (who may or may not be as spontaneous as you think) mentioned.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Mandos = Námo
> 
> The Father, as always, refers to Eru.

Hands slammed down upon the table, rattling the single cup and saucer upon the smooth surface. Ripples lapped at the lip of the cup, their amplitude only demonstrating the level of anger abounding in the air.

"You knew exactly what was going to happen, did you not?"

The elf sounded pissed. And Námo could not say that he was incredibly surprised given the circumstances. Caranthir had never been a particularly pleasant and mild-tempered creature, though his fits of rage were usually short for all their violence and impulsiveness, and he was certainly not one to listen to arguments or explanations lest they be shoved bodily down his throat.

At the moment, the fourth son of Fëanor was as red-faced as his namesake implied, half-slouched in the chair opposite the slyly smirking vala. Arms pulled back from the table and crossed, a glare fixed firmly in place upon that visage, and he reminded Námo almost of a pouting child who was humiliated and embarrassed at being tricked like a gullible imbecile. But, as there always would be in children of that cursed bloodline, there was a simmering danger lurking just beneath the boyish expression of discontent.

No, Caranthir had not yet exploded into _true_ anger. If anything, he was just _very_ irritated.

Still, Námo couldn't help but find the image amusing.

"I do not know _what_ you mean."

Those eyes flashed with the ghost of Fëanor. A warning if ever there was one. But while a mortal might be intimidated at the raw power and heat of that stare, he was one of the Valar, and no mortal could have done him harm had they tried.

Not even this one. And, at the moment, Caranthir looked very close to trying despite knowing the futility of such a course of action.

"You _do."_ The clench of that angular jaw was blatant and the screech of teeth grinding in fury was audible. "Tell me, what kind of disgusting _joke_ is this supposed to be?"

_Ah, so that is why he is angry._

"It was not meant to be a joke. To the contrary, it is anything _but."_

"Anything but..."

Fists clenched so tightly on the edge of the table that Námo was worried for a millisecond that it might actually crack beneath the pressure. But the elf across from him sucked in a breath, holding it deep in his lungs until his color had returned halfway to normal. Until his form stopped trembling in passionate emoting and his hand released their iron grip.

Those eyes opened. Still white-hot. Still enraged. But focused.

Calculating.

"Is this punishment, then? Was living beyond her death not enough? Was suffering through all the ages of the world _not enough?"_

It was more than enough. 

Námo was not a forgiving creature—as the Judge, it was his job to fairly and indiscriminately punish the sins of elvenkind no matter their name, no matter any pity he might feel for them in his heart. It was the job of his sister to weep tears for their fate and plead for their salvation and absolution, but his place was only to look with an unbiased eye and examine the facts. Come to a conclusion based purely off evidence.

Caranthir was a murderer hundreds of times over. Not only of warriors in battle—for that sort of killing was out of necessity and fealty to kingship—but of warriors _outside_ of battle. Of tradesman and craftsman protecting their homes and livelihoods. Of minstrels and counselors who had barely held a sword in their life. Of woman and children who stood unprotected with their husbands and fathers and brothers cut down around them.

The only saving grace of any of the children of Fëanor was their penchant for genuine remorse.

They _hated_ what they had done in the name of their Oath. What they felt they _had_ to do and did only because they believed there was no other way. Every single one of them wept and rained scorn upon himself in penitence, no matter how hidden that inner remorse might have been, buried deep beneath layer upon layer of defense.

Nonetheless, they were punished. Some with long years of looking back upon their memories. Some with bouts of terrifying madness and confusion. Some with shunning, with the suffering of those they held dear to their hearts.

Rare was it that Námo needed to punish an elf _personally_ and _intentionally_ , for Eru had his ways of directing the world into accord.

Caranthir had fallen for a mortal woman who rejected his love. He had pined and suffered after her brief life and death. He had killed and sated his lust for blood but given himself up in the end rather than take more innocent lives in what to him seemed a pointless quest of vengeance.

He had paid the price of each drop of blood spilled by his blade—paid in tears and torment and loneliness. In the loss of all he held dear. And Námo could only ask for sacrifice until there was nothing else to be given.

The vala would have been content to house this spirit of darkness and smoldering, charred ash within the jail of his Halls until the End of Days. Spared this spirit any more of the pain of living.

But _Caranthir_ had chosen rebirth. _He_ had chosen to sail back.

It was _he_ who had chosen to live on when he could have curled up in the Halls of the Waiting and languished for eternity in grief and dementia. And it was _he_ who continued to live, resisting the call of the West, resisting the fading, resisting the loneliness and bitter ache of remorse in order to survive another day in a world he neither loved nor desired.

No, Námo had never needed to punish this pathetic, sad creature. Not like this.

"I do not believe that this event was conspired to _punish_ you, child."

"If not to torment me then what purpose does _her face_ on a _mortal's body_ do me? What is it you desire then, oh Lord of the Dead? For me to become attached again to a woman fated to die in a few short decades? For me to suffer through rejection twice and watch her grow old and vanish like the morning mist? To topple what little remains of my will to live and watch me plummet into madness?"

Breathing hard despite the quiet of his hissed words, Caranthir leaned across the table and sneered. Never had Námo beheld a face so wretched, so wrecked and twisted, upon a creation meant to be pure and beautiful. A face of accusation and betrayal and utter disdain. But the vala knew that this elf _believed_ that he was cruel and vindictive enough to throw the loss of the elf's One back in his face, tear open old and scarred wounds and rub them with salt and poison for sport.

Such was the reputation of the Judge.

"This is not a punishment. If anything, this is a second chance. _Your_ second chance."

Those eyes narrowed. "Oh yes, a second chance to destroy myself properly this time. I see."

"So cruel you believe I am, but I did not create this series of coincidences to _harm_ you. In fact, I did not create them at all. I am only aware of what _may happen."_

He could see many paths. Could see two in particular for this elf before him, one of utter ruin and one of bittersweet joy.

_One where he sat alone at a grave and wept for what could have been but never was. They only met once, but he had shoved her away out of fear of the pain of parting. And yet, though he knew not even her name or whether she might have been the re-embodiment of his One, Caranthir still mourned as though she had been._

_Languished in the unknowing. In ends left untied..._

_Fraying and fraying..._

_And another in which he stood also at a grave, face worn and weary, but with a child at each shoulder with his height and sharpness but her features and resolute expression. Still, he wept and felt the overpowering tide of grief at the tearing apart of their bond, but there was too the remembrance of joy that had been gotten. Of sweet moments of togetherness, of creating the family that he had always been denied..._

_Of no longer being alone. And knowing that, though the pain would never fade..._

_It was a price well-paid..._

"The Father has granted you a boon. An _opportunity._ One that can be squandered or one that can be furnished and tended." The vala leaned back in his seat, eyeing the distraught, infuriated elf with contemplation. He did not hesitate a moment to meet those blazing eyes, for all the ashy hatred that scalded their depths at that moment.

"It is up to _you_ to decide how to use this gift. To accept it or deny it is your choice."

And then he stood, turning away, all amusement lost. The future wavered precariously within his mind's eye, teeter-tottering back and forth between fates, still not set in stone.

"Only the Father has the power to reincarnate a soul," he added. "And He does nothing without reason. Perhaps He has deemed your punishment finished."

He glanced back, found the fire fading fast. Watched the balance shift...

"Perhaps He just wants you to be happy, silly child."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> vala = greater ainu (holy one)


	256. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So ends the passion of Maeglin Eölion. And so begins the seduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closely related to Passion (Chapter 88), but also Loveless (Chapter 99), Urban (Chapter 38), Erratic (Chapter 195) and the Cleansed Arc. 
> 
> Non-graphic torture and non-con implied. Mostly mind-games and fantasies of bloodshed. Sauron should be a warning all his own.

Hopelessness was a dangerous fiend.

Certainly, Maeglin had experienced its clawed grip before, digging ragged, gaping wounds into his fragile inner core as he was dragged down and down into an ocean of suffering. But not like this. Never like this.

_No one will come to find you. No one cares for your fate, son of the dark elf._

He could picture them in his mind's eye so clearly. His father's scornful sneer aimed toward his terrified offspring as he was dragged, chained and writhing, toward the cliff that would catalyze his demise. His mother's blank eyes, open and staring off over his shoulder from her slack, pale face, frozen in death. His uncle's flat stare shredding through all the shields and protections he had scraped together in the face of the unknown, so stern and uncompromising, so lacking in affection and understanding.

And then there was _her._

Her and her laughter. Her and her smiles. Her and the soft touch of her fingers through his hair and across his shoulders.

Her and her frowns. Her and her dark eyes as she turned away. As she walked into the open arms of another man, spitting back resentful words of rejection and disgust, knowing that Maeglin loved her as a husband loves a wife and not as a cousin loves his uncle's daughter.

And her husband looking over her shoulder, so smug and satisfied. Gloating in his eyes as his hands slid over the graceful curve of her spine...

No, they would not come for him. In fact, they might be rejoicing even as he hung here, blood-soaked and wracked with indescribable pain, for this way they did not have to see him, feel his presence. No longer would he be the inconvenience to his uncle who hated seeing the features of his sister's murderer upon his nephew's face. No longer would he be the frightening phantom haunting his lovely cousin, hoping beyond hope that she would abandon her affection for her rugged, rude and aging _mortal_ and see how deeply he truly cared for her and longed for her and _needed her._

See how much he loved her. With every breath he possessed. With every thought that slithered through his mind. All for her. For _her._

And she did not care.

She loved _that mortal._

_"If thou dost tell me what I want to know, I can give her to thee..."_

"No..." They had already tried this trick. But he would not fall for it. No matter that his will to resist was slowly dwindling with the increasing pain and humiliation and bitter disappointment, he was not a traitor and he would not prove them right in their distrust and disdain...

But the growing of fury itched and burned beneath his flesh. That they would do this to him. That they would _abandon_ him. Were they not supposed to be his family?

Even his father would not have done something so despicable...

_"Perhaps he was right about them, the Golodhrim..."_

_Perhaps he was right that they were traitorous and murderous, cold-blooded beings with distant star-eyes interested only in their own greed and pleasure..._

But was his mother not of that people? She had loved him... perhaps been the only person to ever truly love him... Could she really be...?

_"But in the end she ran away. Broke thy father and shattered the remains of thy family beneath the soles of her boots. Did she not, little one?"_

It was hard to imagine his father being anything but the powerful, uncompromising and scathing creature forged of iron and flame that he had been, yet Maeglin knew that he loved his wife. It was painfully obvious to anyone who dared take a second glance at the odd pair and their strange cross-cultural relationship.

And she had run off without a word. Without a backward glance. Knowing that he would follow. Knowing that he would be hurt and suffering.

Had she not loved him back?

_Like Idril did not love him back? Was no amount of devotion enough?_

_"Idril Celebrindal does not want thee and thy devotion. She does not desire thy love and affection. She only desires to fulfill her own lusts..."_

_No... he would never..._

_"Never what? Spurn genuine love for the sake of her attraction to a fleeting mortal man who, in a mere handful of years, will abandon her for death's doors?"_

Maeglin shuddered.

_"Perhaps thou shouldst show her the true meaning of rejection... of loneliness..."_

He did not _want_ to torment her, but the idea would not remove itself from his mind. Her dark looks filled with revulsion whenever she glanced at his face. Her soft laughter mocking him from a distance as she kissed and twined with her husband in full view, knowing he watched wistfully at a distance.

The vindictive pleasure he imagined in her eyes when she turned to gaze upon his form—hunched in pain and aching at heart—uncaring that she was torturing him slowly to fading...

Only Maeglin was not ready to give up.

_"Dost thou not see? Take away that which she loves more than anything. Have thy revenge upon thy love and her husband and her father. Kill the king and take his throne to avenge thy fallen kin. Kill Tuor and his son, claim the woman who rightfully is thine and let her know the pain she has brought upon thee..."_

The touch of fingers across his bare flesh was soothing and cool. No pain or humiliation followed their presence. Only cold breath against his ear and the fall of golden silk down his back.

_"Tell me what I wish to know and I will give thee all thou dost desire..."_

_Tuor's lifeless body spread in blood and gore across the cobbled streets, eyes wide with horror and realization of defeat..._

_Turgon upon his knees, pleading for mercy and holding false kinship in hopes of survival, though his crown was thrown down and his body broken..._

_Idril weeping in understanding as she beheld the bodies of her husband and son and father, slaughtered by the invaders, her swaying form held firm by Maeglin's arms as he embraced her tight to his chest. Pretended to play the savior..._

_And yet silently whispered with his eyes..._

_"This is what you have done to me. And thus shall it be done to_ you, _my love..."_

_And, in the background, his father's face, for once proud, shone. For he had claimed the vengeance rightfully his through blood. This was where he belonged, standing above these wretched betrayers and kinslayers, these heartless, sinful creatures..._

All above the pain, he saw this vision. Felt his insides tremble with a paroxysm of power-induced adrenaline and nearly carnal pleasure when the images flooded his senses. And if they were but a figment of his imagination, conjurations of dark magic, he cared not in that moment.

His family—his kin and his people—had _abandoned_ him, never loved him...

Never even cared for him, a son of their House and their blood...

And he would show no mercy or sympathy in return. Only give them their just deserts.

"Tell me... tell me what you wish to... to know..."

Against his ear, the mouth smiled. Hands crawled over his body, driving away the agony until he sank into limp numbness. Into utter relief.

"Just tell me where to find the Hidden City..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Golodhrim = Noldor


	257. Cerveth (July)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nimrodel recalls a dream and a promise made long ago, still just within her grasp if only she would reach...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Dismiss (Chapter 134), Compromise (Chapter 139) and Journey (Chapter 154).
> 
> Some angst, but mostly fluff. Also, non-explicit but blatantly implied sex. And touching, lots of touching.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aran Einior = Manwë  
> Elbereth = Varda  
> Araw = Oromë

Summer had always been Nimrodel's favorite season. There was just a certain charm to its warm glow, the shimmering of sunlight raining down over everything, covering the world in green and gold and heat that sank into the very heart of the earth and warmed the stone and dirt beneath her bare feet. Life flourished beneath the grace of Anor and the violent but fleeting wrath of the storms that whisked across the sky like a falcon's shadow, spreading plentiful water down to hydrate the land.

It was, to her, a time of living. Not blooming, as spring, or fading, as in autumn. But truly _living._

The perfect time to start a family. To grow from one to two. And from two to three.

And thus it was that, as a young woman in the springtime of her womanhood, Nimrodel had always fancied that she would be married at midsummer as the sun was setting, coolness only barely dampening the buzz of the sunlight's rays warming her skin, the night-sounds flitting through the air and fireflies slipping in and out of the shadows in swirls of intricate abstraction.

Beneath the boughs of the trees she would stand, her husband-to-be at her side, their hands entwined as they spoke the bonding words. That was always how she would picture that moment of bliss.

"I want to be married in the summer. In Cerveth."

Amroth glanced up at her through golden eyelashes. The prince was sprawled out at her feet, lying like a loyal hound spread across the grass upon his belly, enjoying the sweet smells of the coming of the warm weather and the reanimation of the dead world of winter. His blond locks spilled down into the grass as he sat up and perched his cheek in the cup of his palm, smiling slyly in her direction.

"The summer..." His thoughtful voice shuddered through her. No matter that he was of the west, something about this genuine, charming creature could always make her heart pound like drumbeats, quick and throbbing wildly. Wanting to leap from her body and into his keeping so recklessly.

Gulping, Nimrodel managed a nod. "When we arrive in Aman, I want to be married in Cerveth. At sunset of an hot, sultry summer night in a forest clearing. Just us two."

_Alone, so that we might fall into the cradle of the living world about us. So that we might be swallowed whole and become a part of its surreal wonder._

_So that we might live in bliss. Just us two._

Without the complications of regency and opposing politics. Without the worries for their people and their ideological disagreements. They would be free of burden. And they would make love as the stars dappled the heavens and the red glow of Anor faded into the westernmost corners of the world, leaving them to the dusk and the enveloping warmth.

Flushing, Nimrodel glanced away from his eyes, hoping that she had not been too obvious in her racy daydreaming. For the thought of becoming one with him upon the forest floor, twining together from two people—not a prince and a lady in disagreement and contention, but as two beings in perfect harmony—into one creature of the purest consonance, it left her feeling languid and achy.

"If that is what you wish." His hand captured her own, raised it to his lips, and the heat in her belly jumped slightly. But it was tempered by the rush of pure affection and the slight sting of guilt. "I wish only to make you happy, my Lady Nimrodel."

"When we arrive," she said, breathless in the wake of the caress of his lips and the depth of his generous and devoted adoration.

"When we arrive," he agreed without resistance. "We shall be married in Cerveth. When the summer reaches its peak again."

A promise if ever there had been one.

\---

But, of course, they never reached the far shores. And, when summer came and went, Nimrodel sat down alone by a softly chiming mountain stream and wept. Wept for her foolishness.

\---

It was not until many years later that she lay with him again. Beneath the boughs of the trees as the heat of the summer afternoon seeped away into the gentle warmth of evening. Above their heads, the sky was stained with red and gold, Aran Einior's indescribable watercolor tapering away to the deep blue of night, of Elbereth's ancient quilt.

They were not in Aman, she and her lover. And Nimrodel did not think they would ever reach the far shores.

But she did not care. Not now.

Nimrodel sighed and rolled over, rested her head upon his shoulder, feeling both the warm firmness of his body against her side and the cool fingertips of the grass brushing against her back and the bare flesh of her calves, twining into the silvered pools of her hair. She did not need Aman, for this was where she belonged. From now until the end of time.

Once, she would have cared about Valinor. Once, she would have wanted with terrible desperation to escape the encroaching darkness she could sense growing with each day, seeping as poison into her beloved earth. But her priorities had changed. Certainly, she loved her people and despised the arrogant and egocentric outsiders and invaders. Certainly, she was frightened of the growing, looming shadow, believed that it was those strange elves—tall and dark and harder than raw stone—that brought it upon the soft glow of her reality like fire upon a forest's helpless kindling.

But she loved Amroth. Loved him _more._ More than she had ever believed possible.

"Cerveth is upon us," she whispered against his neck, her eyes falling to half-mast as her hand rose to stroke the powerful muscle of his shoulder and the dip of his collarbone.

Beneath her body, he stiffened, growing taut.

In his eyes lay the layers of ash. The burned rubble of hopes long left behind, the wreckage of the agony of believing her dead, believing his dreams shattered and his life utterly ended before it had even begun.

How she longed to drive away that ash, choking out the green awaiting beneath its heavy hand. How she longed to brush it aside, allow sunlight again to reach those sprouts so that they might dig their way out of the scarred, blackened earth and become something even more glorious in the wake of destruction.

How she longed to finally begin their life.

"And the sun is setting... Here we are, beneath the trees, just like I always imagined..."

Pain drifted as a shadow over the deep blue of his gaze, darkening them near to black. "Nimrodel..."

"I want to be married, Amroth."

Ever so slowly—ever so gently—he lifted her chin until their eyes met. Pulled her to rest upon his chest and allowed her hands to embrace his cheeks and sink into the depths of his hair even as she felt his touch upon the curves of her sides, resting just above the sensitive roundness of her hips. Beneath her, she could feel him breathing, each rise and fall of his chest lifting and lowering her, rocking her in the most intimate of dances.

"I did not keep my promise," he murmured, his lips so close and yet so far away. "I doubt we shall ever see Aman and stand beneath the trees in the Woods of Araw, watch the sun set in the distance together..."

_And make love beneath the stars._

It was endearing and startling and saddening how devoted he was to her still, an uncompromising and selfish woman unwilling to give to sacrifice if only to make him as blissful as she had been in the dawn of their love, when she had only known how to take. And take and take and take.

She did not want to see his sorrow any longer. She wanted to _give._

"I do not care."

That familiar flash streaked through his eyes, lighting their depths with silver for a moment frozen in time. Hope, so pure, as a vein of mithril through rock, shattering the darkness with reflection of sudden light. Shocked, he stared up at her.

Nervous. Frightened.

Awed.

"Marry me, Amroth. Here. Now."

_Here in the summer as the sun sets. Let us become one._

_Let me love you as you were meant to be loved..._

"Are you... are you certain...?"

"I have never been more certain about anything." Nimrodel smiled sadly, pressing their brows together. About them, her hair fell as moonbeams to match his eyes. To contrast the darkening dome overhead. "Please."

He never could say no to her.

And it was so perfect, the words whispered between their breaths into the silence. Just as she had always imagined. Amongst the quiet noise of the forest, the crickets and the rustle of the leaves in the breeze. Amongst the dwindling heat of summer's embrace, enfolding them as their clothing fell away. Amongst the ferns and the grass, her back upon the cool ground but his form wrapped about her to keep her within a sphere of fiery heat.

Until they rested against one another, breathless and trembling, more one creature than two.

With the fireflies in the shadows. And the stars scattered across the darkening sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Cerveth = July (obvious at this point, I should hope)  
> Anor = the sun


	258. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all started out in envy and in wrath. Revenge and desire have always been his ultimate motivators.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly related to the Defiant Arc. Therefore, all sorts of ugly things within can be found. Sauron had to get it from somewhere.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Ilúvatar = Eru (also called Father)  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro Curufinwë

The primordial desire.

Though he had never seen it with his bare eyes, it had always been his ultimate temptation. The one thing that he wanted above all else and the one thing that was wholly and completely beyond his reach.

The Flame Imperishable.

Of its glory he knew. Created by the hand of Ilúvatar. All the brilliance that would ever light the Void.

Was it any wonder that even a droplet of that light—that illusive creation beyond all imagining—drew him helplessly toward its glow as a tethered beast? It held him as a willing captive whilst all the while he was dragged toward its breathtaking cage. Toward its inexplicable magic and incomprehensible perfection. Toward the source of his curiosity and amazement and wonder.

Toward the center of the universe. Toward the ability to _create._

Was it any wonder that he tried to take it for his own?

And no matter how many times he failed to reach, he would keep trying and trying and trying. It was the nature of the greatest of the Ainur, the firstborn son.

Melkor did not give up or give in, not in the face of fear or adversity. Perhaps he might fall, yet he would persevere beyond any who came after, getting back up again and again against the odds. No matter how many years he remained imprisoned. No matter how much he might need to lie. No matter how many poor souls he might need to manipulate.

No matter what treasures he might need to sacrifice.

In the end, he _would_ have what he desired. Even if he needed to wait for all the ages of the world to hold it within the palm of his hand.

He would wait.

\---

His foolish brother released him from his confinement much sooner than the end of time.

How naive his _dear_ brothers and sisters were—now and always would they stay. That Manwë believed him a changed man after a long imprisonment of brooding at the same four gray walls for thousands of years, languishing and planning and plotting... Melkor found such baseless and disgusting faith to be rather hilarious. Truly laugh-worthy.

"I believe in the good of your heart."

_And I believe in the foolishness of your compassion._

Of course, he had smiled and nodded. Expressed his gratitude in a flurry of words expunging upon the virtuous nature of his brother's pity and trust. All the while thinking of the day this man would kneel, bound and humiliated, at his feet—a slave waiting upon his _god_ like a good little pet, helpless and utterly subdued. All the while pondering the possibility of making his brother's wife his own—holding her upon his lap, running his hands over her bared starlit flesh until there was no doubt to whom she belonged.

As Manwë watched, he would take Varda there upon his throne.

Possess her light. The closest jewel he had yet seen to the Flame Imperishable. It seemed to shine through her face, as though its cold fire were perched upon the other side of a tinted sheet of glass, her transparent form but a cloak to disguise its heat and beauty.

He desired her as much as he feared her and hated her for possessing that while he wanted most. And he _would_ have her and her light.

All in good time, she would be his.

But for now he accepted his punishment. Penitence through servitude to the community of elves writhing through the cities below. He would help them create wonders, teach them great secrets of the forge and share ancient knowledge they would scarcely comprehend. Treat them as his brothers and his children, as though they were dear to his heart. As though they were more than the cheapest and most expendable of brainless pawns.

He would design himself as their reverent older brother, their regent's flesh and blood, eager to see their society and their power flourish beneath his tutelage like newborn stars in their faraway cradling nebula of influence.

And, when the time came, he would betray them all.

And Melkor did not feel sorry. They were but an obstacle in his path. But a wall to be overcome. And what an easily scaled vertical drop they would be in comparison to his truest foe.

In comparison to _Him._

\---

It was during this punishment that he first encountered the second source of divine light.

At first he was shocked to find that this gem in the rough, this pleasant and unexpected surprise, was not an ainu. Melkor had not believed, until that moment, that there was any special wonder to be found in these flawed creations of his Father and Enemy. The Eldalië were as beautiful as any pearl or stone, as graceful as any archway carved of marble, their voices as soft and lyrical as those of the Ainur singing in the Timeless Halls.

But they were not perfect.

Flawed, they fought. They disagreed. They quarreled.

They hated. That insidious, addictive blackness ate away at their purity and innocence. Made them malleable and vulnerable.

Gave him a means with which to touch their cores and turn their thoughts to his purposes.

But _this_ creature was the greatest—and most vulnerable—of them all.

Despite his brilliance. Looking into the eyes of Fëanáro Curufinwë was as looking into the eyes of the Father himself at times. And yet in that shard of the Flame Imperishable there was lacking the innate benevolence and love and condescension that so drove Melkor to distraction. In their place smoldered the sadistic glee, the powerful heat of ambition, the reckless will to sacrifice for a goal.

The creativity. The ingenuity. The unyielding _need_ to bring forth newness—to _create_ and _mold_ and _shape_ —that always had brought the greatest of the Ainur to his knees in envy and hate and entrancement.

Fëanáro was beautiful. And he already rested within the palm of Melkor's hands.

All it took was a few patronizing words and naked glances of lust and jealousy. The hate had been born so readily within the heart of his newest foe and obsession.

The hate... and the mistrust...

But not the mistrust of Melkor. The mere thought of it brought a smile to the lips of the Dark Lord.

No, it was a more poisonous mistrust, crouched in waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The perfect moment to _kill._

The perfect moment to entrap this prince in his web of deceit. A web of which the elf would never escape.

\---

And he had never regretted that decision, impulsive though it might have been, to antagonize the Crown Prince of the Noldor rather than befriend him. To take the path that, at first, seemed counter-intuitive and wasteful in the face of the possibility of cultivating bonds of "friendship".

But part of him recognized within this creature that which was within his own breast. No bonds of trust would Fëanáro ever forge, not truly.

But bonds of hate...

No, Melkor did not regret.

Most especially not after the revelation of the Silmarilli.

As glorious as their master. Outshining all but the Trees and the stars and the fragments of the Flame Imperishable itself. They were as were Fëanáro's eyes, and yet they were of a different make. Without the ambition and the cunning and the veins of darkness. They were of the purest light, untainted and untouched, droplets of that divine fire rained down from the heavens and captured within facets of adamant.

Melkor desired them immediately and desperately. As much as he had ever desired their master.

And that was when the game truly began.

The manipulation. The whispers. The rumors.

And never did his eyes leave that which he coveted. The image of that Crown Prince with his spirit of fire standing at the center of the room, three glowing jewels upon his brow. A prideful stallion waiting to be broken beneath the heaviness of his hands and the heat of his caresses.

The fantasy unfurled all too easily. Those stones would be perched upon his own brow, and wherever he went there would be that light raining down upon the world. Finally, he would possess pieces of that which the Father had always denied him even in the beginning. In defiance, he would look up at the sky and laugh in glee.

_You cannot stop me. Not now. Not ever._

Nothing short of utter destruction could halt his forward momentum.

He would be the ruler of _this_ realm, equal to Ilúvatar in all ways. A king. A _god._ And these pathetic creatures—the Valar and the Maiar and the Eldalië and the Men and all other creatures living upon these lands—they would prostrate themselves at his feet and lick his toes, begging for his favors and suffering at the whims of his wrath for their defiance.

And in their midst he could see _them_ , those two that held his desire so easily and unwillingly.

Varda upon his right, her naked body open and her white-hot eyes glazed in lust as she panted and glowed, the nexus of the stars. Fëanáro upon his left, draped over his throne, so eager for his affections, all a contradiction of darkness and light.

He would have them both. He would have them _all._

And he would be the King of Eä.

All he need do was carry out his plan. With the bait of the Silmarilli upon his crown and the door to his fortress hanging wide open in invitation, he would sit back and _watch._ And _wait._

\---

There was, however, a significant difference between the theoretical formation of plans and the experimental results of their genesis.

In other words, rarely did they follow their blueprints.

There was the loss of Fëanáro, but Melkor worried little. Still that spirit sat in the Halls of the Waiting. The Halls which would eventually be _his_ to do with as he pleased. There would be nowhere within this physical realm that his spirit of fire could hide from his wrath and his desire.

It was a setback. But a minor one.

In the end, he would still succeed or be utterly destroyed trying.

But there were the perks. The little pleasant surprises. To this, Melkor would admit. They happened not often, but when they did he did not squander them, though they had not been calculated elements of his ultimate scheme.

It was, perhaps, for that reason that he did not utterly destroy the fragile mortal frame of the elf who had just dared to _spit_ upon _his face._

Instead, he held that body firmly in place with his broad hands capturing slender wrists and braced about a breakable throat. Examined from head to toe the sleek lines and angles honed through battle and training to near-perfection. Rarely had he beheld a creation so fine as this one, with a handsome face and luscious drapes of hair as molten gold spilling over alabaster stone.

And yet it was the eyes that captured his interest.

It was their _light._

Defiance and hatred. Fear and bravery. Cunning and the iron will so rarely seen amongst these weak-willed and delicate beings.

Desire unfurled as heat in his belly.

No, this elf was not Fëanáro's overpowering flame, so brilliant it shone as a star all its own. No, this elf was not Varda, whose raiment barely concealed her core of fire burning white-hot.

But this sort of brilliance was no less enticing.

Perhaps that was why he released the slave rather than crushing him utterly, sent him away with the Lieutenant to be interrogated. But not tortured. Not raped. Not ruined.

Not broken.

For that privilege belonged only to Melkor. If that core were to be melted down and forged again into a new image, it would be by _his_ hands that the sculpture would be crafted. Into _his_ creation of lust and wildness and perfection, worshipful eyes and sinful lips and breathy words.

By his feet as a pet this newest chip of the Flame Imperishable would sit. Collared like a dog.

And just as obedient.

\---

And even from the depths of the Void, Melkor sat in the endless blackness and laughed himself sick.

For they—his brethren and their simpering followers—were fools to believe him gone and defeated. They were fools to fancy themselves safeguarded from his wrath, protected from his return and guarded from his influence.

Free of his regard.

For still he watched them. His queen and his lover and his slave. Desired them with every ounce of his being, knew that when they all knelt at his side in supplication he would be complete. Would have collected as much of that _light_ as he could embrace and would wield it to his heart's content until all about him the earth and the sky and the sea bent to his will.

Would hold his power over all the world and have them weep as he punished them for their sins. Would have them scream and writhe as he invaded their minds and rewired their reality.

Would have them call him "Master" as they fell, one-by-one, to his cause.

And then, when he shone with the Flame Imperishable and all living souls within the realm of Eä called him _Lord of All Things_ , he would be his Father's equal.

Nay. He would be greater even than Ilúvatar Almighty.

And only then would he be content. Only then would all his desires be fulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> ainu = holy one  
> Eldalië = The Elves  
> Silmarilli = Silmarils  
> maiar = lesser ainur  
> Eä = literally "Be", refers to the corporeal world


	259. Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Spirit of Fire burned him down to the ground, but Amras has risen from his ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Run (Chapter 17), Bewitching (Chapter 25), Languid (Chapter 27), Settle (Chapter 62) and Indirect (Chapter 57).
> 
> Another rare-pair. Sappy. Also, slash (obviously). Physical scarring and mental trauma. Follows the alternate Silmarillion canon in regards to Losgar.

Recovery was a long road.

More than most, Daeron knew this to be true. His disastrous dance with unrequited love had left more than a few scars in its wake. And even thousands of years later he was not _recovered._ Not _healed._

The thought of _her_ still made him ache to his bones in miserable longing and bitter resentment. That she would choose a mortal man she barely knew over his friendship and adoration. That she would place her trust in a man who had done nothing but create trouble and hardship for her, who in the end _killed_ her, over hundreds of years of close confidence in her best friend _rankled_ him.

That, in the end, she had not trusted his motivations... That, in their last confrontation, she had called him a selfish traitor... That, when he had tried to assure her that—though he might be selfish—his intentions were _for her own safety_ , she had thrown his devotion back in his face...

There were many other ways to shatter a man. But Daeron wondered if torture was crueler or kinder than the fate that _she_ had gifted upon him with her last hissing words and her horrible, soul-shattering glares.

With her accusations.

Was it any wonder that he had left? In the face of her supposed _miraculous_ tale of love and hardship overcome, he could not bear to watch. To see her happy with _that man._ To watch her start a family _with someone else._

Even knowing was enough to leave him scarred. The knowledge that she never was his and never would be. That she never would _love him_ the way he loved her.

That had been a very long time ago, and the echoes of that pain still left him wincing.

But he had a new life. Different and strange.

A new life. A new lover. A new _family._

And the jagged pieces of that which he held dearest now had begun as broken as he had been. That life had been but rubble, burned down to the ground, ashes gray and lifeless where there should have been greenery and liveliness and hope.

Compared to Amras, Daeron considered himself rather lucky.

No tales of unrequited love and romance lingered in his mate's past. And the scorches and burns of the damning tale of Daeron and Lúthien might as well have been rashes in comparison to the devastation that constantly haunted those verdant eyes. He could recall well the first time he had seen them, their grief and pain and shocked betrayal swirling under a sea of animalistic instinct. So incredibly beautiful and so maddeningly tempting, but still frightening and disheartening.

Bit by bit by bit, he drew as poison from a wound the truth behind the tragedy.

Betrayal was putting it lightly. The abandonment of kin left to die of the cold and of starvation still left Amras in shambles of rage and horror. The apathy and sadistic pleasure of his father's blazing eyes denying his arguments, refuting his calls to turn around, to reinstate honor and kinship.

The decision to take it into his own hands. And then the fire.

But what really destroyed the beautiful, innocent spirit that once Amras had been was not the terrifying experience of death by flame and water. It was not the knowledge that he had failed to help his kin, to save them from suffering and harm. It was not even the memories of blood-painted hands staining crimson the clear waters, the shedding of innocent lives in a sinful tirade that could never be taken back.

It had been looking up at the shore and seeing the glow of those eyes. And _knowing_ that it was _his father_ who had set alight his world and watched it burn.

Without a drop of remorse. Without a hint of regret.

Without so much as a particle of sorrow.

The Spirit of Fire had turned Amras' world into nothing but a pile of ashes. Mind in tattered scraps of cloth and torn flesh. Trust broken and strewn like rotting entrails across the ground. Innocence raped and stained into the purest of blacks, ragged and worn and soaked with the ink runes of damnation.

That was the man Daeron had first encountered. A creature of pure instinct and flight, desperate to escape any and all memory of the past. On the run from the truth of the world. Blind to all but surviving the next day—hour—minute—moment if only to survive in the wake of utter destruction. Of having every layer peeled back to the naked core. Of being ripped apart and bruised black and blue by cruel fists. Of being left behind in the wreckage of all the ideals and hopes and dreams to die slowly.

Looking at Amras now, one would never have guessed.

Those eyes were alight with that same unholy, entrancing fire. That smile could melt the minstrel's bones down into jelly with ease. And that handsome visage could effortlessly leave him struggling for air.

But Amras spoke. Intelligible. Gentle. Sweet.

It was rebirth. Whereas Daeron had slowly healed, patched up each and every wound until they were but ugly scars left in the wake, he knew this was Amras rising from the ashes. Becoming something new—something even more amazing and breathtaking—in the wake of ruin.

_"It was never your fault. You did all you could do."_

_"It clearly was not enough."_

The guilt was fading with each passing day.

_"I loved him. I_ trusted _him. And I believed in the benevolence of his heart and the steadfastness of his promises."_

_"I know... I know..."_

_"I swore his Oath..."_

_"I know..."_

And though the memories did not fade away, acceptance eventually set in upon those dreadful, gaunt and pale features, filling out stretched cheekbones and adding a healthy flush to the gray glow of blanched skin. Eventually, lips that he had only ever beheld folded into a sneering scowl or screams of pain or pursed into apathy were curving upwards at the corners...

_"You should smile more often."_

_"Do you think so?" Roguish and teasing. Flirting._

_"Scoundrel."_

And the fire that nearly had been extinguished was suddenly lit anew.

Of course, Amras would never forget. The remembrance would not go away. Much as Daeron could never forget the look of hatred and disdain upon the beloved features of the woman he would have once died for, Amras would never be able to throw away the image of his father's unforgiving features sentencing him to a lonely death. Turning him into little more than a sacrifice toward a greater goal, the removal of an infection that would have jeopardized plans long set in motion.

But that did not mean they could not be happy. That did not mean Amras could not become stronger. And for all his broken innocence and ruined trust, he had morphed into something a thousand times as wonderful.

Perfect imperfection. Glorious and vibrant wings of scarlet and gold spread across the sky. A phoenix in flight.

No more running away. No more denial. No more crushing defeat and failure.

Only freedom.

And when Daeron wrapped his arms around that tall frame and pressed his cheek to the warmth of a powerful shoulder, he could feel the strength of that spirit wrap around him. Heat the chill long taken up residence in his heart. Tease and coax forth new blooms of tenderness and trust and love.

From beneath the ashes, reborn.


	260. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would you do if you had to learn to live again... twice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to everything with Ilession and all the Sauron/Celebrimbor stuff. I'm not listing them all.
> 
> Faint references to torture and dub-con relationships. Mostly angst and pity-parties. But you have to start somewhere.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Sauron = Annatar

If he had not felt so apathetic, Telperinquar might have bothered to be insulted.

Truly, though, he knew they did not understand. When they looked upon the ruins in the distance—upon the smoke rising and spewing forth into the lightening sky—they did not grieve. They did not shudder and wince. They did not feel the urge to curl up and hide their eyes, pretending everything was all a nightmare.

They felt none of those awful shocks of pain.

All around him, these humans and elves were drinking in revelry. Comrades in arms threw hands about each other shoulders and hung off one another's necks, laughing loudly at poor jokes and lewd comments. And the women sauntered between the half-drunken men, in too good a mood to do more than lightly scold at an insensitive, crude comment or swat gently at a wandering, encroaching hand.

Everyone was smiling, all of them mingling together into a mass of humanity, joyous and rising from the ashes of their despair and terror. Because they were _alive._

_Alive..._

"Why do you hide here in the corner, cousin?"

The familiar voice, low and raspy, ripped apart from years of shouted across the din of battle and screaming at the feet of his master, was to his immediate right. Telperinquar's eyes drifted slowly from the swarm of people, reluctantly settling upon a face he was used to seeing only through the visor of a black helmet and meeting eyes he could remember only darkened with battle-rage and distant detachment.

And yet this creature was the reason he still lived. _Lived._ And the son of Curufinwë did not think he could bring himself to be _grateful._

"You know why."

Ilession scoffed, but Telperinquar could read this man well enough to see the worry lingering just underneath that facade. No matter the horrible things the once-servant of Sauron and the former-spy of Gil-Galad had done in the service of his pair of masters, there was always that compassionate blood surging through veins as red and hot as any of their brethren. Above all the others of their family, this man had taken after Lady Nerdanel's gentleness and Makalaurë's infamous softhearted kindness.

And yet still he managed to be so very cruel. So very heartless.

With a long-drawn sigh, the dark-haired firstborn of Makalaurë sat beside him in the silent, shadowed little corner of the lively tavern. Telperinquar ignored his cousin's presence, instead going back to staring at the celebration before his eyes. The celebration that marked his second death.

"You cannot linger upon him forever."

As if he had a choice!

"What do _you_ know about it?" he hissed beneath his breath. "There is a wide divide between _master_ and _lover._ How could you understand!"

Those eyes were so blue. Such a rare color for a son of the Spirit of Fire, dampening the otherwise harsh brilliance beneath. "I did not claim to understand your pain." _Though I would claim to have more than my fair share of my own to compare._ "But you and I both know you cannot carry on like this forever."

_We both know you will fade._

And Telperinquar was not dead-set against that fate. Slow and withering, but fast in comparison to millennia of remembering, slowly dissolving bit by bit a little more each day. Until there was nothing left at all except the pain and all the world disappeared.

At least if he faded he would be in the Halls. Locked away in madness, but allowed to forget should he choose. Allowed to hide away.

Allowed to pretend he had never ventured from the tapestry-papered hallways to begin with. That everything—from the moment he stepped beyond Mandos' gates to the moment he laid down and his mortal body ceased to draw breath a second time—was just a dream. A horrible nightmare. But one he had awakened from.

Here, he could not pretend to awaken. Could not pretend it was a dream.

"I will do as I please."

"And what about the rest of us?" A hand gripped tightly his forearm, the hold near-strangling about his wrist. "What about me? What about your mother and father? What about your nephew? Do none of _us_ matter to you?"

_Do you care for us less than_ him? _Than a man who never even existed?_

"Feel free to join the celebration!" Telperinquar snarled, though his voice lacked bite and harshness, instead coming out all too tired and disillusioned. "Feel free to make revelry of the destruction of my world! But ask me not to _join!"_

It was then that he would have walked away, gone back to his room in the healing houses and languished in silent agony. But the hand refused to release where it was shackled in place.

Refused to just _let him die._

"You are not dead, cousin."

_I might as well be._

Their eyes met again, and Telperinquar had not even the energy to bar his pain from the other's gaze. If anyone could be trusted with his vulnerability—with the knowledge that he had been caught between loving that monster and crawling away in fear, locked into a stalemate battle within his own mind—it would be this man. This man who knew all too well the war between right and wrong tearing apart one's thoughts.

"Please, just allow me to leave. Watching only makes me feel ill."

"No." Instead of loosening, the warrior's grip squeezed. Once upon a time, Telperinquar would have scoffed out that he could withstand far more than such an infantile grip—he was a smith, after all, and his arms were powerful for all the work they did in the making of priceless treasures—but those days were long past. Now he was humiliated to whisper in admittance—if only within the boundaries of his private thoughts—that he could not have escaped even had he desired to fight.

Weak. Broken. Frail.

Shattered.

"This is a celebration of being _alive."_ Ilession's voice strained, low and bubbling over in concern. Trembling with emotion. "These people, they _lived._ They can go to work again without fear of losing brothers and husbands and sons. They can go about their daily lives without imminent attack looming over their heads. And they can raise their children in a time of _peace_ that they never knew.

"Think you not that they deserve their celebration?"

"They and I are not alike."

_I have no mate with whom to create a family. No children to watch over. No wife or daughters or sons to care for._

Annatar had been his future. And Annatar was gone.

"You _are,"_ his cousin insisted. "Let _his_ memory not haunt you, hanging over your lead like a gilded prison of dripping curls and molten eyes. Let _his_ visage fade into the back of your memories where it belongs, perhaps a pleasant recollection, but naught more than that."

So easily it was said. But so hard it was to do. Telperinquar knew. He had been trying for as long as he had known of the betrayal. Trying and failing.

"I cannot."

"You _can,"_ the other insisted. "You have the Spirit of Fire in your veins. You can overcome an illusion, see straight through its foggy recesses. That much I believe. You are _alive_ , Telperinquar."

_Alive... Was he alive?_

"Think on it." Finally, he was released, and yet Telperinquar's feet were hesitant to carry him away from this confrontation. Away from Ilession's pain-filled, miserable gaze, so filled with resigned sorrow and worry. Away from that face marked with scars and tinted with shadow.

Away from those _words_ and their _poison._

"This celebration is for us all. For myself—" _Finally I am free of my master._ "—and for _you_ , though it does not seem that way now."

_For you are free of this soul-sucking mockery of love._

No more could he take. The once-smith—the once-lover of the Dark Lord Sauron—fled back out into the night and dared not glance back. Dared not cease his brisk lope until he was safely tucked away within the four white-washed walls of his empty, prison-like cell of a bedchamber in the barren healing houses.

Dared not think too hard upon those words.

_"This celebration is for us all. For myself... and for you."_

Upon the terrifying, tantalizing thought of keeping open his eyes and keeping strong his breath. Of burning forever and ever alone and pining for that which was beyond his reach.

Upon the thought that never would there be a new beginning. That those sweet and wondrous words were all naught but a lie.


	261. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Awakening of the first elves in Cuiviénen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically the Adam and Eve of the Eldar, Imin and Iminyë, though at this point they don't have names. Did you know it's really hard to describe things that aren't supposed to have names yet?
> 
> Blatant and dorky reference to Namárië. Also, blatantly implied sex. Because let's be honest, it was probably one of the first things that happened.

The first time he opened his eyes, all he saw was darkness.

Saw darkness. Was embraced by chill. Felt the touch of softness against his skin. But against his back the earth was hard and uneven.

And then there was sound.

Above, his eyes drifted. To the dark limbs stretched overhead, overreaching arms groaning as they moved, a thousand leaves whispering in their tiny, crackling voices. Wide-eyed, he stared, watching the rustle move from one tree to the next, the tiny green wings dancing and speaking, calling and singing.

_Follow... follow..._

All around him, the world was a wonder. The grass was so soft that it tickled the bottom of his feet wherever they wandered, a million tiny fingers caressing. Sensations that left him reeling, curiously reaching down to scrape his fingers against the lush carpet only to find that the tips sank past the layer of green and into the dirt below, damp and musky.

_This way... this way..._

The rustling, the beckoning, returned and drew his eyes away from the strangeness of the ground upon which he traversed. Back to the towering giants overshadowing his smaller frame. Carefully, he ran his fingers across their skin, reveling in the rough unevenness with which his touch was met.

Relishing in the shiver of the immobile creature, the purr of its voice against his ears.

_Follow..._

They led him toward _somewhere._ He could not have said where they might take him, nor where he was, nor _what_ he was or _what_ they were. Only that everything around him existed so frightfully tangibly. Every thought and feeling something new and foreign.

Even the one in the back of his throat. Tight and strangely achy. Uncomfortable.

But he pushed it away, allowed the strange creatures to lead him on. Until, ahead, his eyes perceived something new. Something _bright._

Until the underbrush parted and the trees opened their arches into the dome of the sky.

He forgot all about the strange carpet below and the whispering voices above. All about the feeling of roughness and softness. All about the strange discomfort in his mouth and throat that had itched so vividly but a moment before.

Because there was _light._

Splattered across the sky, dappling the darkness into an image that caught his breath and held it prisoner within his chest, expanded to aching and yet he could not bear to breathe it out and break the moment with a sigh. Could not bear to ruin the silent stillness as he beheld first the pinpricks overhead, watchful and spinning, weaving intricately into one another's paths and glistening.

The grass did not sparkle and the trees did not glimmer. But the night sky was speckled with light.

And his gaze fell then to the reflection upon the earth. As a mirror, it stretched on to the edges of his sight, unmoving and unbroken. Cautiously, entranced beyond thought, he moved toward the smooth ground and let his foot hover over its flat surface.

He made to step upon it and fell _through_ it.

Noise and the thousand broken star-jewels that scattered into the air, sprinkling his body and falling back to the flat surface. Only no longer was it flat, but rippling outward from where he now stood, each wave cresting upon a flash of brightness nearly blinding his eyes.

 _Nén._ He knew not where the thought came from, instinctive though it was. _Drink._

His hands cupped the liquid and lifted, watching it slip between his fingers, still silver-dappled. And then he raised it to his lips.

Coldness. Purity. Like drinking the heavens.

Until he drank his fill and the uncomfortable itch ceased. He then stood upon the bank, stepping out of the strange not-ground and back to the solidness his feet recognized as stability. Instead, he gazed back up at the sky, helpless to think of anything else.

Nothing he had yet seen had been so _beautiful._

His fingers could not reach them, he soon discovered. They hovered not midair, but so far away that even upon the tips of his toes he could not feel them or brush them. Only behold them as they stared down upon the water and spangled their way across reality.

_Eldi._

They were the most beautiful thing he could imagine.

Until he saw _her._

All pale skin, white and glowing. Golden and silvered hair, molten rays of those tiny lights spun into silk. Wide eyes, reflecting a million droplets of light.

The newly-woken elf did not understand the need to approach her. He did not understand the heat that bloomed in his belly. He did not perceive anything but primal instinct as he wrapped himself around her, as she reciprocated in fascination. For he was enamored with her brilliance, with the softness of her flesh as he ran his hands across her body. With the sleekness of her curves and the trilling song of her gasps.

With the warmth of her inner fire.

_She was a star._

It was all he knew to compare her to. All he could think of that could compare with her strangeness and glory and temptation.

_Like touching one of those distant lights... Were they all so beautiful...?_

Her warmth touched back, fingers sliding and hair tickling. And he was utterly lost, swallowed up into the starshine of her eyes and heat of her kisses. Until they came together, perceiving only that they were made as two pieces that fit, that burned to the brightness with which they were so captivated.

With the sky overhead and their tangled forms curled below, at the edge of the waters, the first elves were awakened. People of the Stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> nén = water  
> eldi = stars (archaic)
> 
> Forgive the linguist in me that insisted upon putting foreign words in text. At least I didn't translate the longer phrases.


	262. Morgue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to an entirely new variety of creepy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation (of the much less hilarious variety) of Machine (Chapter 225). Thus, it features the OFC Sarah (who I am _not_ pairing up with Aegnor, I swear!).
> 
> Mental instability ahead. Severe OCD and suicidal thoughts. Something that borders on necrophilia but isn't quite there. I meant it when I said it was kind of creepy and gross.

Why he was allowing this foolishness, Aegnor could not have said.

It wasn't love or friendship. It wasn't even _affection._

Maybe it was loneliness or boredom that urged him to once more entangle himself into the realm of mortality after thousands of years of floating in its midst like a ghost. Millennia spent glancing at each face knowing he would never see it a second time, because it belonged to a mortal man or woman, humans who would pass beyond the edges of the world in but a handful of years. Beyond his sight and beyond his reach.

Truly, he envied them. Dying once had given him no rest. No cadence to the harmony of suffering.

He learned not to involve himself with mortals. Not to get attached. Not to reach out and touch their lives. _Never_ to allow himself to _love_ them, for they were fleeting blooms, dying upon the first frost of winter never to be resurrected. _Dead._

And yet there was that woman. That annoying, infuriating, stubborn to pigheadedness woman who would _not leave him alone._

_"Would it kill you to have friends?"_

She had no idea.

"So, _this_ is where you work."

Both disgusted and confused did she sound as she took in the sight laid bare before her gaze. Admittedly, the corner building was small and nondescript, rather dreary and disconsolate with its gray walls and lack of windows. But then, few had reason to be cheery in a building full of corpses.

It _was_ a morgue, after all.

"You said you wanted to know," he grumbled.

"I was expecting... Well, I wasn't expecting _this."_ Her hands flailed toward the door and the neat, bland sign above. "I thought, you know, that you would be an athletic trainer or lifeguard or something! But you actually... you actually work in a building that keeps tabs on dead bodies?"

Of course she would find it unsettling. Even more so if she knew that he _enjoyed it._

"Are you going to come inside or not?"

Most humans were uncomfortable at the thought of spending time around rotting corpses in a dim room smelling heavily of formaldehyde and bodily fluids. Sarah was no different. Inside, she crept upon tiptoe as if any sound might wake the dead hiding—at least to her vivid imagination—behind every door and corner they passed as they traversed the short hallways, heading back toward the offices.

Bypassing the room where the dead were kept, each locked away in their own cabinet awaiting a trip to the examination table or their final journey to their resting places for all eternity. The itch to go inside was overwhelming, nearly causing Aegnor's sure steps to falter.

But he resisted. Led his companion instead to his small cube-like office packed tightly in the back of the building. Bare and militarized with only the necessities—pens, a stapler, a computer and a locked desk drawer. Not a paper loose. Not an object out of place. It sat before him so beautifully, the image of an office that belonged to no one. The image of an office that had never even been occupied.

"Do you always keep everything so... clean?" The word came out lilted, as if she had meant to say something stronger and ruder. Aegnor would not have minded.

If she had seen the inside of his apartment, she probably would have accused him of being a machine.

"Some people do not enjoy wallowing in their own messes," he commented instead of telling her exactly why he meticulously rearranged "his" belongings in such a strange manner. "It is perfectly normal for humans to develop personal routines."

"This isn't routine. This is _creepy."_ Her fingers ran over the tiny window's sill and across the tops of the file cabinets as if searching for dust. But she would find none; he had dusted just yesterday evening. "Normal people don't sterilize their offices. Isn't this a bit excessive?"

When one was as obsessed with death as he, nothing was beyond the scope of soothing the burning ache. Working in a morgue to be close to still bodies. Cleaning every surface to the point of spotlessness to remove prints and oils. Carefully arranging each room so that no sign of an occupant remained behind when he walked away and turned out the lights.

Staring off into space and ignoring the world, eating and drinking only as a function of necessity. Avoiding all human interaction—after all, who talked to dead men?—and locking himself away in this fortress of cadavers and chemicals.

Caressing almost lovingly the gray, slack faces. Running his fingers over chests that no longer rose and fell. Checking for a pulse that would never pound again.

Envy and fascination. Longing and bitterness. Agonizing wistfulness.

Definitely obsession.

After all, who but an obsessed man lived his life in a morgue full of dead memories and dead dreams, wishing he could curl up like these lucky corpses and rot away? Wishing he could pass to where they passed...

To where _she—_

But no mortal could understand this. "Well, is your curiosity satisfied?" he asked quietly.

"I guess..." Her hands fell to her sides and her eyes narrowed. They searched over all the surfaces, across the hardwood desk and the file cabinets arranged side-by-side in a row. Staring briefly at the chair straightened at a perfect ninety-degree angle to face the blank computer screen where it sat perfectly at the center of the desktop. He measured it every day just to be certain of its accuracy and precision.

And then her eyes roved back to him. "But why here? Isn't there anything else you want to do?"

_No._

"I like my job."

"Hanging out with dead guys."

"If you wish to put it so tastelessly, then yes. I enjoy the company of the dead."

_It is the closest I will ever get to becoming one of them. After all, a bullet or a knife or a cup of poison would only send me to the Halls of the Waiting. To rebirth. To suffering and loneliness and gray. Such is the blessing and curse of being of the Firstborn. Of Eä wholly and completely._

_He just wanted to see her again. To reach out and touch her face._

_To feel her hair run through his fingers and watch her dark brows crinkle with warmth and laughter. To trace against her white skin with his fingertips and brush her eyes closed with the pads of each digit, soothing away her worries._

_To hold her again against him... forever..._

"Are you... I mean... Are you okay?"

Aegnor had not even noticed how he stared blankly at the far wall. How long had he been staring, thinking about _her?_

_Again and again and again..._

"Fine," he snapped, crossing his arms. Not bothering to explain. "Let us depart."

For no mortal, even this strangely accepting and naturally curious creature pestering him incessantly, could understand how he felt. The Secondborn feared death, ran from it in terror and fought against its iron grip to their very last drop of blood and very last gulp of air, clawing and thrashing and screaming for freedom. For what they perceived as a gift more tempting, more succulent.

They did not understand the greatness of the gift that they had been given. The gift he so very much coveted and desired.

But would never possess. No matter how much he might pretend.

Aegnor did not desire to be _alive._

And yet the very source of all his suffering—attachment to a person dying slowly each day and hour and minute, who might be killed in an accident this very day or die abed in eighty years—stood beside him. Affirming that he breathed sweet air every moment. Reminding that he could still reach out and touch the living. Cruelly reiterating that he was _not dead._

Why he allowed himself to even speak with her, he could scarcely understand.

Maybe it was purely mutual curiosity that allowed him to tolerate her presence. Or maybe it was the need to drive her away through strangeness or fear of his senility. To garner the final affirmation from the one person who had noticed his existence amongst the tangle of individual lives flooding the streets of the city.

After all, who could possibly love a dead man walking?

Scoffing, he led her away.

This foolishness would not last long. In the end, she would be just the same as the rest.


	263. Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their love was without foundation, a fire eating away at a wooden building until naught but scorched earth remained. And, without fuel, that fire had finally gone out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Vital (Chapter 41), Puzzle (Chapter 59), On My Mind (Chapter 32), Muse (Chapter 168), Tactile (Chapter 153) and Burn (Chapter 235). So, Fëanor/Nerdanel stuff. Their relationship is rather shaky.
> 
> Well, to be honest, this piece is just sad. Angsty and sad. Poor Nerdanel.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

She thought he did not notice the changes. But little escaped the sight of Fëanáro.

Closely, he watched her, his wife. Followed her with his eyes as she rose wild-haired and dark-eyed each morning, her feet near to dragging across the floor as she traversed the cushioned rug to reach her vanity. Watched the way her eyes flickered toward the mirror whilst she brushed her dulled hair and away at the flicker of his eyes drawing near, as though the reflection were obscene or frightening. Observed her downcast gaze as they sat alone at the breakfast table an hour later, positioned at opposite ends of a structure made for a family of nine.

No longer would he even bother to say anything. Any words that escaped his lips would inevitably be shoved away with a dainty affirmative or denial without elaboration or consideration. Met with coldness.

She would then escape his presence—as though breathing the same air as he was actually painfully burning her inner throat and expanding lungs—and hide away in her studio, spending day after day sculpting as though her very life depended upon the movement of her hands and the distraction of her mind. Sometimes he would hide just beyond the doorway, peering in from around the frame or through the crack of the half-closed door, watching her in her masterful glory and crumbling descent. Waiting for _something._ Some sign of the woman he recalled in his memories, hot-tempered and vivacious.

But all she ever did was stare into space, her body running on automatic.

None of the fire within her that had once so left him enamored—that so incited his passions in those young days of bliss—seemed to be left. Nothing at all. Except space.

Lying between them as a chasm. Too wide to cross and too deep to climb.

And he could not deny that it was, in part, his own fault. Fëanáro could not blame Nerdanel for her withdrawal or her anxiety. He could not fault her for wilting beneath his crushing personality, writhing helplessly beneath the heat of his spirit.

Could not deny that he was not the ideal spouse. Not the man he should have been.

Now they barely interacted other than to lie side by side in the dark and breathe.

Without the vivid wildfire of sexual attraction to burn away the problems that had always lingered underneath the heated kisses and fiery touches, they seemed only to pull farther and farther apart, their bond stretching until its thread was at breaking tension. All those whispered entreaties and softly sighed words of caution and advice that always Fëanáro had brushed aside with naught but the throaty gasp of her name and the touch of his hand upon her bare skin, they all came back as phantoms in the night, their weight pulling the broken couple in opposite directions with cruel force.

Whispering. And yet for all that they told him he was foolish, Fëanáro dared not admit folly. Dared not reach out and grasp her hand.

Perhaps it was pride. Or perhaps he was not certain who she even was.

His wife and lover. The mother of his children.

An artist. Wise beyond her years. Filled with passion. But nonetheless someone he barely knew at all. The lady of his house, the mistress keeping his life, and yet...

And yet the call of his own craftsmanship pulled and tugged and twisted. The treachery of his half-brothers ripped through any thoughts of settling peacefully in the country, darkening his mind with hate and envy. The obsessive _need_ to be near to his father—the man who had raised him; the only person who undeniably and unconditionally cared for him—and to touch the light that was all he remembered of his mother.

To _create_ and _immortalize_ those sweet memories... his sweet muse fulfilled...

Every facet of the world seemed determined to pull him away from her. And, without children to care for—to father and mother—Nerdanel would not reach out and risk his burn, not even in desperation. Perhaps she did not _wish_ to.

And there he stood for the briefest moment in time, staring at her back as she worked. The smooth motions of her hands upon clay, applying pressure to compress the malleable substance into desired shape and form, curving gracefully with ease. The fall of her hair, fire woven into the finest of silken threads and braided against the slender curve of her spine and the dip between her breast and hip upon her right. The tilt of her head as she hummed in consideration, such a familiar and foreign expression accenting her jaw and the pale expanse of her throat.

She did not even notice him.

And again he was tempted. Tempted to move forth and touch her. Kiss her and demand her attention. Take them to the bedchambers and—

But in the end nothing would have changed. In the morning her eyes would still be distant and empty, unloving and uncaring. Still so very tired and disheartened as she glanced discretely into the mirror, capturing his image into her mind and looking away, as though she could hardly bear the sight.

Even as he watched, she paused. Her fingertips rested momentarily against the creation, hands trembling ever so faintly.

Until they pressed against the shape that he could not make out, crushing it into pulp. Into a deformed ball of crushed muse and dream. The strange woman that was his wife dug her fingers into the clay, her head falling forward to rest upon her hands.

And her shoulders trembled. From the distance between them, he could hear the faint trill of her cries.

It was then that he should have reached out. Not in lust. Not in pride. But in the purest form of affection and comfort. As one friend to another, a confident and protector and a willing shoulder. A safe haven within which she could hide her deepest worries, her most tender vulnerabilities, and feel secure in his keeping.

In unconditional love.

But the space sat heavy and thick between them still. Fëanáro was her lover and husband. Her lord and the father of her children. The man with whom she reached the towering heights of pleasure and yet could not speak to or embrace tightly. Could not hold close for no reason other than to languish in the togetherness and comfort of being wrapped in his warm being. There was always that niggling fear and hesitation and resentment of the heat and the wildness.

Instead of drawing closer, of taking her into his arms and rocking her sorrows and terrors away to the low hum of his voice in a childhood lullaby, he backed away from her image. Turned upon his heel and faced the opposite direction, unwilling to stand immobile and watch her weeping alone and in private but equally unable to close the distance between them, that lingering silence that never seemed to cease its screaming and thrashing.

And then he walked away. From her. From _them._ Not daring to look back.

Giving up. For the first time.

It ended like he always knew it would end. Alone and in silence. Two pieces that had never quite fit together finally cracking and falling apart.


	264. Whitewash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scandal is averted for the time being. But every deal comes at a price. And Lalwen may not be willing to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sort of continuation of Test (Chapter 174) and related to Rhythm (Chapter 123). This arc is basically backstory that explains one tiny, mostly insignificant line of dialogue in the Silmarillion that has always driven me up the wall.
> 
> Premarital sex and children out of wedlock. Also, old-fashioned prejudices in regards to both. Family and royal politics. Scandal and resultant political cover-up.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Lalwen's father-name = Írien  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

It was a ridiculous farce. Insulting and demeaning and disgusting.

She had been prepared to face the reality of her situation head on, a brave warrior in the face of an army marching upon the horizon. Prepared for scolding. Prepared for ridicule. Prepared for ostracism and the rumors and the sideways glances. Ten steps over the point of no return, and she had been willing to go another twenty if only to reach the tantalizing freedom lying upon the other side.

Only to have that freedom snatched away.

Lalwen wondered if Eru himself despised her and her radical ways to hold upon a string before her eyes that which she desired and so cruelly then snatch it away as she reached out to grasp it, risking her feet leaving the stability of the earth in the process. Did he frown upon her wild and masculine spirit trapped in the body of a disobedient, unruly female? Every rule of society she broke. Every regulation of behavior she stretched. Every dictation of the Valar she pushed to the very limits, refusing to back down into a demure young maiden, spineless and helpless.

It was not who she was. It was not who she wished to be.

But it was who she was expected to be.

So desperate were they to keep her from her freedom—from her most visceral, intrinsic self—that she had become little more than a layer of whitewash over her scandalous dealings in the haystacks of her lover's barn. A fresh layer of pale snow to hide away the damning evidence beneath.

A lie.

_"It is so very generous of you, my lady, to take in a babe of not even a year. Why, his parents must be so grateful! To think, in the face of such tragedy, at least they can rest in the Halls without worry."_

Her son's parents. Supposedly dead in a fire caught in the hay that had spread. Only their child made it out alive, and at the sacrifice of his mother's life. Or so the story went, that she lay in the grass with the virtuous princess at her side and expelled her last breath with Lalwen's promise to care for the boy resonating within her heart. That she passed to the halls relieved and reassured.

And thus ruination turned into something "beautiful".

_"It is for the best, yenya. For you and for your child."_

_"But atto—"_

_"In this you will obey me, Írien."_

Her child, the baby who had suckled at her bosom in his first few moments of life. Who she had carried within her womb for a full rotation of the seasons. Who she had given _birth_ to without the help of a healer in her bed at the country estate.

Her _son._

And her parents had spread the whispers and the rumors before they had even told her of their plans. Had insured her reputation remain intact when she returned from Formenos with an infant pressed safely against her chest, nuzzling her for affection and crying for her attention. Had even announced her false intentions before the entirety of court without even consulting her, for she was naught but their maiden daughter. Powerless in this world of men and rulers.

And thus everyone, from the lowest sailor's daughter to the most powerful lords of court, believed that her son was born of another woman. That she had _adopted him_ , her own flesh and blood.

And she could not tell them the truth. She could not openly defy her father again.

But this had not been what she wanted. To raise a child in social exile would have been challenging and disheartening, but she could have relied upon her brothers and sisters and mother for guidance and assistance—even Fëanáro was hard-pressed to hold her vibrant and lively spirit in contempt! She would have had all the support her independent, nonconformist's spirit would have desired and required to carry on through the difficult days.

Now, she had not even the choice. Rather than raising her son in exile—as her _own son_ —she would be raising him in the midst of court as someone else's boy. He would grow into adulthood believing he was not truly a part of her family. Not related to his cousins. Not the blood-nephew of her brothers and sisters. Not the grandson of her father and mother.

Just some farmer's son she took pity upon. Just a nobody. That was all he would be to _them._ To everyone but she and those few who knew the truth.

Even her son, she would not be able to tell that gorgeous, breathtaking truth. Not until he was grown. Not until his blood had time to heat with resentment and bitterness, with the adult sharpness and wickedness enough to carpet blame upon her shoulders and turn his back upon her love in spite and pride and the ache within his chest.

She held him now, looked down upon him and wondered if she had faded into the wall. If all she ever would be was a lie. To everyone. Even her own child. If this was her fate.

To be whitewashed into purity. Captured in that snowy cage.

She held her son now within the confines of those bars and took comfort in the soft puffs of his breaths. In the feeling of his tiny body sharing her warmth, instinctively recognizing her in the moment in which nothing mattered but being near her. 

In the knowledge that he would never want for anything, never doubt her love, even if he never knew the truth. Because Lalwen refused to give in. Refused to fade completely. And if ever she was blanched with hidden scandal, she would not allow her child to come to the same fate.

She would fight back. For herself. For him.

For he was _her_ son. Her Aranwë. Her son of _kings._

That much, at least, would ever reflect the truth in this warped reality. And it would have to be enough.

To quell the fury of her spirit. And the disappointment that ate away at her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> yenya = my daughter (shortened yendë + nya = yendenya)  
> atto = daddy, papa


	265. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life after life ends, in a manner of speaking. When there's nothing left behind except the knowledge that once it was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of Scarred (Chapter 233), but also closely related to I Know (Chapter 247) and the Wrong Arc.
> 
> Basically angst, if we're being straightforward about it. Non-canon backstory explanation thing. Mentions death a lot, and unhealthy coping methods.

It was a hard reality to face.

Hard to wake up every morning and roll over, reaching thoughtlessly toward her side of the bed and finding nothing but coldness. To open his eyes, half-awake and questioning as he called her name, sitting up slightly with a frown when there was no reply. Traversing the room with his still hazy eyes, he would search for her slender form walking upon dancing feet, waiting to find her with expectation of her beloved sight bubbling in his chest.

Only to feel the cloudiness clear away, sunlight splashing down on a landscape that appeared full of life in the shadows but was proven to be naught but barren black and skeleton-riddled in a garish revelation. His fingers would reach out to touch the sheets where she would have lain, searching for her warmth.

Would feel the cold to their tips. The lack of a dip where her body would have lain.

Would _remember_ all too clearly.

And then Eöl would press his face to those sheets—the sheets that lacked her beloved scent for which he so desperately searched—and try to go back to sleep. Try to forget again, to return to that sweet daze which had enveloped him and cradled him in blissful ignorance for those few moments just after waking.

That fog that brought her back to life, if only for a few precious moments.

If only to pretend that she was still alive. Just in the other room. Perhaps starting breakfast and waking their lazy son who hated rising with the dawn. Just on the other side of that door, soon to come inside and kiss him into full wakefulness with the temptation of the salivating smell of cooked venison from the hunt that had ended the day before and fresh juice squeezed from the ripe apples that they harvested from the trees less than a mile away on the ridge.

He would feel the ghost of her hands upon his back, sliding in a tender caress across his bare shoulders and down the slope of his spine. And he would lean upward as if to receive her kiss.

And stare at the ceiling blankly. Unable to rest. Unable to rise. Unable to move. For fear of going through the door of his bedchambers and into the next room.

A room that had never been graced with the loping sound of her brisk footsteps. That had never felt the brush of her fingers across the walls and stone. That would never be baptized with her smile in the morning as he opened the door and stepped upon the hardwood.

But inevitably he would rise from bed and take in the damning quiet, knowing there was work to be done yet. Go through his morning routine, braiding back his hair and pulling on his clothing. Lacing up his boots and pulling on his leather gloves in preparation of a long day in the forge with the bellowing flames and the red-hot scald of metal.

Would step out of that bedroom into the silence of an empty house.

Eyes would travel across the walls, bare of homely decoration. Mantle unadorned but for a simple fireplace blackened and dead in the early morning light. Walls polished and naked, without the tapestries that his wife's hands had so deftly woven and the furs that his son had brought home from his first successful hunt.

Everything was bare. Looked as though no one even lived here. Walked here or sat here. The chaise and the chairs were cushioned and untouched, for Eöl very rarely sat in their comfortable embrace. The rug almost never need be cleaned, because no boots walked across it each day. An outsider might have thought it unused, the house of a dead man.

Perhaps it _was_ the house of a dead man. Or, at the very least, a family-less man.

A man with no joy to celebrate. With nothing to grasp onto but his bitter hatred and his craftsmanship or risk losing his sanity altogether.

Of course, all too quickly he would leave the private corner of the house in which he resided, and the sound of the servants bustling and going about their business would touch his ears, reminding him that not all had been lost to ash and blood on that morning he would have liked to erase. Old friends still lived and worked alongside him, still hunted and returned with fresh meat and fowl. Men he had known since his childhood.

But each was grim-faced. Rare were the smiles in the household of Eöl.

Each walked past the other like a ghost. Like a creature living in a different world, as though one could reach out and plunge their hand straight through the phantom of their neighbor. Each man utterly alone.

No families. No children. No homes.

Pleasant memories gone.

They all went about their work separated by a gulf of sorrow and rage. Each trying desperately to look anywhere but at another, if only to block away glimpses of better times. Times when happiness had been something within reach, tangible and alive and waiting for them with eager acceptance, to embrace them and lift their spirits.

Eöl hated glancing and seeing the face of a man he had once shared wine with, laughed with as they sat about a fire and camped for the night only a few leagues from their homes, intending to arrive in the early morning. Laughed and drank and mingled whilst, but a short distance away, their families and futures were slaughtered.

In a way, no matter who stood at his side—a childhood friend, a warrior he had trained with, a child who had befriended his son—Eöl was apart from them and they from him. Completely and utterly alone.

He was certain they were all the same. That their quarters were as barren and lifeless as his own, lacking the coloration of a woman's touch or a child's play. Decorated only with the weaponry they polished and preened out of necessity and the artistry deftly shaped by their hands when they needed to occupy their minds with _anything else but those visions..._

When they drank, they raged in the confines of their quarters. When they wept, they closed themselves away in hiding. And when they needed someone to speak to, more oft than not they wrote in journals. Wrote to themselves.

Wrote of the hell to which they had been plunged. Even now, hundreds of years after stumbling upon the remains of his wife and son and unborn daughter, Eöl knew this horror had not ended. Might _never_ end. Life might _never_ start over again. Might _never_ continue.

Might remain frozen. Just like this.

In silence and stillness. In the sound of his lone footsteps creaking upon the floorboards as he returned from the forge, day long melted into dark night. In the hiss of a lamp as he lit the wick and held it aloft to a house cold and untouched where no wife prepared dinner and no son trailed dirt across the threshold and no tiny daughter spread her toys about upon the rug-donned floor before the unlit fire.

In the squeak of the bedroom door and the click as it shut. In the sound of the layers of his clothing peeling away so that he might throw himself down upon the mattress and grasp at a pillow shamefully, burying his face in the down and breathing deeply.

Searching and searching for her smell. For proof of her existence.

Until he fell asleep and dreamed of embracing her against him. Until he dreamed of the softness of her hair and the curve of her brow and the sleek angle of her chin.

Until he heard her voice calling his name softly to wake up.

And the next day started just the same.


	266. Coma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One must sometimes made difficult decisions. But the hard part of difficult decisions is not deciding. Rather, it is living with the consequences of that decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Precursor to Clean (Chapter 170), Get Up (Chapter 22) and Try Again (Chapter 60).
> 
> Allusions to torture and possible non-con. Also, blatant dismemberment (obviously). Mostly angsting.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Nelyo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Fingon = Findekáno

The waiting and watching were the worst part. Being able to do _nothing._

Well, Makalaurë knew the stress of being a leader, however unwillingly. Well, he knew the horrible reality of making split-second decisions that could determine the fates of thousands of men who looked to him for survival and guidance. Well, he could remember the feeling of his heart sinking when he made the hardest decision that ever had been placed before him.

To abandon his older brother completely. To leave him for dead.

It was the correct decision. Makalaurë knew that to be so deep in his breast. To risk the lives of his men and his brothers to save Nelyafinwë would have been a foolhardy choice, especially knowing that his older brother would balk at their martyrdom. The oldest son of Fëanáro would willingly sacrifice his life to keep the rest of them safe, and he would have been infuriated to know that his second brother—softhearted Makalaurë—had even _considered_ risking the precious lives of their brothers and loyal followers to attempt to save him in a suicidal charge toward the triple peaks rising into the clouds of hot dust...

Nelyafinwë would have slapped him and called him a fool.

It was only that thought that had given him the strength to make such a decision. To steel his jaw and look into the eyes of his younger brothers and shoot down their pleas and plans to gallantly rescue their eldest brother from the clutches of their enemies.

_"We deal not with the enemy, and even if we did, he would only lie to us again. It is likely that our brother has already been tortured and killed, and we can only hope it was a short suffering."_

_"What on earth are you_ saying, _Kanafinwë? He is our_ brother! _We_ must _go forth—"_

_"We will do no such foolish thing."_

He had leaned over the table and looked deep into those betrayed eyes. Felt his chest clench and had driven away the revulsion and guilt.

_"I will not speak of this again. My choice has been made. More important matters need be seen to than a reckless plan to run to our deaths over the life of a single man."_

And he knew that his brothers had hated him.

But they knew not the guilt. The horror he felt in his breast—then and now—knowing that he did _not_ know whether or not Nelyafinwë was dead. That he did _not_ know that his beloved brother's fate was finished, that his suffering was ended. He did _not_ know whether the redheaded brother was locked in a dungeon somewhere, being tortured slowly to death or being played with like a toy for sexual or sadistic amusements.

He did not _know._

And now that he did, Makalaurë felt in his throat the tightness. The choking and gagging.

Before him, his brother lay—eyes closed and body limp—caught in the grips of a coma. Virtually dead to the world, except for each new breath he drew.

This was the result of his choice. _This_ was the hell to which he had damned his closest kin. Nelyafinwë had not been dead. He had been tortured and mutilated, hung from a cliff to scream and writhe in agony until he begged for death. Waiting and waiting and waiting for help that would never come.

And Makalaurë laid his head down upon the chest of that body and wept. Grasped at the bandaged wrist of a hand-less limb and pressed it again and again to his lips, whispering apologies.

His younger brothers still glared at him venomously. Snarled that he was just as guilty of tormenting their brother as had been the captors. It did not matter that their rescue would have been unsuccessful, that Makalaurë had made the rational and logical choice, no matter its coldness. They still held him at fault. Still resented and blamed, if only to keep away their own despair as days and days and days passed without any relief from the stillness.

And he would allow them to use him as a scapegoat. If only they would not feel what he was feeling. Would not be crushed beneath his wave of hatred directed inward. At his cowardice, no matter how illogical. At his inability to help, when all he desired was to see Nelyafinwë get better.

At being able to do naught but sit. And sit and sit.

And wait. And weep.

Uselessly.

"Please... please, come back to us." Pressing a kiss to his brother's brow, he brushed back the roughly sheered fiery curls, stroking his fingers through all that was left of the mane after they had sheared off the dirty snarls that could not be untangled and washed. "We need you still, brother. Nelyo."

They _needed_ him. Not Makalaurë, who faltered beneath the weight. Who could barely tell the difference between right and wrong.

Who could not handle the stress.

"You have lived through so much. Let not this kill you." About the dismembered limb, Makalaurë's hand squeezed.

_Remembering Findekáno's face as he brought forth the limp form. Remembering how that body moved like a ragdoll, head lolling and eyes closed. Remembering the horror that welled up his throat as bile and vomit, spilling forth without warning._

_Remembering asking the Valar_ why. _Why had they not ended his brother's suffering?_

_Was this punishment? Purgatory?_

_Remembering how his cousin had told him that his brother—his brother who never gave up, whose determination was nearly legendary—had pleaded for death. Begged for Findekáno just_ kill him _with his bow, if only to make it_ stop...

"Please, do not give up," he whispered, pressing his face into that hair, breathing in that scent. "Please, Nelyo, do not give up. Come back to me. Come back to us..."

There was no response. There never was. Not today or any other day.

Only silence.

"Please, wake up..."


	267. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more she learns about that man she accosted at the cafe, the more Sarah realizes that there's no turning back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, of course, to do with the epistolary stuff that I wrote earlier on in Write (Chapter 10) and With You (Chapter 84), and combines that earlier arc up with Machine (Chapter 243) and Morgue (Chapter 262). Honestly, I hadn't expected that stupid cafe story to go anywhere, but it developed a mind of its own. I blame my love for creepy characters.
> 
> Touches upon insanity, OCD and obsession with death. Aegnor's "human" name is Aaron, and Sarah refers to him as such. Because obviously she doesn't know that he's an elf. Yet.

Understanding Aaron was like trying to understand particle physics and quantum mechanics with only a degree in art history. Like looking at a page of thousands of numbers joining one into the next, their variables spinning through her eyes in a numerical merry-go-round from hell until she was dizzy and confused and sick to her stomach. Nothing about that man made sense!

She would sit across from him in the mornings and watch him methodically dissect his breakfast, staring at the far wall and pretending she wasn't there at all. And then, when he rose to leave at his usual time, she would badger him to come back and have lunch with her, too. Because it couldn't possibly be healthy for a man to spend all his time cooped up in a building where people cared for dead bodies before burial. He needed friends. He needed a _life._

_"You're doing a good thing for him."_

_The woman behind the counter had never spoken to her in words about him before. Yet she was now, even as they watched Aaron leave the cafe, his golden braid disappearing around the corner as he set off at his usual brisk pace down the street._

_"He just seems... sad."_

_And Sarah had not gone and befriended him originally at all out of pity or compassion. She had been curious of his enigma and not wary enough to stay away. And had stumbled upon something she could scarcely wrap her head around._

_There was just something_ wrong _with Aaron. Terribly wrong._

_"But you make him happier," the woman told her. "Just by being there and talking to him, you make him shine again. I know you can't see it, but_ we _can."_

_"I'm not in love with him. And he's_ certainly _not in love with me."_

_There was that secretive smile again. "You don't have to be. He needs not a lover. Just someone who can listen and understand."_

_But I_ don't _understand._

Thus was the core of the problem.

It was like Aaron didn't _want_ a life. Not just a social life. But a personal life or a professional life or any life at all. His only interest seemed to be in embalming the dead and staring at blank walls as though they held all the secrets of the universe within their chipping paint and crumbling plaster.

Even after months of knowing the man, that didn't seem to have changed. She couldn't see the spark that woman had told her of, that supposed light that he had before not possessed. Except for the moments when he looked at her—really _looked_ at her—and spoke _to_ her and not _through_ her, Aaron was dead to the world. A ghost that no one glanced toward twice.

And Sarah knew she was missing something. Something important. Something that would explain everything.

It wasn't that she wanted to treat him like a puzzle or a machine to be taken apart so that she might understand its inner workings, not as she had in the beginning of their acquaintance. He was a person, and he was her friend. A man drowning, and she had been the only person to reach out and grasp his hand, even though it had no longer been clawing instinctively toward the light and the oxygen just beyond the surface.

She just... wanted to understand...

\---

And when she did, she almost wished she didn't.

This wasn't the first time she'd been in his apartment. After following him home the first time and discovering the sanitary insane-asylum dropout that he called a home, she made a point to stop by with paintings and decor as often as possible. Anything to add color and flavor to the empty hell he seemed to live in so contentedly. Just to make sure that there was something _there_ to remind him that _he_ was there.

After the first two weeks, he stopped taking down the pictures and gave up on throwing out her flower arrangements. Sarah felt invigorated.

And it was perhaps his acquiescence that had given her the courage to search further and further into the depths of his home. To search every nook and cranny—because he had to have _something_ hidden here. Memoirs or old college textbooks or photographs of his family.

_He has three brothers and a sister... there has to be a picture here_ somewhere _of one of them..._

That was how she accidentally found them. The _letters._

Not a couple dozen. Not even a hundred. But _thousands._

They were written into bound books, hundreds and hundreds of them. Sarah's fingers touched the leather and the gathered dust— _it was so unlike Aaron to let them get dusty_ —as they slid along shelves and shelves and shelves of spines. Of course, at first she hadn't known what they were. Journals? Family treasures? Surely no one, not even _him_ , could write so many words in a single lifetime.

Reaching the end of a shelf upon which there sat only two bound volumes, she plucked the last one out of its place and flipped the black leather open. And found the paper crisp and white, lined with a company's logo upon the inside cover. Her fingers traced over it, knowing this was mass-produced and sold down the block at the bookstore. No way was this an artifact.

_It is his journal._

And it was written in a language she hadn't a hope of understanding. All she knew was that those loops and curves and slender points were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Tracing her fingers across them, she was stricken with their care and perfection, a scrawl naturally fitting into the hand, so flowing and bizarre and lavish, though the letters made no sense to her eyes.

Following and following, until her finger found the bottom of the page.

The name.

She could not read the script, but she knew that it must be his. And, sure enough, at the beginning of the page before lay another name. Curling and glorious, written with such intimate care and precision.

Carefully, she flipped through that journal. And the next. And the next.

All of them, addressed to the same name. Sometimes they went on for pages and pages and pages, as though he spilled every ounce of all his life into these lines and left them here in the dark. Left them here in the care and protection of that name.

If she had to guess...

"I did not think you would find these so soon."

_Shit!_

Carefully, she shut the journal that had been opened upon her hands and set it back in its place. There was no point in trying to hide her snooping now that she'd been caught. "I can't read any of them anyway."

Turning, she faced him. Aaron was beside the door, beside the beginning of the shelves. Sarah half expected to see his face snarling and his eyes narrowed in that burst of anger she remembered so well from the first day that they had met. After all, she was invading a sacred part of his home and self, something he clearly had not intended to share with her yet. But instead of wrathful fury, he seemed captivated with the journals, too distracted to bother glaring arrows through her chest at point-blank range. He instead traced his elegant fingers across their spines, following the line of disrupted dust that Sarah had drawn upon their covers only minutes before.

At least he wasn't upset. In fact, he seemed lost. More lost than usual as his fingers pulled free one of the bound books and flipped it open to a particular page. No doubt he knew each and every one like the back of his own hand.

Staring, he traced his fingers over the words. And Sarah had a sinking suspicion that she knew exactly which one of those words with gravitational force drew the touch of his rough fingers to its silken softness and gentle curves. The idea planted itself in her head and refused to go away...

_A woman._

And she didn't doubt that that woman was dead. The sinking drew heavier, like lead settling itself in her belly and chest, weighing her down. "Who was she?"

"Just a girl I was in love with." _An understatement if ever there was one._ "She's gone now."

_Is that why you never want to see the people right in front of you? Do you really want to be somewhere else? Do you really want to be with_ her, _up there?_

"You'll see her again."

Blue eyes looked up at her, wide and glistening. But his smile was wry and bitter, a twist of the lips that was anything but joyful. "But I won't."

He carefully replaced the journal, hands so carefully handling the bound book, as though it were a delicate flower whose petals he might crush and bruise should he press even slightly too hard. But even when it was set back in place, his fingers brushed up and down the spine lovingly, as though it called like a siren to be picked up and read again. Calling and calling...

And it was just so sad. To see a man so clearly alive obsessed with someone dead.

"I won't..."

This was it. The clue. The piece she had wanted so badly to find. And she understood and wished so terribly and dearly that she didn't.

But she did.

Reaching out, she embraced him, pressing her face against the warm hardness of his shoulders and back, her cheek against the bumps of his spine and her hands folding across his belly. Squeezing, reminding him that he was not intangible, not a ghost or a holographic image to be walked through and ignored. Silently telling him that she was _there._ "You will," she whispered.

He did not argue, but she knew that he did not believe in her reassurances.

And she knew, more clearly than she had known anything before, that all his equations and numbers twisting and turning across the page had a solution she did not want to see. That, for some reason, he thought he would be going the other way, damned or forsaken, barred forever from that which he most desired and most needed so desperately to survive.

That the closest he would ever come to being with her was _pretending._

And it was so very sweet. And so very sad.

Even his life, he gave to that girl with the name Sarah could not read. Put every droplet of his existence into those pages—those letters—and locked them away. Drained himself completely into the keeping of the dead girl. Because he was afraid of the future or resigned to his fate.

But he was a good man. And surely no righteous god—be it his or hers or anyone else's—would torment him if it was in their power to save him, ease such tactile, burning suffering written in the tremble of his shoulders and the bowing of his regal head to the coolness of the shelves and the spines. He was a good man, and he needed to live. Deserved to be happy.

It was just a matter of bringing back that spark.

And it would be hard. But Sarah did not give up on a project once she had started. There would be no abandoning this quest now. If anything, her determination needed to be ten times as fierce and twenty times as impenetrable a wall of steel. So strong that ten thousand legions of doubts could do naught even to scratch its surface.

_"He just needs someone who can listen... and understand..."_

She only needed to step forward and take that leap. To close her eyes, breathe in his scent, and make that promise...


	268. Orchid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The language of flowers is delicate, especially when one barely knows the giver well enough to interpret the message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off one paragraph of Puzzle (Chapter 59). Dedicated to my orchid, Senna. Because.
> 
> Basically flirting and almost teenage-like romance. Also, some sexual aspects, because I refuse to believe that Fëanor isn't hot as fuck.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Truly, she knew she shouldn't take anything he said or did seriously. She _shouldn't_. He was handsome with his dark coloring and his gleaming eyes, truly a creature stepped straight from the most wondrous of paintings or masterful of sculptures. But underneath that outer shell of charm and good looks was nothing more than an arrogant, egocentric and domineering misogynist. A man who needed his stubborn, pig-headed butt walloped a few times to introduce some much needed humility into his body chemistry.

Just thinking about him oft made her blood fizzle and crackle with the need to throw something across the room and hear it shatter against the wall. Like she imagined it might shatter against his thick, impenetrable skull. But maybe, she oft thought sadistically, it would knock some sense of respect and decency into that genius brain of his.

Unlikely, of course. The prince had ever been a spoiled child and was grown into a demanding man. A man who got everything and anything he wanted with ease, from tools to gems to pretty women.

And she _refused_ to be just another object in his collection. Another pretty trinket to explore and uncover, but to be thrown aside once its unique beauty had become commonplace and its glimmer and shine had grown dull to the ever-changing passion and inquisitiveness of his gaze.

There was no way he could be sincere.

That man...

_"I have a gift for you, my lady..."_

_It was back, that sultry rumble that permeated his words whenever he spoke to her in private. She hated how the mere purr of his voice could make her shiver in the most primal manner. Undeniably, he was attractive. At least, physically._

_Mentally, on the other hand..._

_"What do you want now?" she snapped rudely, not even looking up from her sculpting._

_She would rather not deal with this sick game of his again. His last gift had been beyond humiliating. For the most part because Nerdanel had immediately known what it meant when clearly_ he _didn't. Or perhaps he_ had _—What prince did not know the meanings of flowers, after all? It was commonly taught to the upper nobility—and was rubbing it in her face viciously for sport. It was only logical to think he had been making fun of her, the impressionable artistic daughter of his mentor and master at the forge. A mere_ woman.

_No newcomer to the world of harsh words—she was a woman grown and providing for herself without a husband, after all, and thus was somehow swimming against the flowing river of society's will and susceptible to the ravages of its displeasure—Nerdanel had come to expect this attitude from men around her. Condescending and patronizing in their belief that she required a mate in order to survive for more than a few hours when left to her own devices. As if her brain was so small and her mind so dimwitted that she could not function without a male ordering her about this way and that, keeping her in line and under his will._

_The fact that he had teased her about her lack of a mate, pretending to be interested in the strange nonconformist with the wild red hair, was painful. The stabbing sensation in her chest and the prick of tears in her eyes had been hidden with her red-faced rage and harsh words that had driven him off chortling and prancing with glee._

_And now he was back._

_"Do not be so unfriendly. You are so much more lovely when you smile, nárinya."_

_He was leaning beside her against the wall, arms crossed and shoulder holding his weight. Undeniably shirtless beneath his leather apron, his face covered in small droplets of sweat as he panted, he was nothing short of mouth-watering and delicious in appearance. So disgustingly attractive. In fact, her eyes followed small beads of water as they slipped beneath the leather, curiosity sinking into her mind..._

_But no. She absolutely would not think about_ him _like_ that. _He was not worth glancing at twice. Not even to get another look at the muscles flexing uncovered before her eyes._

_"If all you are here to do is bother me and waste my time, I suggest you find a more productive pastime, my prince."_

_Of course, getting rid of this weed would not be so simple as spouting a few poisonous words. It never was with him._

_"Do you not want to see my gift?"_

_After the last, no, she sincerely did_ not.

_But, of course, he did not wait for her answer. Instead, he brandished them forth as though they were a blade rather than a bouquet. Little white flowers, so sweet-scented, mixed with delicately curling ferns of pale green and large blossoms of three petals. Pale purple lapped at their center whilst rose and damask coated their edges. And a brilliant mixture of deep blue and golden orange dripped down from the cusp of their apex like droplets of rich indigo paint and honey, just waiting to splatter from that lip upon the floor below for all their vividness._

_Orchids._

_Nerdanel felt her cheeks flush again. Half wondering if this was another of his jokes or simply an attempt to seduce her into his bed. For she knew their meaning as well._

_Rare beauty._

_"Do you approve, my lady?"_

_And then she looked up. Into his crooked smirk, so confident and so mocking, and his fiery eyes, burning incisively against her wilting spirit, causing rashes and itches and pealing of the outer layers. He did not look like a man sincere._

_He looked like a man who gazed upon her red hair and her pale flesh and freckles and felt lust to take her to his bed and sample her recherché taste and color. A man who breathed in her independence and mastery of art and her inability to obey like a mindless doll and wanted nothing more than to see her crushed beneath his thumb, dependent upon his words and lusting after his admiration and affection even at the cost of her free will._

_It was perhaps that sudden thought that brought forth the hidden rage which her red hair had so long ago foretold._

_That, and the fireplace poker had been conveniently just within reach._

But now, as she sat in her chambers, staring down at the blooms tied with ribbon and left abandoned upon her comforter atop her bed, Nerdanel wondered what she should do. Why her mind rejected that pessimistic outlook. Why she wanted to believe that she was not only an object in his eyes to be had and thrown aside.

Why she _wished_ that _he_ was sincere.

That man whom she _hated_. Despised and held little respect toward for all his ponce and pride. And she _wanted_ him to _believe_ in the message presented before her eyes in the shape of these orchids with their graceful curves, to have been truthful in the silent words he whispered unto her ears.

She wanted to have misinterpreted his recklessly passionate gesture. Wanted it to be one of affection—even in passion—rather than the sexist mockery of a lustful man in search of easy prey.

Why, she could hardly have said. The man drove her crazy.

But when the thought of throwing those flowers into the fire—of watching their painted petals and lips shrivel up and blacken beneath the ravages of ash and heat—crossed her mind, Nerdanel bit her lip and could not reach out and do the deed, though it would have absolved her of need to agonize further over her interactions with their giver. She could not banish from her inner mind the memory of his face and his eyes and his smile, the sound of his voice and the rumble of his laughter and the way he purred her name.

She could not accept that the truth was so ugly. Or perhaps she just wished to flatter herself, believe that someone somewhere had found her something other than odd and undesirable, to be gawked at and whispered about when her back was turned.

Perhaps she was a foolish and emotional woman just like they all claimed.

Because, later that night, the orchids were placed carefully in a vase and set upon her bedside table beneath the glow of her candles. And she stared at their splayed and delicate shapes reflected upon the wall well into the early hours of the morning, unable to look away. Unable to deny their beauty.

Unable to stop wondering...

Until she dropped into sleep. And dreamed of Fëanáro.

Of his genuine smile and his lips murmuring her name so sweetly in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> nárinya = my fire (nár + nya - technically rn is an okay consonant chunk in Quenya, but I've never seen it used is a noun-possessive pronoun conjunction before)


	269. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The discovery of one's calling in life is a momentous occasion. Sometimes you just need a push in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard to write purely because music plays such an important and instrumental role in Tolkien's works. I probably didn't do such a prompt justice. But I gave it my best effort. :D
> 
> This has little relation to other pieces, but could I suppose go with all the works of "young" Fëanorions.
> 
> I heavily hint at the identity of the ainu in this story, but he's never explicitly named. It shouldn't be too hard to guess.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

The universe had been created from three great themes of music. Or so the story went.

And thus it came to be that the Eldar held the sweet tones of raised voices in song amongst their most sacred of acts and most reverent of worships. Thousands of years later, the same ancient hymns to the stars were chorused in the towering temples erected within the confines of Valimar and at the foot of Taniquetil, and for miles and miles around one could hear them whispered upon the breaths of thousands of sweeter-than-honey voices. Mixing together into something heavenly, beyond the scope of understanding past the subconscious bliss that they rained upon their listeners.

It was first that array of song which had enchanted the young prince. The second-born son of a craftsman and an artist, incredibly intelligent in all areas of academia, learning faster than even his older brother, but who had little interest in the world of the material and physical. Long and dexterous fingers could craft wonders and sculpt likenesses with ease, but no passion echoed through his work, and he coveted nothing that he crafted or fashioned.

He had only passion for the voices. Not only the voices of the Eldar. But the voices of the land. The voices of the streets. The voices of everyone and everything.

At first it was only in the quiet. In his free time, he would wander into the forest glades, simply listening to the rhythm of the world's deep and steady breaths. The buzz of insects in the summer heat and the ruffling of the leaves by the breeze's gentle caress. The rumbling of thunder and the pounding fists of a million raindrops falling to earth when the sky turned gray and the clouds poured down their tears.

Eventually, he began to hear it everywhere.

Not merely in the movement of nature, but in the sound of hundreds of footsteps upon cobble. In the echo of conversational voices echoing down the streets. In the calls of sellers in the marketplace and the laughter of friends and lovers huddled close. In the din and racket of the city, there too were the deep and even breaths shuddering beneath his boots, vibrating heavily in the air to a dissonant and chaotic harmony. But a harmony no less it was.

To Makalaurë, it could not have been more evident.

But, of course, it was a passion he alone possessed. Though his father echoed with a faint melody—something wild and vivid, sharp with the barest undertone of a smolder—the man heard the word "music" and scoffed before returning to his forge and his smoke and his metal, disregarding what he considered to be a waste of time equivalent to watercolor painting. Equally, his mother sang a silent song of gentleness with an underlying frame of iron—ornamented with motifs resonating with the shadow of sadness—but she could not hear it or comprehend it. To her, the world was a tactile thing, to be touched and brushed and felt. And Nelyafinwë barely had time to sleep, let alone sink into the realm of sound that enveloped his reality. The study of politics and the written word consumed his hours with greedy lust, and he gave little thought to music he heard only in the halls of the Vanyar with their sweet words and pious tranquility.

Thus it came to be that the second son wandered away from the home where his dreams were slowly and cruelly crushed. Instead spent weeks on end in Valimar, pretending at scholarly research to appease his family whilst for hours upon hours he sat and listened. Bathed himself in the harmony and melody, the consonance of their dichotomy rising and rising to the cusp of bliss, washing over him in waves of brilliance and revelation.

They sang of the ancient stars glimmering out of the darkness, guiding their way. The spread of those silvered gems across the sky and reflected by the still and silent waters below.

And he could _see_ it. Knew with visceral certainty that, even without realizing what it was they passed unto their avid and quiet listener, they wove the melody of the stars again and again through their choruses. The melody that had _birthed_ the stars at the beginning of time. Just as song had birthed the Two Trees and the grass and the sky and the sea.

But ever did he remain quiet. Makalaurë knew not the art of song or instrument. And though his hands sometimes itched to strum across the strings of a lyre and his lips sometimes pleaded silently to part and release his voice unto the heavens, he resisted.

Perhaps out of fear. Or perhaps out of uncertainty. No vanya was he, dark-haired and gray-eyed, and it was not in the nature of a noldo to revel in poetry and song over academia and craftsmanship.

And yet he was drawn. Helplessly.

\---

Until the day he accidentally found in the wood that stranger whom would irrevocably shape his world.

That stranger with a voice, deep and rich, that sent shivers down his body and broke chills across his skin merely from its soft canting melody half-hummed into the afternoon heat. Pulling him back from the safe and encompassing immaterial realm of dreams, drawing forth his attention with ease.

Makalaurë had half-expected to find some golden-haired Vanyarin bard had wandered farther than intended. Perhaps he would sneak as close as he could get without being seen and rest a while with his back to a tree and his face tilted up toward Laurelin's golden rays, simply listening to whatever tiny but glorious slice of the Ainulindalë his unknowing companion deemed fit to grace him. It was with that in mind that he crept closer and received his first glimpse of the stranger.

No golden hair. Rather, it was white-washed pale. But, rather than the blue eyes he would have expected—pale and tinted in ocean green—from a Telerin elf, they were _golden._ A color he had never seen upon an elf before.

The realization struck a moment too late.

"You needn't hide from me, pitya. I would not be adverse to some company."

This was no elf.

This was one of the Ainur.

And Makalaurë could only gulp nervously and shuffle out into the open light of the clearing. Into the sight of eyes that reflected as mirrors of the soul, ringed with pale lashes. Both at once was the ainu handsome, exotic and strange. But welcoming in his gesture for the second-born to come and sit beside him in the clearing. "Come now, the grass is a pleasant enough cushion this day."

Hesitantly, he lowered himself into the verdant ocean, taking note of the tingle of blades upon his palms as they pressed flat to the ground. "Forgive me for intruding."

"There is nothing to forgive, pitya." That smile relieved the nervous tension, and that voice rippled with power that the young elf could scarcely comprehend. "It is the music that drew you here, is it not? Do you want to try?"

Toward the lyre he motioned, but Makalaurë shook his head. "I know not how."

Something like to the amusement of an adult observing a puppy or a kitten flashed though those eyes, paternal and indulgent. "Are you quite sure?"

Of course, he _wasn't._

Because Makalaurë's fingertips itched as strongly and eagerly as ever to feel the bite of cool metal upon their calluses. To hear the ring of their labors around and through his body, sliding in a wave of expression over the surroundings and blanketing them with a little dose of their truest meaning, their silent story creeping upon any unwary ears and unfocused eyes. Of their own accord, they crept toward the lyre. Toward the offer sitting so temptingly before them with no obstacle to bar their path to the prize.

Until they carefully trailed over each string, one-by-one, teasing forth each pitch so that they might sing into the open air. And Makalaurë's breath caught, for with ease they darted forth and teased at a melody. At something cloudy and floating and pale that reminded him so of the man before him.

The man who watched with eyes vaguely amused, gold half-hooded and smile broadening. Observing as the second son's fingers began to dance, somehow so instinctively knowing where to go and how to twirl and flip and twist to extract that sound which was caught in the back of Makalaurë's mind. Unfurling now into something real. Something as tangible as any sculpture or piece of bejeweled finery.

"Will you not sing for me, pitya?"

Sing? He had never dared before. No one in his family possessed the ability to sing worth mention. Nelyafinwë was hopelessly off-key, though the warm and mellow tone of his lullabies more than made up for his inability to match pitch. And their mother was worse still, for she had none of that tenderness or flowing lenitive rhythm that possessed the older brother.

Makalaurë could not imagine his father ever having sung a word in his life.

And yet, even before the eyes of this stranger, Makalaurë felt his lips parting almost of their own will and desperation. Closing his eyes, letting his fingers dance, he allowed it to spill forth.

Deep and low and echoing. Rolling over the ground like ocean waves, beating steadily against everything in its path and entwining with the lyre's dulcet tones like two lovers beneath the bedsheets. So perfectly in harmonious tension, tangling and coming together as though they were _made_ for one another.

And all the while his heart came unto his throat and tears unto his eyes. For never had Makalaurë felt anything so glorious—so freeing—as breathing out all the longing syllables for so many years kept silent. His body swayed and his brow dampened with sweat as he threw back his head to the sky. As that mysterious and yet so familiar theme came forth from his lungs and graced the open air.

Rising and rising until—

He blinked his eyes open. Only to find the stranger gone. And his hands empty.

Blinking again, he saw that Laurelin's rays crept away, replaced by Telperion's silvery hues. It was growing late. And all the while he had been resting against this tree.

_But it had seemed so real..._

_"It_ was _real, pitya."_

That voice. It shuddered through him again, and Makalaurë doubted not its truth. Saw the reflection of his face in those knowing golden eyes. Eyes that seemed to be aware of every intimate part of his being, even those Makalaurë knew nothing of himself. They bored him open and spilled his innards out in a tide of passion.

And the itch was ever-present. Only Makalaurë did not hesitate this time to part his lips and lift his head up toward the sky.

To look at the silver and the stars and murmur their melody upon his breath. Their music unto his ears reflecting their celestial otherworldly beauty. Resonating down to his bones, Makalaurë could feel it as he could feel the grass pressed to his palms and the cooling night air to his face.

This was what he was meant to be. This was his gift.

And no matter what his father and mother and brother said or did or thought, he knew he could not release it a second time. He stood from the grass and began the trek home, humming all the while, fingers plucking away at imaginary strings, hearing their vibrations ringing against his ears. Thinking of that stranger with the pale hair again, that theme returned.

A theme of dreams and flowers and the softness of golden rays upon the grass.

_Thank you..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eldar = The Elves  
> vanya = elf of the Vanyar  
> noldo = elf of the Noldor  
> Ainulindalë = Music of the Ainur (the themes that created the vision of the world)  
> ainu = holy one  
> pitya = little one


	270. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros finds the first of his younger brothers amongst the dead in the ruins of Menegroth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to all the Second Kinslaying pieces, but mostly to Storm (Chapter 176). Obviously there's character death. Gore and blood, mentions of death and insanity. Suicide also.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë or Moryo

One never grew accustomed to the aftermath of battle.

For hundreds of years, Maitimo had been upon those bloody fields, gracing them with his prowess in the arts of war and death. Fighting and killing and slaughtering orcs upon dusty plains turned to mud from blood and entrails and the sweat of those clawing for every inch of ground at the cost of their lives. And each time it became easier to pretend it was all a dream, a haze of reality one passed through as their sword sang through the air and bit into flesh and crushed down bone.

Once upon a time the pouring of guts over his feet would have made him ill and the thought of spilling another's blood would have made him dizzy. Never would he have contemplated the idea of wielding a weapon against another living, sentient being, let alone in the cold blood or in the midst of war. So carelessly and recklessly and ruthlessly.

And yet it had become second nature.

The movement. The moment. The mere seconds in which the eyes took in every angle of attack, every possible trajectory of the enemy and every potential escape. The reaction near instantaneous to defend or attack. To save one's own skin or to hunt down in savage wrath.

To end lives over square inches of dirt. He did not have to think. And he would never hesitate.

Many battles had he fought. And they all ended the same.

No, it had never been the heat of battle that left his mind in tatters and his sanity slipping little-by-little. But the aftermath.

Walking across those same fields where the bodies—dismembered, beheaded, disemboweled, bled dry or ripped apart—lay piled together into mounds of metal and flesh. The enemy and the friend mixed from the flesh to the hair to the armor to the blood and everything in between, all corpses equal when their spirits had been ripped away from fleshy cages and shells. All of them tangled up together as intimately as lovers, their eyes staring up at the sky without light and consciousness. Dull.

The smell rose and turned the stomach. Rot and decay and blood and death filled the air, the pungent fragrance of everything he wanted to forget. That smell that reminded Maitimo of Angband. Of those pits in which the unfortunate thralls were tortured to death for sport or raped for entertainment or chained cruelly and made to slave away until their minds and bodies shattered.

But even that bothered him not so much as the silence.

During battle the screams of the wounded and the battle cries of the living echoed and raged until they formed a solid wall of sound. The sound of war and violence. The sound of _surviving_ and _breathing_ and _thriving._

However, with the stillness that followed, the devastation could no longer be ignored.

Well Maitimo remembered many a battle walking amongst the dead, through their veil of silence, afraid that his boots might make a sound upon the stone as he passed through their ranks. It was only in those moments, without the enemy screaming for blood in his face and without his own rough and raspy voice snarling in hate and fury, that it truly became _clear._ That the reality of battle always settled over his mind, imprinted itself deep upon his psyche.

Reminded him that those who fell would never rise again to fight by his side. That he, the commander, had led these men to their _deaths._ In agony and horror upon a field of muck and gore where glory was a mirage and happiness a long-lost relic of the past, he might as well have slaughtered them with his own bare hand.

This was worse still, though, than anything before it.

There were no enemies to be seen here. Upon the walls and the hallways, caked into the swirling etched designs of the arches and pillars, staining the alabaster statuary and marble floors, everywhere there was blood and the stink of spilled intestines. Only these ripped and torn bodies, left where they had fallen to be crushed beneath his irreverent boots in disrespect and disdain, did not belong to any orc or demon or monster of the deep.

They were elves. Friends and family. Kith and kin. All of them alike.

Among their bodies he saw the children, their parents fallen nearby trying to defend that which was most precious from the invaders. Saw the savagery that the broken minds of his brothers and his comrades rained down on such innocent people, tearing them open barbarically and spreading them across the floor in punishment for defiance. Until all of them lay fallen down to the last infant, little more than obstacles to a greater goal.

And with them, Maitimo found his brother.

Morifinwë looked shockingly still and blanched, lying among the fallen of Doriath, dark to their flaxen and armed to the teeth among their domestic simplicity. But his brother, for all the weapons he had carried—the bow upon his back with his quiver of arrows, the daggers in his boots and strapped to his forearms, the sword sheathed faithfully upon his hip—had none of them drawn in defense.

It was a chilling realization, settling into Maitimo's bones. That the silence was damning. And not only that which lingered over the remnants of war, carnage and atrocity in the wake of the spilling of blood and ending of lives cut brutally short.

His little brother had not attempted to protect himself from counterattack. Had not lifted so much as a finger in defense of his own body against the resistance.

Rather, he smiled peacefully up at the ceiling, his eyes closed gently and restfully. Were it not for the arrow sticking out of the center of his forehead, trailing streams of crimson over the arch of his brow and the bridge of his nose, Maitimo might have believed he had merely gone to sleep. He did not appear as a man in pain, but a man wrapped in the comfort of _relief._

Relief from the lies and facades and lack of words.

"Oh, Moryo..."

A cold man Maitimo might have been, but when he broke the silence all the stillness—the glass walls keeping him detached from this world of red and terror—shattered and rained down like dewdrops upon his fragile mind, tearing into the vulnerable, exposed flesh of his sanity. Carefully, he lifted the body, pulled free the arrow and rested his brother against his chest, tucking that head beneath his chin as his hand stroked through the matted tangles of blood-stained hair.

Like when Morifinwë was a child. Sweet and kindhearted beneath his bluster and bashfulness. Quick to anger, but also quick to forgive, lacking the mother's wrath but inheriting her split-second moods, holding tight to the fury of the father but having none of the will to hold a grudge even unto death.

His younger brother had never been made for a world like this. For the horror and the guilt and the murder. For again and again riding into battle and coming out a little more chipped and a little more broken.

Hesitantly, he pressed a kiss to that brow. Tasted the drying blood of the fatal wound upon his lips as he gave a last goodbye.

And then he laid down the body, left it where it had fallen. Maitimo wiped away the momentary sheen of tears that had gathered upon russet lashes and threatened to stain further that grimy and bloody face. Pushed aside the heaviness of lead within his breast in favor of the twist and turn of flame.

There was no time for mourning. No time to be wasted upon trivial attachment to a corpse.

This was the aftermath of battle. A sight he had seen a hundred times over and over again. And one more scene of destruction—one more vast empty space filled to the brim with silence—was but a forsaken memory in the vestiges of time. Something to be forgotten and left behind along with sentimentality, compassion and useless pity.

Still...

"I hope you are happy," he murmured into the quiet. Heard his voice echo and echo and echo.

But no reply ever came. He had not expected one.


	271. Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All romances are not perfect. But they've got perfect moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reincarnation and fluff. Basically the modern Caranthir/Haleth. BTW, Caranthir's "human" name is Morris. From Moryo, in case the connection wasn't obvious (and I suppose it might not be to everyone). And Haleth is Haley. Yeah.
> 
> This is especially closely connected with Ballad (Chapter 75), Second Chance (Chapter 255) and Afterlife (Chapter 124), but is technically related to all Caranthir/Haleth stories.

That man. Sometimes she just did not know what to do with him. More stubborn than any mule and more pigheaded than any Victorian gentleman. At times she swore he went out of his way to be the most trying man in the universe.

But Haley would admit, if at the moment reluctantly, that he had strengths and not only faults. And it was times like this—when he was channeling his rarely used domineering and misogynistic persona—that she liked to remind herself of all the reasons that she loved him anyway. Despite the fact that he was more ancient than any surviving forest upon the earth and grew up in a time when women were wall ornaments, to be seen and not heard, rather than powerful individuals in their own right.

_“Your independence is refreshing and admirable. Your determination and perseverance are astounding. And your inability to allow me to overpower your will and desires make you all the more enticing.”_

When she had first received that card, it had been the creepiest thing she had ever gotten from an infatuated male. Most cards attached to bouquets had horrible and cliché poetry scrawled in poor handwriting and signed with an “I love you” that could not possibly have been sincere.

None of them had ever said anything like _that._

And part of her—unwillingly, for she had been of the mind that she did not need a man and thus would never acquire one—had been just a little flattered. Normally, men did not enjoy her personality and straightforwardness. They hated how she treated them as equals and refused to be cowed just because their shoulders were slightly broader and their stances slightly taller.

He had seemed the same.

Condescending and annoying. Looking down upon her more as a sexual object than as a person. From the moment their lives had intersected, he had been nothing short of an arrogant ass, and Haley had decided immediately that she despised him from every last hair on that (perfect) head to the very tips of his (designer) shoes.

But then, she had also considered him hypocritical. After all, who was he to judge her? He was a _man_ working in a _designer shoe store._

A man who had continued to intrude upon her life. Running into her all over the place. As though some hand of fate was determined to make her life miserable by subjecting her to his gloomy, depressing presence.

And his gifts.

For someone who struck her as derisive and unpleasant in personality and character, he tended toward such silly gestures.

_“These are flowers.”_

_A scowl, but it was countered by a deep scarlet flush. Haley could not help but stare; she hadn’t thought the man capable of something as adorable as blushing. “Of course they are flowers. I bought them for you.”_

_In offering, he held them out._

_And though she wasn’t a flower sort of woman, Haley had to admit that they were tasteful. The blend of reds and yellows and purples was attractive. Not as attractive as the look of utter shyness on his face when she looked past the gift into his visage. Eyes averted and cheeks still smarting, he reminded her of a young man with shuffling feet, waiting with baited breath for the answer after he asked a girl out for the first time._

_It was… almost charming…_

_“Fine.” She took them, cradled them in her arms, and promptly slammed the door shut in his face._

_It was only once she was safely tucked away in her living room that she noticed the card half-hidden between two large blooms. Plucking it from its hiding place, she opened the folds and received an eyeful of handwriting that would make professional calligraphers jealous._

_“Do not let anyone tell you that you are not beautiful. I have yet to meet a woman more enchanting.”_

_That man…_

And it was a pattern that had continued.

Now, she still had all those little cards hidden away in the drawer of her dresser, buried underneath her underwear where she knew her husband would not venture without her permission. Each little one was plain and white, some slightly bent at the corners from wear after ten years of marriage. But she held them no less dear now than she secretly had then.

_“Lose not your spark. It makes you glorious.”_

No man had _ever_ appreciated her personality before.

Most looked at her once and dismissed her. A boyish figure, a lack of feminine clothing, and rather small breasts. Not to mention, her face was not particularly attractive. Haley wouldn’t have called herself _ugly_ , but she rarely wore makeup, hated dressy lace and frills, and definitely didn’t care much about her appearance, especially what those sexist pigs thought of it.

Men didn’t want a woman who was tomboyish, independent and stubborn. Like a boy in a girl’s body.

_“I would pay good money to see you put your boss in his place.”_

Morris _liked_ her personality.

Sure, sometimes he could be protective and uncooperative—after all, he had grown up in a family of the most stubborn and pigheaded men that Haley had ever had the misfortune to meet and was definitely one of the most mellow and flexible of the group—but still he always gave in to her eventually. It quickly became obvious, after they had moved in together and begun waking to each other’s face each day, that he was a pushover. A damn marshmallow.

_“It’s time to get up. Come on, sweetie.”_

_Grumbling, he rolled over and glared at her, though the entire expression was more hilarious than frightening with his hair mussed and splashed every which way. A hand closed around Haley’s arm, pulled her down and spilled her onto the bed beside him so that his arms might wrap about her and pull her fully-dressed and laughing form close._

_“Too early,” he mumbled against her hair. “Come back to bed…”_

_Before she could even protest, he was asleep again. And Haley allowed herself a few minutes to watch the uncompromising, intimidating man cuddle up to her side and nuzzle into her neck. Looking more like a child than a grown man._

_Too cute._

Flipping through those cards, their sarcastic little comments and their near-declarations of awkward love and their not-quite-poetic expressions of appreciation, Haley felt her heart in her throat.

So, he was being annoying today. So, he was being overprotective and pushy. So, he was driving her up the wall.

But her frustration was waning.

Carefully, she tucked the cards away, hid them amongst their forest of lace and closed the drawer, withdrawing the light that had exposed their fading inked words written in his graceful hand. Her fingers traced over the smooth, polished wood as they trailed away.

It should not have surprised her that, later that evening, she found a bouquet waiting for her upon the dining room table. With a card.

_“Try to forgive this old miser’s ancient misogynistic tendencies.”_

She shook her head and smiled.

_That man…_


	272. Emblem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The different perspectives of characters as they look upon the infamous House of Fëanor. And for those of you who have never seen Fëanor's heraldic device, you may want to do a little visual research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of angsting and mentions of bloodshed amongst some rather tragedy-ridden fluff. Basically just a drabble that decided to be long.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro Curufinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

The emblem of Fëanáro Curufinwë.

Colorful to match his diverse ingenuity. Vibrant to match his hot-blooded personality. Elegant to emphasize his face and form. And unique, because no creature created before or after that man had the same charismatic spark.

Undeniably, that was what Nerdanel thought when she saw the heraldic device woven into a tapestry upon the wall in their home.

But more so, it was a garish sort of artwork.

The angles fit perfectly the sharpness of her mate’s tongue. The points were as the heads of spears, congruous with his unpleasant and vicious temperament. And the splashes of reds, oranges and yellows—leaving out all the dark color and soft colors that mellowed such a work—seemed only to showcase the pure inferno that writhed in the pits of his indomitable spirit.

Beautiful and wild. Charming but unforgiving. So tempting but all the same dangerous to touch.

It fit him perfectly. And, sometimes, she hated it.

\---

But her hatred paled in comparison to _his._

Turukáno _despised_ the House of Fëanáro. Everything about it. From the family to the servants to the bloody emblem waving arrogantly in the open sky.

Every time he saw it—that star not unlike that of his father but also radically different—flying proudly over erected tents, his blood _boiled._ Those tents housed men who were little more than Kinslayers and blood-traitors, sinful men of the worst sort.

Reminded him…

_Of that awful feeling of awakening to see the lights of the ships glimmering far-off in the distance. The vague hope that they would be returning, so naïve and optimistic, trying desperately to drown out the knowledge that they were not coming back. The betrayal growing as a black infection in his heart, a scourge that would never cease its ravages…_

_Clutching his wife and daughter close, shivering with cold and terror as they walked farther and farther north toward the wastes and the ice. Because they dared not turn back and face the wrath of the Valar, but could not stay upon the shores of Aman. They could only keep moving…_

_Watching the splash of blood below and trying not to be sick as he collapsed into the snow and almost lay down to die. To let the frigid winds and the snarling snow ravage him unto his end. Only to be drawn back…_

_Drawn back by hatred. Hatred so overwhelming and dark that it burned away the cold. Gave him reason to struggle back to his feet. To drag himself across the Helcaraxë to the wilderness of the East._

_And then, upon the shores and in the hills, he saw_ those colors…

Those reds and oranges and yellows. That multicolored pinwheel that so defied the shadows and sickening evil that ran rampant through that House.

No longer could he look upon it without feeling the urge to take to it a torch and watch it light up in flames. Flames to match its violent and blistering colors. Flames to match the hues of their betrayal reflecting over the dark indigo waters.

\---

Flames to match the curling smoke and echoing light of a burning city.

In their eyes, it was not a symbol of betrayal or tragedy. It was nothing more than an emblem of rising fear.

Certainly, the people of Doriath would not bow down and submit to a single house of warrior-like Golodhrim Kinslayers. No king with a spine or worth his weight in treasure would kneel down before such filth and give them whatever they desired. But even so, the people knew in their guts the consequences.

Dior, their king, knew the consequences.

And any subject who claimed their king held no fear for those northern warriors—tall and wild men who roamed the planes hunting and who held at bay the forces of the Northern Shadow for centuries whilst the Sindar hid behind the Girdle of Melian—was a fool. A fool who obviously held no respect for the enemy, no matter their degenerate nature and tendency toward the slaughter of their kith and kin.

Respect, after all, was not always paved in kindness and benevolence. This sort of respect was paved in terror.

Terror when he looked upon his family and imagined them slaughtered in punishment for his defiance. Terror when he looked upon his subjects and pictured their blood and gore splattered upon the walls of his ornate cavern-city. Terror when he imagined their fires taking to the forest and burning his home down to the foundations of its massive trees and dense thickets.

The letter sat innocuously upon his desk.

Surrender the Silmaril. Or accept the consequences of defying the House of Fëanáro.

And upon its sealed wax lay that diamond filled with the curls and angles of their House. The seal upon the threat—the _promise._

When the day came that that promise was kept, Dior looked out upon their approach and felt a shudder run down his spine. Saw high above them heraldic flags perched upon sharpened, glittering spears soon to be skewering his warriors and murdering his minstrels and slaughtering his women and children.

They were of the colors of the fire that so personified the deep elves. All passion and madness and everything that they held important. The power of creation and destruction. The ability to burn away their enemies in the face of overwhelming odds. And the tendency to never cease until every last droplet of their inner fires had been smothered and doused into naught but ash.

And they promised death. The punishment for defiance of their iron will.

\---

But to the grandsons of the king, they promised neither punishment nor death.

Rather, Elrond and Elros looked upon them and felt warm.

The rich colors were the first thing they really remembered. Watching those pretty jewel-like flags flying above the tents in which they slept, lulled to sleep by Lord Maglor’s lullabies or soothed to restfulness as they cuddled up to Lord Maedhros. The place where they hid from all those strange elves with the bright eyes, safely wrapped up in their new family.

To them, it spoke of the velvet of Maglor’s baritone, softly resonating with warmth to drive away the chill even from the marrow of the bones. Of the welcome-home hugs of their surrogate father, whose smile was painfully sad and yet always conjured up joy at their sight. Of the crooked half-smile that lightened slightly the constant shadow that lingered over Maedhros. Of the occasional one-armed hugs or pats upon the head that they received from their other “parent”, whose affection was little and far-between but all the more precious for it.

To them, seeing that emblem flying across the sky was seeing _home._ The golden weave was as Maglor’s voice and the scarlet curves were as Maedhros’ hair. Welcoming and embracing and enfolding.

Seeing it upon the horizon brought forth anticipation. The need to spur their horses and race down into the valley.

Seeing it disappearing into the distance brought forth homesickness. The near-overwhelming desire to turn back.

And watching it disappear forever, the twins thought, might as well have been the same as losing their home all over again. For the only time they could ever remember feeling such hollowness as the moment that device—towering upon the camp already blocked from their sight by the trees, fire-colors lit up by the dying light of Anor as she sank beneath the land to the West—disappeared into a mirage-like splash of oranges and gold painted across the sky, was when they glanced last upon their home by the sea and knew they would never return.

The emblem glowed and burned, and then faded as a ghost when the last light of the sun was swallowed by the water.

Until even its black spot disappeared. As if it had never existed. Along with those hugs and pats upon the head. The lullabies and the nights curled into a warm side.

Along with their second set of parents. The parents who had _raised_ them.

Gone.

\---

And to the brothers, it served as little more than a reminder.

As it had after Fëanáro had passed, left his legacy to his eldest son who felt he had no choice but to attempt revenge in the memory of that man burned into the fabric so perfectly and vividly. And then as a warning against hasty action, for the second brother watched the first leave and never return, and knew that further vengeance was futile. And those colors then only mocked like the eyes of the sire, scorching and wicked in the fading daylight.

As it had when first had come word of the gem recovered by Beren and Lúthien. When the firstborn was struggling to find any reason to ignore the rumors and focus his attention to the North. Until that path toward fulfillment of the Oath was spent and there was no choice but to embrace those colors and turn to the South. Take up, wholly and completely, the bloodthirsty legacy stained into that emblem.

As it did now, when the pair—the last two of seven—watched their fosterlings ride away into the distance, knowing they would never meet again.

And yet, still there was duty to be had. An Oath to be fulfilled.

Maitimo sighed and looked upon the waving emblem in the fading light, felt his heart constrict. For so long they had managed to stay distracted. Pretend at foreswearing.

They had given in to false hope and foolishness.

But he knew, with horrible certainty, that the moment there came rumors of those glowing stones again—be they held but friend or foe, the Dark Lord or the High King of the Noldor—the emblem of Fëanáro Curufinwë would rise into the sky, posted proudly upon the shafts of wicked war-spears for all to see. A threat and a promise, a symbol to strike fear into the hearts of those who dared keep from them their birthright.

Would that he could forget all about that Oath. Would that he could tear down that weave of red and orange and yellow, of the rainbow of jewels that flashed in the depths of his father’s silvery star-eyed in their fey glory. Would that he could throw all of this tragic fate away and live a life anew.

But he could not. Neither of them could.

Maitimo knew, with certainty, that as soon as they heard rumor—whisper upon the wind or slip of the tongue or chance word in a tavern—they would come running.

They would never give up. That memory would not allow it.

For they were of the House of Fëanáro. And _his_ blood ran through their veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Golodhrim = Noldor


	273. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giving up one cross for another. Nothing ever comes for free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another part to go with Memorial (Chapter 44) and Done (Chapter 52), as well as the precursor to Morals (Chapter 142). So a spontaneous child appears! Be prepared!
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Ilession = Manafinwë

Not for long did he stay in one place. Not after the first moments in which that glimmer danced its way down into the darkness and left his once-searing hand only tingling with the memory of agony and heat.

The glow of the stone had disappeared far beneath the writhing and churning of the waves, leaving Makalaurë staring only into murky darkness. Hardly could he believe that he had done the deed now—raised that star-like gem overhead and thrown as far as his arm could manage—as he stared and stared and strained his eyes trying to see some sign of that prize. That goal after which he had his brothers had chased, for which they had sullied their hands with innocent blood, in pursuit of which they had surrendered their innocence and their happiness.

And he had just thrown it into the waves like meaningless, worthless trash. Gone, just like that. Not even a glimmer.

The relief that followed, at first, was crushing. Brought him to his knees gulping in sobs and breathing without the weight of five hundred years of cursed words upon his shoulders as a reminder of his foolishness and mistakes. Out of his reach, he no longer needed to chase. No longer needed to grasp. No longer needed to sacrifice.

Not that he had anything to give, he soon realized.

It was upon that same beach, breathing out the putrid ash of a broken spirit, that he recognized the truth of the situation. One weight to be born thrown aside for another. Just as treacherous and dark and lasting, lingering on forever and ever into the distant expanses of time if he dared look for even a moment.

All that they had worked for laid at the bottom of the sea or was lost in the bosom of the earth or sat hanging as a star of adamant in the expanses of the sky. No longer was the Oath of his father binding, for he was limited by his earthly form, boxed in by his fleshy cage. Could not sprout wings to carry him upon the bows of Vingilótë to steal back his father's treasure. Could not form gills to breathe underwater so that he might search high and low the bottoms of the ocean. Could not leap into the lava that oozed and spewed in that abyss so deep and hot and hope not to be incinerated in an instant.

No longer _could_ he lay chase. No longer _could_ he further damn himself in pursuit. No vast armies or sheer determination would aid him now.

And it felt so _wonderful_ , that knowledge that no longer would he be forced to commit sin in the name of his father's vengeance and wrath.

And yet, his sons were missing and his nephew turned away in disgust. Nelyafinwë was burned to cinders by the earth's blood. And his other brothers lay rotting somewhere, upon the fields of the Havens or within the halls of Menegroth or at the bottom of the Bay of Losgar. All family dead or scattered. Alone in a dying world as the earth crumbled into shambles as far as the eye could see.

It was tempting to lie down there and die. To let the waters take him, now that he was unburdened of that cursed Oath.

But Makalaurë rose to his feet, the fire in his blood stirring. He was, after all, his sire's son, of his mother's gentle heart or no. He had not thrown aside the Silmaril—and scarred his palm with its unforgiving visage—only to curl up and throw his life aside as well. Throw that _freedom_ aside when it was a blessing.

That freedom.

That freedom he came to both love and despise.

Upon the shore he drifted, as though the waves themselves carried him upon their crests and troughs. South, he fled, upon his tail the world collapsing in disrepair and poisoned roots. Until he reached the edge of Beleriand and crossed over into Eriador where Ered Luin loomed overhead in the fog. Until all the land he had traversed behind him had sunken into the depths of the ocean and the Silmaril lay hundreds of leagues out in the middle of that water.

Then, there had been no turning back. Alone in that empty space, his feet carried him. Because he could not turn around and he could not give up. He could only move forward.

It was then that he began to hate the freedom of the broken Oath, though he cherished the newfound cleanliness of his hands hidden beneath thick gloves. To Valinor, he could not return, for the Oath was incomplete. To his wife, he could not return, for she awaited him there. To the Halls, he refused to go, for he was no weak-willed creature to collapse in adversity. There was now no direction except the line of the shore writhing and curling with white sand along the rocky coast. No force pulling him except the tug of salty ocean wind in his untamed black mane and the sound of distant song from the trees and the rivers and the birds calling faintly over the eternal crashing of turbulent waters. Every so often he was pulled upstream or inland, but rarely stayed there.

Always, he was carried back. Helplessly drawn toward _it._ Yet still refusing to regret his decision, though it meant sacrificing any chance of going _home._ Home was on the other side and his ticket across the sea under thousands of feet of black water. But the cost of that ticket was too great.

No destination would there be for Makalaurë. No finality to his tragedy, but the never-ending ambiguity of drifting on the tide of longing forever. Listless and purposeless and directionless.

And alone. Wholly and completely alone.

It was upon those shores—upon their waves and in the midst of their stormy, raging song—that he would be found millennia later by his eldest son.

It was then that he turned, beheld that familiar face and the blue eyes. The eyes of the boy's mother. And the face softened, no longer that of the grandsire, but more that of the softhearted father.

"Atar..."

It was then that direction returned to the world, and a new theme pulled him away from the waters that had so carried him for centuries and centuries until he lost all track of time. It was then that he could pull himself away from that magnetic draw, the invisible current always crying for his attention, playing at his guilt and regret and loneliness ruthlessly and painfully.

It was then that the drifting ended.

"Manafinwë," he breathed. The sound of a new purpose and a new focus. The sound of companionship and family.

The sound of relief. And a little slice of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> atar = father


	274. Monopoly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor just so happens to be one of the _most_ unfortunate elves to ever have been born. It's just the luck of the grandson of Fëanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to all of the Lust Arc (Second Age Sauron/Celebrimbor) and the Grace Arc (Third Age Sauron/Celebrimbor). Shouldn't be hard to track down if you're interested.
> 
> Some semi-explicit sexual content. Also, disturbing megalomaniac tendencies and obsessions. Could also be considered non-con (dub-con at least) and sexual slavery.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon or Annatar  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

It was shocking—and disgusting—to realize how fast he had become completely and utterly addicted.

Not only to the scent and the feel and the beauty. Not only to the smoke mingling with something cool and winter-pale in the back of his throat when he held those locks against his nose and inhaled their fragrance. Not only to the sensation of running his hands over sweaty, soft skin and raised scars perched like a blanket over rippling muscle, or to the feeling of hands touching him in return everywhere they could reach in a frenzy of passion. Not only to the image that constantly made itself at home in the back of his mind as he worked, that stirring, riveting gold-laced picture of his lover basking naked upon their bed, inky hair breaking over lily-white skin.

All of those things, he coveted. Lusted after. But they were nothing _new._

Thousands of lovers lined up in his memory like china dolls. Each one was unique, chosen because something within their spirits and forms had sparked his interest, caught the eye of the craftsman and boldly held his attention. And he craved them, each and every one, for their singularly imperfect flawlessness.

Mairon had never been one to shy from indulging. And he had _indulged_ his passions. Without reins to hold him back or rules to stifle his freedom.

And, when the time came to let them go, he let them flutter away. Certainly, he coveted and lusted after their bodies and their screams and their pain, but in the end they were little more than toys. Amusements placed in his path to hold his attention for but a brief moment in time. When they died or disappeared, Mairon felt no wrath or disappointment.

But this was _different._

He knew he lusted after Telperinquar. To the point of madness, he desired that foolish, glorious creature. Sought out that blistering intelligence and that blinding-bright spirit and that mouthwatering body.

Lust, he knew. This, however, was beyond even that.

Never before had he become so _attached._ Until every moment he spent away from that elf, he felt a pull in the back of his mind to go and find the other, to pin him to the nearest flat surface and ravage him until all Telperinquar ever thought of again was _Mairon._ And then he would lock the other up, away from all prying eyes and interfering nuisances, and keep the elf like a treasure. Be it for intelligible conversation or sexual satisfaction or even the simple comforts of physical companionship, he _wanted_ Telperinquar.

And he did _not_ want to _share._

It was then that the real obsession began. That the daydreams clouded his eyes at all hours of the day and haunted his sleep when he curled up beside his lover's sated body in the night.

The moments of vertigo...

_In which he imagined it, a succulent sort of drug, the sight of Telperinquar upon the vast expanse of his bed, nude and in chains. Writhing and purring for his touch, never stopping even for a moment to question his imprisonment..._

_Looking upon him as if his golden sheen had replaced Arien's rays and his molten eyes the heat of the earth and the sky. As if Eru no longer existed and the Valar were a massive delusion and all that mattered in the world was Mairon—all-powerful ruler of Middle-earth, the lord before whom all people bowed and pleaded for mercy or favor._

_Telperinquar would reach for him only. Think of him only. Talk to him only._

_Never see another again, man or woman. Never speak to a voice not that of his lover and master. Never be allowed to remove his attention and passion and brilliance from Mairon's face and form._

_Mairon wanted it all. Every last drop. A monopoly on this intoxicating sculpture of Eru's greatest, most beautiful and most fascinating work._

"You seem awfully far away, today, Annatar."

Snapping out of those thoughts, he felt the brush of fingers upon his cheek. Gentle and loving. So devoted. But even so not the mindlessly addicted stroke of digits—trembling in their need to feel his heat and stoke his pleasure—that he so imagined.

At his side, Telperinquar was lying stretched out as a cat upon silken sheets. Dark hair blanketed the naked form gleaming in the faint light of Isil— _and how he longed to close those curtains, block that light, so that not even the moon could see his lover's perfection!_ —when the elf rose to his elbows and smirked crookedly in the maia's direction. "I could almost think you've forgotten about me completely. I hope your daydreams are pleasant."

_You have no idea. If you did, I imagine you might run as far and fast as you could._

"They are," he replied, leaning over to kiss deeply those lips and taste that rich flavor. "But they are a fleeting and faint flicker of heat in the winter when compared to my addiction to _you."_

And Telperinquar blushed and laughed and wrapped his arms about the maia. Never understanding just how serious and terrifyingly truthful those words were. Never even seeing the crouching predator preparing to spring and take down its prey.

\---

More than three thousand years, he had waited. Not only to climb back to the apex of power, the dominant force subduing all those who dared oppose his will, but to complete the painted fantasy of the reality he wanted to create by his own hand. And it was time to begin.

Time to emerge from the shadows once more.

And he started with Telperinquar.

Hunted the elf down and ensnared the poor creature with ridiculous ease, his unleashed powers—even weakened as they were—still more than a mere elf could hope to fight against. All it took was a smoldering look and a few brushes of his hands, and his former lover was nearly _falling_ back into his embrace and begging for his love.

Now, though, there was no game stopping him from carrying out his darkest fantasies.

From locking Telperinquar away from even his most trusted servants, hidden in the towering structure of Barad-dûr where he could not hope to escape nor to hide himself from Mairon's influence and gaze and heat and power. From spreading that elf out naked upon his bed and touching and sampling and tasting and ravishing the creature into a screaming, sobbing, pleading mess of sweat and heat and spend.

From taking a slender ankle between his hands and crafting for it a golden shackle. Carefully soldering it in place, so that no clasp existed. So that it could never be removed. And then he added the chain, affixed to the base of his massive bed in a grotesque work of art. So that the elf would never wander too far from his sight and reach.

From entrancing the poor, wonderful, addictive creature until Telperinquar thought not even a moment of escape. Listlessly awaited his attentions with a single-minded focus that would have been frightening were it not for the fact that the sheer magnitude of attraction and obsession was returned in equal share by the maia, with his greedy, starving lust and crooked smirk of glee. Day-in and day-out, the former-craftsman—the lover that had betrayed the Dark Lord—lay upon silk, skin bare and shuddering, and occupied himself only with touching and thinking of Mairon, imagining the Dark Lord's hands and tongue and cock as that body was teased to the brink.

All of him belonged _only to Mairon._ Exactly as it should have been.

And the Dark Lord smiled as he entered those bedchambers. Watched his mussed and eager lover sit up upon his mountain of soft cushions and open his arms and spread his legs, all too ready to receive the bliss and dose of narcotic that was craved and coveted.

"My Lord," that voice breathed, "I have been waiting for you."

"I know." He discarded his clothing and approached the bed, watching that body heave and glisten. Watching those glazed eyes focus upon his form, enchanted to the point of forgetting all logic and reason and resistance.

His smile broadened into a smirk as the elf crawled across the bed upon hands and knees like a pet.

It was perfect. So perfect, this monopoly. His hands wrapped about that body and held on to bruising strength. Possessive. Because it belonged to _him_ and _him alone._

No other would ever hold this body or touch this spirit or own this heart. Telperinquar was _his._ Wholly and completely. The elf would never escape his grasp now, for Mairon would never willingly relinquish his hold.

Too addicted to the heroin-scent of his lover to ever give up this drug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Isil = the moon  
> maia = lesser ainu (holy one)


	275. Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philosophical crap. No really, I'm serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written this POV before, so try to go easy on me. :3
> 
> Basically what it said in the summary. Some religious context, obviously, especially in reference to music.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor
> 
> When Manwë speaks of their Father, he's talking about Eru.

It wasn't at all like the vision within his mind's eye.

When Manwë had descended from the Timeless Halls into the world created by the hands of the Father—a massive and empty open space ripe for creation, for shaping and building and perfecting—always harmony had been ringing in his ears and symmetry reflecting in his mind's eye. Consonance, after all, was the most beautiful sound he could remember, and he wanted to see the physical manifestation of the closest thing to perfection he had yet to experience.

Mountains. Oceans. The open sky. The lamps and the paradise of Almaren at the center of the realm of being. From either side, all the world could be matched to its opposite counterpart. Like the perfect resonance of a thousand voices singing together, perfectly matched in pitch.

But it had not been meant to last.

Just as the consonant music in the Timeless Halls had dissolved into chaos, so too did the consonance of this strange new creation. Sculpted and etched and shaped to perfection, all that hard work was violently uprooted into something ruined and wrecked and twisted.

At first, it had raked its claws over the Lord of Arda's satisfaction, left him bleeding out discontent. For this work of art could not be _fixed._ Not remade into perfect form once again now that it had been tainted and broken and shattered apart by _him._ By the spirit who had first _created_ the dissonance within the great themes and dared defy their father.

Hatred would have been the easiest path, followed closely by resentment. But Manwë resisted such a perilous path.

Upon looking at the new realm created in the wake of destruction, he discovered _beauty._

Beauty in something other than happiness and perfect resonance. In the untamed curves of the white ocean coast. In the jagged teeth of snow-capped mountains veiled in the mists. In the rolling hills, so green and speckled as far as the eye could see with flowers.

It had not been what he expected.

\---

And neither were _they._ The Eruhíni.

At first, they appeared as such. Peaceful creatures interested in song and the stars, simple and delicate and pure-hearted even in the gathering darkness of the north. As much as they did any of his brothers and sisters, these creatures fascinated the Lord of Arda. For they were his subjects, his children in all but blood, and he loved them all dearly.

For them, he wanted to create perfection.

Perhaps it had been folly all along, to believe that societal perfection could be established. A realm of bliss where everyone got along and shared their resources. Where everyone was willing and ready to help one another at a moment's notice. Where everything was fair and balanced, always in perfect equilibrium, never leaning too far to one side or another.

Justice and safety. A beautiful home. A life with little hardship.

The reality of the matter was much more disappointing.

For, though they appeared graceful and gentle, elves were creatures forged of a mixture of themes, and by no means only those of consonance. Tragedy echoed in their eyes. Stubbornness and pride riddled their blood. And a self-centered drive toward personal betterment overwhelmed many a compassionate heart. They might be glorious externally, but internally they were somehow stained. Somehow dissonant, poisoned by shards of the resounding counter-theme of Melkor.

Rules that were put in place were not flexible enough to encase these peoples. The choice of Finwë and the resulting fallout of his sons and his people demonstrated this all too clearly. Manwë could scarcely comprehend this anomaly, this strangeness.

There was the pain and grief he wished they never needed to suffer. Torture and war resulting from black vengeance and greed. Corruption of the mind eating its way through the ranks, for they were so vulnerable to the brush of dark inner whispering. Clearly, his brother had planted a seed all too accessibly within the weaving of the songs that ran through these creatures, leaving them easily manipulated and resistant to direction and correction.

They did not want the rule of the Valar. Rebellious, they scattered. Resentful, they blamed. And when there was no one and nothing to blame, they found a scapegoat to shoulder the burden.

Selfish, sinful creatures. Not perfect at all.

And yet...

\---

And yet, millennia later, Manwë discovered that that was what made them wonderful. What gave their ultimate work its final flourish.

No mistake was it that they were riddled with dissonance and darkness.

Just as there was beauty to be found within the wrecked and tarnished, asymmetrical and jagged world of nature, he realized that the flaws in each of them gave them that spark. That uniqueness. That the gaze gleaming in a sheen of despair was just as beautiful as the eyes shining with overwhelming joy. That the flesh networked with scars was every bit as entrancing as pale and unmarred skin. That the single droplet of compassion and regret within a sea of guiltless selfishness was a thousand times more brilliant and rare, a pearl cultivated against all the odds.

That the reality of the world was not written in right and wrong. Or consonance and dissonance. And by no means was perfection conceivable, let alone possible.

Looking upwards, Manwë would always smile and chortle to himself, listening to the slightly off-key scream of wind in his ears atop the highest tower of Taniquetil, embracing the bitter cold upon the cheeks of his fleshy raiment and the garishly bright cast of Arien's rays upon the earth, sinking burning heat down to the core of his spirit.

The Father had never intended to make the world perfect. It was never intended to be symmetrical and normalized and constructed with the clinical detachment of a whitewashed wall. It was not meant to be a boring song constructed of harmonious chords and three simple, well-defined melodies.

The changing sequences. The clashing tones. The splash of color every which way. This abstract work of art was random and yet so perfect in its imperfection.

Down to the last blade of grass and the tiniest, most insignificant spirit.

After all, if there was never evil, how could there have been good? If there was no darkness, what would become of light? And if sorrow and pain had never existed, would joy be so sweet and blissful?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru (elves and men)


	276. Serenity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two perspectives of the recovery after tragedy and the calm of a world formerly ravaged by war now at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Shadows (Chapter 95), Rain (Chapter 238) and Destination (Chapter 244) as well as Starve (Chapter 216), Belong (Chapter 222), Smile (Chapter 241), Steady (Chapter 236) and Fingertips (Chapter 253). Also to the Cheat Arc and all its sub-arcs.
> 
> Mostly fluff and cuddling and reminiscing.

There was a certain sort of peace and quiet here. A stillness that he could never recall feeling upon the far eastern shores and in the depths of the shadowed forests.

Never before had Legolas realized just how wild and changing and violent the world he called home had always been. Born into a time of relative peace in the aftermath of devastating war, all he knew was the progression of fear and aggression, the life of a young elf raised into a powerful and skilled warrior if only for the sake of self-preservation. Each decade the forest had grown darker and more dangerous, each new century bringing forth new ravages and new enemies.

Until it had culminated into all-out war. Until each day was a cycle of patrols to kill the spiders infesting their home and eradicate the orcs closing in upon their borders. Until one could not safely venture out of their caverns without at the least six companions to guard their back.

Until, finally, the quest...

Everything had always been a flurry of movement. One place to the next. One moment to the next. Because any second could be the last if one so much as hesitated to return a blow and raise their blade in defense.

In the world of the second rise of Sauron, there was no such thing as peace and calm. There was only the encroaching shadow and the endless battle—of mind and body and heart—to keep it all at bay.

And then came the sickness. The Longing.

Incessantly whispering and calling, a voice he could hear but could not ignore. A song he could not block from his ears, because it was upon the air he breathed and in the memories he possessed and wheedling its way down into the depths of his soul, washing away all love of the green of the forest and replacing it with the call of the sea. Turbulent and clashing, it had brought nothing but confusion and despair upon the young prince.

But here...

Here it was quiet.

The young elf sighed and leaned against his lover, taking in the scent of dense forest and mallorn sap. Overhead, the light had finally vanished entirely from the horizon. Left the entire sky spangled in the silvered droplets of stars, spread endlessly.

Here, there was no war. Alone, he and Haldir made their home in the Woods of Oromë, lived each day off the land and slept in the grass under the heavy blanket of the indigo sky and the canopy of the rustling, singing wings of trees. There was no need for them to have their knives within reaching distance, ready to spring from sleep to battle-readiness at the smallest snap of a twig or crumple of a leaf. There was no need for them to constantly watch their backs, always glancing warily over their shoulders.

They could laugh and run as they wished freely without care. Without worry. And lie still together in the aftermath. All stillness and serenity. Watching the stars.

No distance. No restrictions. No loyalties to stand between them. No worries to eat away at their minds and bodies. No royal duties keeping them apart.

Paradise, Legolas liked to think of it. Just the two of them, alone in all the world.

Though, he did occasionally stop to think of those left behind. Of Aragorn and Arwen's line, undoubtedly still prospering upon the throne of Gondor. Of Merry and Pippin, who had passed on now, gone beyond the edges of the world after long and fulfilling lives. Of Faramir and Éowyn, who had been married the last time he had seen them, old and gray but quite pleased with their fates. Of his father, who had been devastated by his leaving but who had _understood_ more than Legolas could have ever imagined possible.

And, of course, Valthoron, who would only have been heartbroken and desolate at the loss of his younger brother, whom he had sworn to protect and defend always. The sadness Legolas had seen in those eyes when they had last parted ways still sometimes made his heart stutter and sink.

And yet, Legolas smiled up at the sky and curled further into the embrace of his lover. He knew that Valthoron was in good hands. That he still had Thranduil, who would never cease to love him unconditionally no matter what anyone else said. And Tauriel, who had devoted her life to the ostracized prince, throwing the opinions and perceptions of her peers back in their faces.

For she loved Valthoron as Haldir loved Legolas. And the younger brother did not doubt that she would keep his older sibling safe and at peace. That they would have a long and fulfilling life in the years of growing green and recovery after the poisoned darkness receded.

Maybe, one day, they would meet again.

But for now, there was just the quiet togetherness.

\---

To Valthoron's eyes, Anor had reached the midpoint of her arc through the heavenly blue of the sky. Warmth radiated downward and settled into his skin where he lay in the summer grass. Earth and plants and trees filled up his senses—the buzzing of insects and the breeze upon the leaves and the creak of dancing wood.

But so too did _she_ fill him up and overtake all else.

Her scent with just a hint of sweetness underneath, the perfume of her hair fallen upon his cheek encircling. The curve of her hip and belly against which his head was pressed as he lay half-curled into the cradle of her lap. The tiny fluttering sensation of her fingers through his loose hair and over his cheeks. Playfully skimming over his eyelashes and tracing the lines of his brows until all tension seeped from their furrows.

Never could he remember feeling like this.

The world had gone still and ceased to revolve about them. Just lying there together in a clearing, wherein it had once been too dangerous now it was safe to nap without weapons and watch-shifts. Neither of them had brought their knives or their bows, choosing instead to bring a couple of books left discarded a few feet away in the verdant sea.

No place Valthoron could remember had ever been like this. The woods to the east of Ered Luin in the First Age, where he had spent the first few centuries of his life, had always been rife with shadow and lurking creatures of darkness. Mirkwood had been even more so, for the spiders closed in with their dripping stingers and the wolves had circled with their lust-bared teeth and flashing eyes. Orcs, goblins and other creatures of corruption had been all around in every direction, waiting to prey on the unwary, foolish and unguarded.

But no more.

How strange it was that, a mere few centuries after the end of the Second War of the Ring, the world seemed to have recovered already from six thousand years of escalating taint. Valthoron had never lived in a place where it was safe to sleep alone outside in broad daylight. Where one could allow their children to frolic freely through the trees unsupervised without worry. Where the trees were not crooked and menacing, their branches not claws waiting to drag down the victim fleeing in vain but a gentle feather's brush to the cheeks instead.

Where one could pluck an apple from a tree and eat it without worry of being poisoned. Or drink from an unknown river without worry of taint flowing in its current.

Where he could lay all day pressed up against the woman he loved and be content.

Turning, he glanced up at her from beneath the messy curtain of his overflowing curls. Caught her affectionate eyes and held with his own as he gave her an adoring grin. Like two young lovers without a care in the world.

Of course, all was not perfect. There was the absence of Legolas, the gaping hole where he used to be still wide open and empty, left behind when his baby brother had sailed away into the West.

Sometimes he still wondered if Legolas had ever attained happiness. If, somewhere, his baby brother had found a mate and started a family. If, somewhere, that young and tormented soul had found the stillness and quiet that he now felt.

Wondered if, one day, they would ever meet again.

But at times like this it was best to forget. To push aside those sketchy details and wonders and daydreams, to breathe in the tiny portrait painted before his eyes in the moment. Of the married pair in the afternoon sunshine. Basking in the serenity of a healing world embracing them from all sides.

Peaceful and content. That was what he felt. Two things he never believed could ever be within the reach of a child begotten through rape and hated for his bloodline. A child with violence and vengeance and black lust branded into the very thread that wove together the fabric of his existence.

No, all was not perfect. But it was as close to paradise as Valthoron could ever have hoped for. Closer than he had ever dared imagine.

Close enough to risk a smile of true joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Anor = the sun


	277. Perfection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor on the wonders of the only woman he has ever coveted or lusted after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Desire (Chapter 258) as well as the Defiant Arc (through Desire).
> 
> Basically creepy stalkerish sociopathic tendencies of a young Melkor before his "fall". Also, some sexual undertones and blatant masochism.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor
> 
> Eru is referred to as the Father or Ilúvatar (which means All-Father; pretty obvious where that reference came from)

It was not often that Melkor found himself completely enchanted.

Indeed, the greatest and most powerful of the Ainur often found himself a little patronizing toward his fellows, scoffing at his brothers and sisters and their blindly naive foolishness. On many an occasion, he would inwards wonder how it was that his Father could have intentionally created such spineless creatures, children without will and without independence who always clamored after his every word and order as though it were necessary for survival. As though they had no ability to think for themselves.

None of them would ever dare wander off on their own. None of them would ever dare think of possibilities not revealed to them already by their mighty creator.

Certainly, none of them would have allowed their thoughts to stray in the dangerous directions that did Melkor's. Directions of independence—they would have labeled in usurpation—and longing—they would have asked why it was he couldn't be properly content with what he had been given already—and sometimes even resentment.

He wanted something that was not his to want. How dare these simpering children damn him for ambitiously reaching for that which lay so tantalizingly just beyond his fingertips!

But it was still amongst their number that he eventually found _her._

Speaking with Manwë—his blood brother in the eye of Ilúvatar and the most foolish and distasteful of the pathetic followers—he saw her. She was tall and willowy with dark hair that seemed to glimmer with reflection as it swept out about her elegant neck and shoulders. Standing like a queen before a powerful man, her very stance spoke of strength and flexibility.

Her hair was the only thing dark about her. The rest of her was resplendent.

Long limbs, slender and moving through the air as if floating. Pale features, laced through with near-blinding resonant light that shuddered over his skin in waves of heat and coolness. Beauty beyond compare, for her smooth face was flawless and her slanted eyes large and long-lashed. Silvered-blue, they were, and echoes of the Flame Imperishable flashed in their depths and spilled over into the black about those pale spheres.

Even from a distance, everything about her was _perfect._ Strong and steady and beautiful and full of that light that he so coveted. Exactly what he would have desired in a mate.

But up close he discovered she was even more wondrous. For there was none of that demure maiden shyness upon her features when she spoke to the handsome man before her, nor the disgusting frippery so commonly found in the female population. It was plain as day that she was not some teasing, flirting little pet out for an arm upon which to hang to make herself feel "complete". Nor was she a woman easily cowed or enchanted by a charming smile and a few words of empty compliment and worship.

Her voice was strong, lower than he would have expected and ringing with clarity and bell-like pitch. The mere thought of hearing her sing a theme woven by his own hand made heat bubble and boil in a primal tangle beneath his raiment. What a glorious sound she would make! What a gift she was, this maiden!

Varda.

And Melkor was not ashamed to admit that he _wanted_ her. That he followed her and watched her and stalked her relentlessly, even when he knew she despised him with every ounce of her being. It was _that_ which made her all the better in his eyes, for he never would desire a woman who so easily surrendered to his domination in obedience simply because he was a powerful man. He wanted a queen that he needed to _work_ to subjugate—to seduce into lust and to force into love and to crush beneath his thumb. He wanted a _challenge._

And she was undoubtedly that. Glares that scalded skin were leveled, but the burn only made Melkor shiver in pleasure. Scathing words poured like acid across his flesh, but they only made the infatuation within his mind darker and stronger. Once, she had dared even to attack him when he had tried to wrap her spirit within the dark curtain of his presence, and the sting of her nails biting into his body had the most powerful ainu shuddering and moaning softly.

Those lips curled into a snarl summoned forth the urge to bite and ravish them. Those eyes narrowed with disdain were as fresh water in a desert of the soul. That radiant form made him wish to capture her in the cage of his fingers and hold her hostage.

Make her despise him. Make her love him.

Make her _want_ him.

Because she was perfection incarnate. And no matter how many times he saw her with his brother, hand-in-hand and smiling tenderly as sweethearts, he only stopped to smirk and imagine the look upon Manwë's face when he saw her upon Melkor's lap writhing in ecstasy and calling a different name to the skies. And no matter how many times she threatened bodily harm and mocked his power and spat words of disdain for his rebelliousness and sickly darkness, Melkor only ever licked his lips in anticipation of having all of her being for his own whilst she stood helpless and impotent in silent rage.

Ambitious and stubborn, he knew what he wanted. And nothing was going to stop him from taking that which he believed his due.

In the end, she would be by his side. And only then would he shatter her, rend her apart at the seams until her fire and white light spilled forth. Only then would she be broken upon his heavy, unforgiving hand like a china doll, left to pick up the ruined scraps in the wake of her own destruction and rebuild anew.

Her perfection would then be beyond perfection. For only he could be allowed to break this adamant woman. And then she would be his queen as he sat upon his throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = the holy ones  
> ainu = singular holy one


	278. Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eldalótë may have known more than Angrod could ever have guessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entire explanation for this crazy idea: elves are elves are elves are elves. They just seem to _know_ things. 
> 
> This is part of the Defiant Arc, before the fall of Angband and thus before Difficult (Chapter 225) and Garden (Chapter 246), but probably after Fight (Chapter 207)
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Finrod = Findaráto

It had been a foolish notion. This, Eldalótë had known from the very beginning of her journey. For what place did a woman—not even a warrior-woman or a princess or a high-ranking lady, but a _gardener_ —have in a world decimated by war and brutality? Here, she was little more than a burden to her family. Extra baggage for her father-in-law to tote around with his entourage as they crawled through field of battle after field of battle ever northward.

But she had wanted to come. Had _needed_ to come. If anything, for the closure that had so long been denied her within the borders of Valinor.

Eldalótë had come to find her husband. Be he dead or alive. She wanted to know.

Dead, they told her immediately. The flames and the panic and the swarms of enemies had swept south in a tide of relentless force and wiped Angaráto's armies and friends and comrades from the face of the earth, as if their people and their settlements and their homes had never existed. And, it was assumed, the flame had also consumed the prince. Burned him to ashes. Left only bone. Maybe not even that.

Even if it were only scorched remains, she _needed_ to see him.

It took years, however, for the armies of the Valar to crawl far enough north to reach the ruins of Dorthonion and Anfauglith stretched far beyond. The place where that battle had ravaged the earth beyond repair and left everything crumbling in its wake. Impatiently, Eldalótë waited, for she longed terribly to _see him._ To hold what remained of her beloved. Or discover that he was not, in fact, dead.

At least, she hoped he was not dead.

Part of her always feared that he might have died and been locked away in a prison of tapestry and windowless walls, never to be released from the Halls for some unknown sin or horror she could not imagine. For no other reason could she imagine that he would be held so long, denied his return to her side, were it not for punishment. She did not wish to believe the Valar cruel, but...

 _We thought he died before me_ , Findaráto had claimed. And yet nothing.

It was that which sparked the frantic need clawing constantly at the inside of her ribs and revolting violently in the pit of her belly. Wriggling and screaming at the core of her being, down to the essence of her spirit and the core of her bones. It was not the knowledge of death that drove people mad, but the not-knowing that made their minds unravel. It was the uncertainty that made her father-in-law pace each night like a rabid, caged animal, trapped and helpless with no outlet to appease his nerves. It was the uncertainty that had caused Lady Eärwen to sit in her chair and sew for days on end, her eyes empty and focused upon the horizon in hopes that her other sons might appear miraculously before her to chase away the gnawing worry.

It was the uncertainty that made Eldalótë take up a sword against the wishes of her family and learn to defend herself. They never allowed her upon the field of battle, but— _"Just in case something goes wrong, I do not want to be sitting helplessly at camp, waiting to be taken by the enemy. Better that I die fighting than be taken captive."_ —she had nonetheless made herself proficient.

Anything to keep her hands busy. Anything to keep her mind occupied.

Until the day they reached the barren plains that had, once, been a forest-painted valley. Once, Findaráto had described Dorthonion to her as a land wild and overgrown but nonetheless beautiful. Now, it was not beautiful in the slightest. Rather, it was simply empty, the skeletons of scorched trees pointing as spears into the gray, dust-filled sky. Monuments to what had once been a living, breathing land.

There were the dead trees. And the bodies. Some still lay, charred black from fire, all hints at their identities incinerated upon their deaths. Others white-washed of rotted flesh, fallen in the desperate battle that followed, armor still piled in with their remains to mark them friend or foe.

One look at the vast plains told her all she needed to know.

"He is not here."

Eldalótë could not describe _how_ she knew, but all along she had known that she would sense him. So strong had the connection run between them that she would have been able to pick him out amongst a thousand leagues of bones were all that was left of him a mere hand or foot or spinal vertebrae. But here she sensed nothing of his death.

_There were flashes of his laughing face about a fire, drinking with his companions and warriors... And then flashes of flame and screams of the dying as they perished in agony... The wildness and chaotic horror of battle falling upon them in the night..._

But not of death by rusted sword or tongue of flame.

"I know that you want him to be alive, yendë"— _I do, as well _, she heard him silently impart in a half-stifled prayer—"but fanciful notions will get us nowhere, not now. Please, just accept—"__

__Once upon a time, the idea of brushing off her _king's_ advice would have left Eldalótë trembling in terror. But now she simply silenced the man with a glare and refused the comfort of his broad hand reaching toward her shoulder. Though he had been nothing but kind to her since she had joined her husband in matrimony, she would not submit to his crushed, defeated resignation so easily. So pitifully._ _

__"Here, my husband lived. But here, he did not perish," she said with finality. "Were it Lady Eärwen's body you sought—her death which would have haunted this land—would you not sense where and when and how she had passed? Would you not feel it in the deepest core of your bones?"_ _

__He said nothing, hesitant to believe in Eldalótë despite the fact that he knew she was truthful._ _

__Finally, he sighed. "Very well, yendë. North, we shall continue."_ _

____And mourn Angaráto yet, we shall not.__ _ _

__And, though she would never admit it aloud, she both hated and loved this revelation. Thrived upon the hope that still writhed through her veins and seared across the insides of her flesh. And all the same felt the uncertainty—the _unknown_ —closing in to choke her in her vulnerability and her fear._ _

__For little was told of the fates of those lost in the Dagor Bragollach. Except that, if they survived the battle, they had been taken as slaves._ _

__The men who knew more would not speak to her. Only avert their eyes at her impassioned questions, pretending at ignorance for the sake of her innocence. To keep her in the dark and shield her from the cruel reality. But, no matter how they tried to block her understanding and keep her eyes blinded, their avoidance only sparked a worse imagining in her brain. Only confirmed what she had feared all along._ _

__That, maybe, it would have been better if her husband had been dead._ _

__When she finally _did_ lay eyes upon the fortress of Angband many years later—lost in the black smoke and scorched dust of ravaged and broken land and filth, the home of the Black Enemy and his vast army—the whispering in her bones told her a different story from the desolate plains of Dorthonion. A story much more horrifying than mere death in battle or blanketed by dragon's fire._ _

__It was then that she finally wished in vain that she had been wrong. A kinder fate it would have been._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> yendë = daughter


	279. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death of Finrod Felagund.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is related especially to Accent (Chapter 56) and Echo (Chapter 205). And—guess what!—I changed canon. Yes, I know Finrod speaks to Beren when he dies. But if you're mortally wounded and dying, you don't say stupid things like "And now I'm dying and won't ever be seen again! Fare thee well random mortal!". It felt long-winded, stupid and fake to me. So I ignored it. Also, I know it only says "a wolf came for Beren", but it didn't fit my mental image, so there are extra people. And really, did you think Sauron wouldn't have tickets for the front row? 
> 
> Other things to note: graphic violence, blood, gore, canonical character death, dismemberment, etc... 
> 
> Now that that long AN is completed, enjoy the show.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë

_It wasn't really that he knew the boy or that he loved the child enough to die to save his life._

"Only two are left behind." That voice. Their captor and tormentor. Golden hair and the appearance of an elf, spectacular and lovely but corrupt in the eyes. Eyes that flashed scarlet and were veined with cruel fire and sadistic glee. "Bring the boy forth. Let us see if losing his last companion _loosens_ our guest's valiant tongue."

_It was not that he hated his cousin either. No resentment did he feel toward they who had betrayed his love and friendship._

"Valar... Valar help us..."

Beside him, Beren was weeping hysterically, struggling audibly to be free of his bonds. Knowing what was coming, the young human was panicking, breath coming fast and heavy. He knew he was about to die. That they were going to take him away...

That they were going to feed him to the wolves. That he was going to be consumed alive. That his innards would be ripped asunder and devoured before his eyes. That the pain of his limbs being bitten off one by one would be excruciating. That no one would be coming to rescue him, and he would die the same horrifying death as had the ten companions who had been dragged away in silent dignity before him.

But this boy was no silent and poised warrior. No man ready to sacrifice his life. Beren had only been ready to _start_ his long years, and his bravery was little more than the puffed up feathers of a male bird before a female companion. Until he faced the true possibility of death, the boy had been all bluster and loudness and recklessness, never having seen the truth of sick and twisted evil gorging itself upon the most heinous of atrocities, the sight of the dead rotting indecently, the indiscriminate splatter of blood across the ground and the tangle of gore upon his feet.

_It was not even pity._

After only a few days in this torture chamber with no sight for stimulation and only the sound and smell of death and rot as company, Beren was facing a reality he had not been ready for.

This was _his_ quest, and worse enemies would he face before the end than the Lieutenant of Angband and his faithful pack of werewolf soldiers. And yet, as the orcs pulled him down, Beren was pleading and sobbing like a child, fear bringing him to the borders of sanity. Struggling and clawing for survival, he bargained and promised and begged, dragging his feet audibly upon filthy stone.

"Please, please, I am not ready to die! Please, someone, help me! _Help me!"_

_More than anything, it was a matter of honor. Of swearing an Oath and keeping it no matter the circumstances. Of doing what was right in one's eyes at the cost of one's self—at the cost of one's body and sanity and future._

_And he did not think he had ever understood his cousins more. Understood Turkafinwë's madness or Curufinwë's cruelty or Kanafinwë's regret or Nelyafinwë's coldness._

Artafindë could not bring himself to remain idle.

But how he found the strength to wrench his iron shackles from the stone walls, he would never know and could never remember. It was not magic or words of Power that brought the undeniable and superhuman strength to his exhausted and starved muscles when they flexed and ripped from strain. That allowed him to ignore the blood leaking hotly down his suspended arms where the manacles bit their iron teeth into his wrists and sent flashes of pain screaming through his nervous system.

That gave him the courage to rip the attackers from Beren even as the young mortal was being led outside into the dim light. To bash their heads against the wall again and again in a savage tide of fury until their brains were splattered smears upon stone and their bodies were at the feet of the panting, filthy and stricken elf. Yet no time was there to think of how wrong it was that his body cried out for more, that the animalistic rage snarling through his veins demanded more blood upon his fingers and upon his flesh and upon his tongue to sate its wild inferno of twisted hunger.

Demanded that he never back down. That he rip his enemies apart.

_Artafindë always kept his promises. And, in the end, Barahir had saved his life. Saved it, so that in the distant future—far beyond the time he had passed beyond the edges of the world—his only son might live another day._

It was outside the cell that the werewolf awaited. The creature lunged first for the young human, and Artafindë put himself between them, a shield of flesh and blood. Did not feel the pounding in his throat of one who feared for his life, of one who was desperately trying to live. Rather, he felt the calmness of a man surrendered to the knowledge that he was about to die.

The elf grasped at those salivating jaws with his bare hands and ignored how his blood spurted across his face when the long, sharp fangs cut open his skin and sank down to the bone in vicious bites. Tangled his hands in matted fur and threw himself upon the beast like a predatory creature of pure instinct without intellect or logic, going for the throat heedless of his own safety and survival.

Heedless of the tear of his leg being ripped clean off by that heavy jaw, his own fingers clawed at the eyes of his opponent until they bled and were popped free. Heedless of claws raking gashes up and down his naked body, he was all too focused on wrapping his arms about the vulnerable neck and squeezing until his opponent wheezed from lack of air. Heedless of that maw closing upon his torso the squeezing until his chest collapsed and blood flooded his lungs, he buried his teeth beneath layers of thick fur like a beast until he hit bone.

Heedless of all pain and fear, there was no message in his brain except the one that told him to _kill._

That told him to bite until his teeth slid deeper than bone and the shards of vertebrae shattering cut open his lips and the inside of his mouth like knives. That told him to shake his head back and forth so that his teeth tore violently into the tender softness below. And beneath him the wolf squealed and collapsed, lower body cut off from the head as the spinal cord severed, lungs paralyzed and heart frozen as the electrical impulses directing their steady rhythm ceased.

Away from its squirming body, Artafindë rolled as the jaw released his limp form. And it was only upon the cold ground then, in darkness and filth and his own growing pool of blood and spilled entrails, that the prince felt _pain._

Slowly, the dying screams of the wolf tapered away as it suffocated. But he did not look to see its corpse but a few feet away. Instead, he lay and gasped for breath that would not come, unable to move as the rage and adrenaline receded back into the dark side of his spirit from whence they had come.

_His promise was kept, and that was all that mattered. It was not about Beren or about his cousins or about anyone else. Not really._

_It was a sacrifice for what he believed was the right path. A sacrifice all his companions before him had made, but which the youngest member of their band of exiles had not the strength to face in his lust for life._

_Luckily, the price had been bartered ahead of time..._

"F-Finrod..."

Beren was beside him, kneeling and distraught. A wide-eyed child if ever there was one. No doubt he had seen horror and death, but Artafindë doubted he had seen anything like _this._

Unable to speak, he could only offer a bloody smile up at the young man.

"Don't... don't die. Please, don't die." _Don't leave me alone!_

But Artafindë knew he was dying and could not be saved. The pain was numbing and the cold of deadness spreading up from his toes as everything began to shut down. There could not have been much blood left for his failing heart to pump, and even if there had been, his intestines had been severed and his ribs crushed, slicing apart his lungs and arteries. No breath could be taken even to murmur.

Shocked eyes were watching him, even as the buzzing grayness washed over his senses. Even as he fell limp with satisfaction blooming in his chest, overwhelming even the pain.

Not for a moment did he regret his sacrifice.

_Your fate awaits, Beren son of Barahir. Let not this price have been paid in vain. Let not your future slip from between your fingers out of impotent fear._

_Let your life be worth more than my own. Make it count. Be strong. And be happy._

Not even when finally he died.


	280. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rambling introspective piece on keeping one's sanity when they live in Hell and work for the closest thing to Satan they've ever had the misfortune to meet. And still try to be a good person in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically the Morals Arc and the Grace Arc crashing headlong into one another.
> 
> Features Ilession, one of my OMCs.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

A great deal of history could be told with only the black curved lines of ink upon paleness.

Elves, Ilession though, often didn't seem to appreciate this fact. They lived for so long— _remembered for so long_ —that they seemed to forget the value in writing their stories down. So many mortals he had crossed who wrote down their every little daily activity, their every hope and dream, their every work and accomplishment in the hopes that someone would _remember_ them. And yet, if one wanted to know what one of the elves of the first age truly _thought,_ they could only guess.

Sometimes, he wished they realized that they were no more immortal than the mortals they scoffed at and sneered upon. That, any moment, they could be killed as easily as any smelly, rough-around-the-edges farmer or mountaineer.

Sometimes, he wished that his father had actually _written_ whatever silliness had been going through his brain. Or that his uncles had ever thought to write down their thoughts if only for documentary's sake. The only records he ever found from Mithrim or Gondolin were records of treaties, laws and trading logs, hardly a journal or diary to be scavenged from the ruins before the entirety of Beleriand disappeared beneath the ocean's waves and sank down to the bottom of the world where it would never again see the light of day. And then he would stare into the waves and wonder if they had always expected to be there forever, if they had ever thought they might not be remembered.

If it had ever occurred to any of the kings of old how people scoffed at them now for their decisions without knowing the full story. Or to his family that, without ever having recorded their doings, all elves believed them to be psychotic murderers when Ilession very well knew that—misguided and slightly insane or not—they had once been good people.

No one knew that they could cry. That they loved their wives. That Nelyafinwë was a politician who loved children. That Morifinwë couldn't talk to a woman to save his life. That the brothers used to play pranks on one another once upon a happier time. That Turkafinwë and Curufinwë were best friends and had been since childhood.

By the Valar, most people did not even know that Kanafinwë _had_ biological children! And yet here he sat.

Ilession did not want to be one of those people mentioned in the footnotes of one of Sauron's logbooks and thus be named traitor, elf-murderer and cold-blooded warmonger for the rest of eternity. He did not want them to think he had turned his back upon his brother and his friends and his king for the sake of a little power and thousands of years of bowing and servitude and torment. He did not want to be remembered as someone like that, cursed by his line to become an insane monster thirsting after the blood of all those good and pious.

He just wanted them to understand that the eye inked into his hand and the inscriptions drawn until his back like a brand were not the definition of his being. That they were not the only history ever recorded, all truth written upon the flesh of a torture-master and apprentice of the Dark Lord.

It was, perhaps, that fear that led to _them_. His most valuable possessions, the only he allowed himself to keep for they were too precious even to burn or throw aside in fear of their discovery.

The only proof—living or otherwise—that he was a spy. For even his old friend Elrond and his brother Erestor would not be able to prove his innocence now, not when no elven army stood before the Black Gates, but instead a ragtag gathering of men cloaked in desperation and adrenaline-fueled foolish bravery.

Even if he died here, he wanted them to _know._ Wanted them to see, in ink that could not be washed away or altered to change its story, why.

Wanted them to know how he despised harming others but could do nothing except save his own skin to spy another day. How he took no relish in the screams of the agonized and dying as they hung before his eyes, pleading for his mercy, mercy that would never come. How he feared that, should he be discovered and killed, his cousin would be alone in the tower under the thumb of the Dark Lord.

How he wanted nothing more than to take Telperinquar and run, but knew he would be caught in the attempt to escape. How he despised being forced to wait, knowing that each day longer he kept himself away, his cousin fell deeper under that spell and was helpless to fight. How he longed so terribly to thrust a sword through the chest of his master and captor, to watch in satisfaction as that weak and ugly form bled out at his feet like a stuck pig.

It was that need that kept his hand moving even when he longed terribly to sleep. That forced him to remember all those things he would rather forget...

_Describing how he'd removed fingers one by one and taunted his victim in the process. Promised to remove something much more prized and sensitive if this torment proved ineffective..._

_How he had carried out his threat..._

_And how his master had laughed when he'd told the tale in seeming amusement and sick satisfaction. Those volcano-eyes had narrowed, that face curling into a smile that might have been handsome in its disgusting delight had skin not been corpse-gray and hair old-age-white._

_How, in return, he had been told of his cousin. About Telperinquar's helplessness, how beautiful he was and slender he was and enticing he was when he cried and pleaded for more despite receiving only blood and pain..._

_And Ilession had laughed himself sick and grinned with all his teeth showing. Told his master, point-blank, that he couldn't care less about blood. What should it matter to_ him?

_And asked that, maybe next time, could he watch?_

And how he had been sick afterwards. That part, Ilession remembered all too vividly. Though it was not an event oft looked fondly upon, it was relieving, to know that he was still so far from corruption as to find such heinous and toxic ideas repulsive enough to curdle his stomach.

That, if he died here alone, someone—someday—would know the truth. Would look at these thousands and thousands of pages of his cramped and scrawling handwriting and _know._

A comfort, that was what they called it. A comfort for a man trapped in the closest place to hell earth had come in six thousand years. Some days, Ilession thought it might be the last thread of sanity keeping him from dropping into the abyss like many a family member before him. Kept him from spiraling into darkness like Nelyafinwë or hatred like Pityafinwë or madness like Turkafinwë or complete psychopathy like Curufinwë.

Or despair and resignation, like his father.

Carefully, each night, he wrote and then—when all words had been spoken and all deeds committed eternally to memory—he locked the book away again. In the chest kept tucked in the darkest corner of his lavish bedchambers, the only place he kept personal possessions, with the key to its lock on a chain around his neck beneath his layers of shirts and mail and armor where no one would ever see it, could ever steal it. If his master realized it was there, he never said anything—never even smirked in knowing amusement or scorn that one of his apprentices should think to hide from his gaze a secret.

Even if Sauron knew of the journals, he could not know what was within their pages. The Dark Lord was probably too aware of Ilession's loyalty that had lasted over four thousand years, too assured of that continued faith and of his servant's lust for gore and blood to worry about such things. Too distracted with plans and too high on his own power and egocentricity to be suspicious.

Even if Ilession thought his master knew, he would still not have ceased.

Even were he to die for those pages and pages riddled with ink and history and truth, Ilession would die happy to have existed. And, in the afterlife, he would laugh and spit upon his murderer in scorn.

Perhaps it was that assurance that gave him the strength to continue. Even when all he wished to do was lie down and cry.

Even if all he wanted was for everything to _end._


	281. Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haldir knows that his lover is of the forest and the earth. Knows that, given the choice, Legolas would stay there forever and never sail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically Haldir's half of Destination (Chapter 244). Also related to Rain (Chapter 238) and Serenity (Chapter 276).
> 
> So... angst and depression. Not a whole lot else going on here.

Truly, he knew not how to explain in words, to make these bright-eyed creatures understand.

The spirits that guarded the Gardens of Lórien were gentle beings that had never experienced strife, that had never faced hardship. They lived in this world of sweet scents and glowing flowers, of soft night sounds filling the breeze in the dark and the buzz of fat bumblebees during the daytime hours. For them, all was right in the world as long as the sun was shining down upon them in a blaze of golden warmth.

They did not know pain or suffering. They did not understand heartbreak or longing. They knew only the simple comforts of the world, and they could not understand why Haldir could not be satisfied only with the sunshine and the flowers and the endless days of green peace.

Still, ever-cheerful and ever-welcoming, they always took the time to inquire after his wellbeing. As though they were friends, they fluttered close with their wide, innocent eyes and soft garden-tending hands, beautiful and alien faces furrowed with befuddlement when he could not return their smiles and their bell-like laughter. When he took no joy in prancing barefoot through the soft carpet of brilliant green grass and took no happiness in the scent of a bloom pressed beneath his nose.

_"Why do you not smile, meldonya? Are the flowers not to your liking?" they would ask with confusion._

_"Why do you not play with us? The sun is so very warm this morn!" they would exclaim and tug at his arms._

_"Come, sing with us. We have yet to hear your lovely voice join our chorus," they would beg like eager children._

They simply did not understand.

They did not understand that he _could not_ smile, not when before his eyes flashed the image of his not-quite-lover's wide, stricken eyes watching his descent into darkness. They did not understand that he took no delight in prancing like a child through the gardens or in the shine of the sun, not when all memory of green things brought to mind beloved eyes and all warmth seemed but a faded and distant mirage without the embrace of familiar hands upon his cheeks.

They did not understand that he could not bear to sing with them. His voice wanted not to impart their merry tunes and softhearted melodies of springtime and the twittering of birds.

He wanted to lament. 

He wanted to scream and cry at the sky until it darkened with rain as did his thoughts. He wanted to throw himself down upon the ground and weep through his words of broken worship.

What he wanted most they could not impart into his keeping. What he needed most they could not grow in the gardens or weave with beams of golden light.

It made him wonder why he had been sent here at all.

Of course, he had no purpose in the Halls of the Waiting either. Judged quickly, he was, by the terrifying eyes of the Lord of the Dead. Occasionally arrogant, but hardly a tainted soul, the vala proclaimed. Young and loving, caring toward his brothers and his parents, loyal to his Lord and Lady. Dying for something worthy, a passing decorated in valor and worthy of song and praise.

The Halls were not for mourning or for healing. And so here he came.

Maybe they sent him here hoping that the beauty of this paradise would writhe its way into his heart and fill up that aching wound left behind. Maybe they believed that these butterflies and songbirds which fluttered to and fro about him with their lyrical voices and their kind hearts wound help him heal.

But nothing would make that empty pit go away. That place where there should have been—

Even thinking about it left a hollow pang shuddering through his chest.

No, Haldir preferred his corner hidden beneath the willow tree's weeping branches by the edge of the encircling lake. Preferred endless hours staring at the soft current of the waters drifting by silently and soothingly through the afternoon and into the night.

Preferred the soft buttery ivory of the water lilies floating by without stares of confusion or words of inquisition. Gentle and elegant and pale. Quiet understanding.

They reminded him of...

_Of that soft hair flying over a strong archer's shoulder. It shared that softened color of the flowers, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, casting gold upon ivory. Of the smooth skin with a faint rosy tang of liveliness and the overwhelming beauty of curved cheeks and bow-lips that were brought to mind by the sculpted perfection of those petals._

_Of days as calm and sunny as this one, days with the sound of the stream in the distance and the rustle of leaves overhead. Days of staring off into the distance wondering when next he would see that beloved visage appear from between the forest of towering trees. Days wondering with his own longing sigh when next he would be gifted with the glow of that smile and the welcoming affection of deep, smoldering eyes._

Of _his_ nénu.

Thus, Haldir sometimes liked to reach out and touch them as they floated by upon the water. Their softness beneath his fingertips was the only comfort he could find in this place of garish happiness and misunderstanding. This place where he wholly did not belong.

Because he knew with a certainty—one that was undeniable and inexplicable— _exactly_ where he belonged. Exactly what it would take to fill up that empty space that pounded painfully upon his ribs and clawed at his sinking heart.

Knew that it would never happen.

_Because that sweet prince with the fiery eyes and the tender smile loved the forest with every breath in his lungs and every beat of his wild heart. Loved his family and his people and the wide open sky and the earthy imperfection of Middle-earth._

_And he did not want to take that away. Not even to end his own suffering._

Haldir knew that that space would remain empty forever. He would never heal and dance in the gardens and sing like the birds and make merry beneath the trees. He would never revel in the beauty that surrounded and enveloped his cold and desolate bubble of a world.

His salvation was not coming. Not this time.

And so he contented himself with that heavy ache in his chest, eating more and more out of the core of his spirit. And he watched the lilies float by upon their pads.

Watched and dreamed and found no rest in the Gardens of Lórien beneath the willows with the scent of flowers in the air.

Because everything about this place reminded him... reminded him...

Haunted him... haunted him...

Carved... and... sheared... open...

And the lilies just stared back. Quiet and knowing. And accepting the invisible tears that were too frozen—too selfless—to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> meldonya = my friend (meldo + nya)  
> vala = greater ainu (holy one)  
> nénu = yellow water lily (I believe they do actually canonically grow in the Gardens)


	282. Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor struggles once again with letting go of the past. It's more difficult than others would like to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the Grace Arc that takes place after Nowhere (Chapter 245) and Celebration (Chapter 260).
> 
> Dramatic irony revealed. Based off something one of my reviewers said about one of the other stories in the Grace Arc.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Sauron = Annatar

Where it started and ended.

Within the cradle of his palm, Telperinquar held it as one holds a vial of poison. Seemingly tiny yet so very heavy, hot to his flesh as though the golden band were hollowed out with liquid earth and flame. It was such a simple-looking thing, and were it of the pure metal it appeared it would even have been fragile, prone to bend and dent. Yet, when he turned it within his hand, he saw the knife's edge of slanted script and knew no amount of violence or destruction would ever mar those sleek letters.

His lover's hand written in iridescent glow across the band. Perhaps it was not the ring that had started it all, but it was the one that still lingered here, in the end.

The similarities were uncanny and disturbing. Only once had Telperinquar seen it, the Ring of Power—the One, they called it, in a mockery of sacred affection that left his blood chilled and heart sinking—and he could recall then that it had been large and heavy, molded perfectly about the index finger of a hand he _knew_ was broad and powerful, had felt against his body and bruising his thighs and coaxing forth his cries for more with painful ease again and again. Then, though, that simple bit of adornment had seemed so innocuous and trivial, perhaps a gift or the trinket of a young smith, filled with sentimental value for all its plainness and simplicity.

Only once had he asked about it, that simple band. Well, he remembered the smirk upon his lover's face as those eyes had traced across the band affectionately. _"It is a trinket I made for myself, a simple bit of sentimental value."_ A larger hand had grasped Telperinquar's left then, held it up and stroked over his ring finger as those eyes stared into him and left him shivering. _"Perhaps one day I shall make you one to match, my sweet love..."_

Such a plain little thing, and yet at the time Telperinquar would have cherished such a gift and declaration—unadorned, simple and without enchantment, made by his lover's hand—above even the most powerful of Rings of Power set with the most lovely and rare of gems. Such a plain little thing would have been his most beloved possession.

Anything but a plain and sentimental old trinket had it been in truth. For, as he lay choking in his own blood, dying from agony and torment at the feet of the man he thought he loved, Telperinquar recalled being blinded by its flame. Remembered his eyes being drawn toward the gold flecked with his blood, recalling the whispered promise in the night like a sweet false dream. Remembered the malicious flash of the script of Mordor etched upon its outer layer for all the world to see—

_So that they might all know who their master was. And the message was meant for Telperinquar more so than any other._

—and remembered how his stomach rebelled and his throat had closed in despair. It had been as close to crying as he had come, the moment his soul had shuddered and nearly cracked under the pressure and desperation before he had steeled himself against the onslaught of seductive words and wave after wave of agony in his veins. The single moment where he had considered betraying all his kin and joining the deception that had been Annatar in all his glory.

He had not. Instead, he had died. And come back. Thought nothing would ever come of those soft-spoken words—lies veiled in a smoky haze of lust and charm and enchantment—that slipped past deceptively soft lips and were breathed across his face in the dark.

But Annatar had kept his promise.

Thousands of years later, Telperinquar sat upon his cot and stared at it, the last remainder of years of growing horror and turmoil now silenced in victory and grief. A simple golden band it appeared to be, but he knew that should he put it upon his hand—he knew it would fit snugly about the ring finger of his left hand, whereupon a dark line cut through pale skin—the words would form in iridescent flame to match those eyes, molten fire opal twisted into the hand of his lover. Words of love and possession that he had heard spoken aloud hundreds of times, murmured against his ear in the midst of passion or with the hot wind of Mordor upon his face and the barren plains stretched out below...

It was cruel and ironic. Even though Annatar—even though _Sauron_ —was gone, destroyed and thrown into the Void to rot away into nothingness, he was still _here_. Just a little piece of him that would never quite leave Telperinquar alone. That little part of unholy fire and dominating will that connected them still. That brought those eyes into his dreams still months after being freed from the fortress of Barad-dûr. That teased his flesh with the airy memory of caresses and kisses and lashes of white-hot pain.

That little piece of fire that dared light up those words and draw him into the delusion of that voice speaking them in velveteen tones. Seducing with their sultry whisper until his knees were weakened to jelly and his will to resist crumbled into dust.

_I should destroy it_. Orodruin's eruption had ended, and though the land of Mordor was in tatters, it would not have been a long or arduous journey to the mountain to throw it into the flames. To join its counterpart, the One, in a liquid grave in the bosom of the earth from whence it had come.

And then Telperinquar would be free of its spell.

But it was, in the end, a Ring of Power. And Rings of Power had a way of keeping their own safety assured, even at the cost of their bearer's sanity. This one was no different, no less malicious or cunning or knowing. No less terrifyingly addictive to the touch and the sight. Telperinquar felt as though he were upon the brink once more of losing his mind completely even gazing upon its dull glimmer.

Could he really end it all? Throw this simple little trinket away?

Could he wash his hands of Annatar?

Nothing stood in his way. Nothing but the glint of golden light flashing with heat and fire. Nothing but the words of love in familiar and beloved opalescent writing. Nothing but the memory of those glowing eyes and burning kisses.

Nothing but the image of that handsome, genuine smile when his lover looked up at him from beneath thick eyelashes and sighed. Nothing but the echo of those lips murmuring his name on a cool night beneath the stars in the grass and a warm hand still wrapped about his own, a callused thumb still tenderly tracing up and down his fourth finger longingly.

In the end, nothing barred his way. Nothing. And yet, everything.


	283. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thoughts of an outsider looking in from a distance. And still remaining willfully blind to the reality right before his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connected most closely to Muse (Chapter 168), Engage (Chapter 143) and Desire (Chapter 258), but is technically related to everything even remotely related to Fëanor, so I'm not going to list them all.
> 
> Written from a POV I've never tried before, just for fun. Draws a lot of parallels between the "villains" of Tolkien's world.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Sauron = Mairon

It was one of the man's best and worst qualities. This much, Aulë could admit with startling ease even after a single glance toward the bright new star inhabiting his Mansions. A mere apprentice was the young elf, working beneath Mahtan the copper-smith for but a handful of years in the long rivers of time, but already the vala knew this particular spirit would go far. Had the makings of a great and skilled craftsman and as well as a great leader of elves.

That certain rare quality was written into every poised line of the lithe form that slowly grew heavier with the muscle of an experienced smith constantly lifting heavy metal and pounding it into shape. It was absorbed into every pore of sweaty, gleaming flesh as the young elf grew into his full glory, a prince if ever there had been one.

Let it never said that Fëanáro was lax. Not even more a moment.

No amount of obstacles could bar the way of this creature. With admirable defiance and stubbornness that put many a greater spirit to shame, the prince plowed his way to the top of his field. Became more and more talented with each passing hour, as though it were absorbed through his skin.

But Aulë knew osmosis had nothing to do with the metamorphosis. Nothing more than sheer drive kept the new and insatiable student learning his craft. Absorbing at a ridiculous pace, that mind furiously working hour after hour after hour, processing and retaining and detailing and then computing all of that knowledge into flow and design. 

Working well into the nights. Refusing to quit until perfection was reached. Reveling for only mere moments in the glory of completion. And then beginning the vicious cycle again.

And again. And again. And again. Until it was exhausting to even watch and yet impossible to look away. Like a river flowed forth the miraculous beauty from those hands, each piece more refined and more dazzling than the one before. And each smirk of satisfaction upon the maker's face sharper and hungrier than the last.

And the vala remembered seeing it before, this very same glint in the eyes and curve of the lips and dexterity of the mind. Remembered it well.

Remembered exactly why it had always made him... nervous... wary... even anxious...

Remembered other tireless creatures with white-hot burning coals for eyes and the drive to succeed embedded like a disease into the flesh of their spirits. An itch they could not scratch. An open wound that would not cease to bleed. A greed they could not tame.

The beginning of that same taint was there for all to see, and yet none seemed to recognize its danger. Fanaticism was burning its toxic incense within Fëanáro, lending to his innate passion and beauty an air of charisma, desperation and sheer force of will, all mixing into a concoction that virtually foreshadowed disaster. Hidden so well, and yet so blatantly displayed...

A little comment here...

_About his mother. About how he remembered her, both dead and in life, and how terribly he missed her and loved her and resented her. How he tried to recreate her vibrancy the way his father told him of it in long distant bedtime stories. How he imagined he could somehow create a container to hold the fire..._

_To put it back inside her drained and faded spirit, even if he need embed it into her chest..._

And a little reminder there...

_A flicker of that ambition curling its way inward, slinking into the shadows lining eyes of molten mithril poured into shape. The glint of obsession played an insidious counterpart, dancing flashes of combined fury, anger and despair weaving in and out of heady senility._

_Lust. Want. Need too powerful to ignore. From which one could never turn away once they had cast their eyes upon it. It was digging its nails deep, poisoning slowly the blood and bone..._

Most days, he tried not to let it distract him from his work. Aulë, after all, was hardly free of mistake or foolishness in his past, and he believed in the power of experience to guide one down the correct path as it had done once for him, one of the greatest of the Valar. As it had many a young smith passing through his Mansions with cocky arrogance and a thirst for knowledge leaving many a century later more with scars, wariness and wisdom than the trinkets, glory and renown for whence they had come.

He tried to ignore the niggling doubt in the back of his mind. To be optimistic. To believe in the light that also lit that spirit from the core and scorched away the darkness.

Tried... But seldom did his efforts succeed, force away the sibilant whispers...

_Melkor, standing before their father with that same defiant tilt of his head and that same insane fire taking over every inch of his being until it leaked sickly fumes that choked and churned with the turmoil enfolded inside that nest of sentient power._

_Then, Aulë had seen the desire for something greater, the desperation to grasp at filaments of hope and drag past any obstacle for the sake of that single little thought... that single little obsession allowed to grow and grow and grow into something monstrous that took over and drove away any and all thoughts of rationality._

_He had seen it, and he had shied away..._

That perhaps he was being foolish to dismiss Fëanáro upon the basis of his mortal cage and bodily limitations. Could ever such a creature truly become such a threat?

_As had Mairon, the once-dedicated and talented apprentice trailing after his heels. Following his every word and direction as though it were law._

_And yet, writhing beneath the surface, there had always been the want for more. The urge to question or to comment or to interrupt. To break the carefully constructed boundaries of their master-student relationship. To defy for the sake of freedom._

_To be free to reach beyond his place in the world._

_Always, Mairon had desired to fight against the path laid at his feet. And fought he had, until no Mairon existed to take the determined route. Only was there Sauron, who followed no hand of fate, who existed only to defy the will of the Father until he drew his last breath and his spirit burned away into ash and ember in the night._

That, perhaps, something lurked, waiting for the fatal mistake...

Waiting with its maws parted wide, ready to swallow whole the bright star so proud of his accomplishments and so eager to learn more. With such a bright future ahead of him, the prince of his people, a future ruler and a future master craftsman and a future father. A fate laid out in preparation for a being of greatness, that wicked greed starving and grumbling defeated, old grievances laid to rest...

Except they weren't laid to rest. Except they lingered upon the air. Except they were the fuel that kept turning the cogs and gears of that drive.

That rare and inexplicable talent. That gift and curse.

Really, Aulë should have paid more attention. Should have watched more closely. Should have seen earlier the signs and chosen not to ignore them, but to share them. To chase them away, even if it meant denying that starving soul its bread and water of vengeance and fulfillment of childish, wistful desire.

Should have. But even the Valar were prone to mistakes. Few knew that better than he.

And still, he turned away and left that glowing spirit to spiral out of control. And still, he repeated the same mistakes even having seen the signs of warning.

And still, he watched that bright star fall to darkness. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> vala = greater ainu (holy one)


	284. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Fëanor is far too intelligent and too observant for his own good. As young children oft tend to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tied in with Muse (Chapter 168) and Drive (Chapter 283). But again, related to most Fëanor-related stories.
> 
> The origins of the mother complex (and probably the reason Fëanor wants to dance in Indis' guts). Hints a little here or there at some weird stuff, just warning you.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Ever since he was little—before he could even truly put words to the feeling that ached and jolted in his chest when he watched other parents with their laughing, joyous children—Fëanáro had realized something wasn't quite right. That something important was _gone._

Missing.

_"Where is Emya? Atto... where is she?"_

There were always two. Two of them and their child. A tall figure—a man standing guard over his family with pride, playing in the gardens with the little one, grinning and chuckling with a deep voice. Another figure, shorter and slimmer, shaped differently, and so beautiful—a woman who always cradled her babies close and kissed away their scrapes and bruises so easily. And then there was the child between them, who was always smiling and laughing and bubbling over with the heady delight of a careless life free of worry and worldly disillusionment.

Even as a child, rarely did Fëanáro smile. He could not recall laughter.

There was only he and his father and the endless ornate hallways full of cold, lifeless and lavish artifacts. A museum that his delicate, clumsy fingers were not allowed to touch. A jungle of breakables and rules and nannies and things little children could never understand.

_"She is not here." And his father would hug him close, lay a cheek to the top of his head, and Fëanáro had never understood why it did not feel the same as the embraces he saw between child and father outside the walls of the palace. Why there was only a thick veil of sadness and an almost smothering layer of pure affection and desperation._

_"I am so sorry, yonya. She is not here."_

_"When is she coming home?"_

_He desired her warmth. Her softness and her comfort and her care. Her kisses and her voice and her lullabies._

_"She is not."_

_More than anything, just once, Fëanáro wanted his mother._

_But..._

Most would scoff. Growing up as a prince, he had always had everything he wanted (or so everyone said) and had been endlessly spoiled (according to his tutors and nannies and the courtiers whispering darkly behind raised hands) and so what did he have to whine or cry about? Eru forbid the young prince be left wanting for anything.

Never mind that the child desired only a proper hug.

Not one of those cheap imitations that his father so often bestowed upon him. Not some red gleaming jewel masquerading as a ruby, but too garish and too clear to be the real thing. Not a lie.

He did not want to be embraced and told that he was loved when his father pulled away, held him at arm's length, and looked _through_ him. Whispered words of affection that sounded like they were meant for someone else, someone who wasn't even there, who overshadowed the child longing only for his father's attention and love. Finwë would then lean forward and kiss his son upon the brow and send him away.

Send him away. Would not allow for the boy to sit upon his lap whilst he worked. Would not allow the child to sleep in his bed after a nightmare.

And absolutely would not allow Fëanáro to speak of _her._

_"But Atto, I want—"_

_The grip about his skinny arms became harder. Slightly painful and pinching. Immediately, the boy was silenced, limp in that grasp as his father's warmth pulled away. Left him cold and aching, shivering and resisting with every ounce of innate stubbornness the need to wrap about himself his own arms in a pitiful, lonely embrace._

_"Let us not speak of this again, yonya. There is nothing more to say."_

_Fëanáro did not bring it up again._

But he never stopped thinking about it. About _her._

About how, if she was there—if she had never left, wasn't gone, wasn't _missing_ —they would all be happy. Just like those other families he spied on sometimes, laughing in the gardens, tangled together in warm hugs, smiling and nuzzling and sleeping in the golden light together beneath the trees. In place of those perfect families, always the young prince imagined them, himself pressed between his father's warm, comforting form and his face curled up against the slender, silver-dappled throat of his mother as her arms came about him. As they all became a family together without the burden of death or kingship or other things that his childish mind did not yet understand.

Simplicity became his mantra. His law and declaration. The only thing keeping the child from utterly falling apart alone in that house, starving and thirsting.

If only she were here.

Then maybe his father would not stare through him as though he were little more than a ghost of another, a pane of glass hiding a treasure. Then maybe there would be smiles and laughter in these cold hallways and marble foyers. Then maybe they would all be happy together like those other parents and their children of whom the young prince was so envious.

Then maybe Fëanáro would not be so sad all the time. Or cold. Or alone.

Little daydreams. Little passing thoughts. Little whispers. Like fuel poured over an open fire, the obsession broke the fence of scorched stone and raced through the dry grass, eating away everything in its path until only _it_ was left, and all energy was directed toward its burning. Toward its continued existence. Toward its final completion.

Years and years later, it was still bright and white-hot in his chest. The memory of his father's distant love and his mother's frown in death. And the need to fix this shattered and mangled wreckage. To find the missing pieces and put them back together into a semblance of order. To make this machine of affection and emotion _work._

Young Fëanáro wondered what it would be like, to have a father's pride and a mother's care. The love of his parents, and not the love of a broken man too shattered and too busy and too frightfully depressed beneath the weight of loss and despair to come out of the dark. Too lost to be led free of the labyrinth by the child's clumsy little hands that did not know how to help or how to guide, for they were blind and innocent to the true nature of his father's despondency.

Not enough. Never enough. For young Fëanáro, the spark was lit. The need become too great to ignore, the fear too potent to push aside. He loved his father—truly he did—but he was not enough. Had never been enough.

They needed to be whole. And only she could fill the void left behind.

_Only she_ , he oft recalled bitterly. Bitterly and longingly and wistfully.

_Only she._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> emya = mama  
> atto = daddy or papa  
> yonya = my son (shortened yondo + nya)


	285. Full Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So everyone knows the story of the sun and the moon, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose this is technically about the maiar who guide the vessels of the sun and the moon, but the idea's there. Anyway, characters I've never written before! Just to make it clear, this is an experimental work. And this is also technically not canon-compliant either, but I wrote it anyway.
> 
> Although, this story does give solar eclipses a rather interesting connotation.

Such assumptions they seemed to make. As though they knew everything about every tale by word of mouth. But they had never asked her. Only spoke of her as though they knew her.

Always the story went that he loved her so much that he trailed after her erratically, drawn to her brilliance and splendor so greatly that he dared even disobey the strict orders of the Valar and risk something so precious as the last blossom of Telperion if only for a chance to catch her love and keep her close in his arms forever. And she spurned his advances, scarring and burning the face of his vessel to keep him at bay, for she was distant and fiery, too beautiful and wonderful and powerful for his mere love. That was how the tale went, passed down through the ages.

What did they know?

Arien hated that story. Some tale of her great and terrible beauty, her haughty rejection and callous disregard for the affection of her fellow maia.

What did they even know about her, shepherdess of the vessel of the sun?

What did they even know about _him_ , shepherd of the vessel of the moon?

She knew of him more so than ever they would. His name was Tilion. And she remembered him vividly from the times of bliss and security before the destruction of the Two Trees. A powerful hunter of Oromë, reckless and arrogant and beautiful he had been, a wild and untamed forest creature. Tall and fine with a silver bow and dark hair and eyes that pierced straight through her body whenever they landed upon her, so keen was their gaze even at great distance. Helplessly, she had always been impressed by the man, though they had hardly spoken more than a handful of words to one another.

Perhaps equally helplessly, she had been ever so slightly in love with him.

With his moments of stupid sweetness that she wanted terribly to deny—for she was supposed to be greater than he and more powerful than he and independent of his charm and need for his presence. A woman of strength who did not swoon over perfect musculature beneath her roving hands and a handsome face with dreamy-pale eyes and soft words whispered in the dark against her ear. A woman who could turn away from such materialism and weakness, becoming great and powerful of her own accord, who did not need affection and love to reach splendor.

That was why she was chosen, so they said. Because she was strong.

But she had volunteered because she was weak.

_"Who better is there to guide the vessel of Anar, my lords and ladies, than I?"_

Because she was in love with a man she barely spoke to. Because she didn't _want_ to be. Because she wanted desperately to prove she could be without him. And it was a convenient escape, this important task that would keep her for all eternity. Keep her aloft in the sky. Keep her away from his grasp.

Keep her free. That was what she wanted. To be free of this suffocating, terrifying need to be close, to be entwined.

_Right?_

Yet, when she stepped forward and offered herself, she had seen his face. For just a moment—a moment she couldn't banish from her thoughts no matter how she might try to blind it from her mind and drive it away with every drop of heat beneath her hands—he had looked... devastated.

Not merely angry. Not merely saddened. Not merely shocked. But all of them at once and more.

He looked upon her as though he would never see her again. As though he were _losing_ her, as though she were his to lose. As though the thought were physically painful, wracking him with shudders.

And then...

_"Please, let me guide then the vessel of Isil. Let me be the second, for I can protect the flower of Telperion better than any other."_

And then he stepped forward at her side. His heat bored into her body from the mere feet between them, close enough that she could have taken a tiny step and grasped his hand in her own. Could have pulled him close and leaned against his shoulder.

Could have felt him, if only once.

And she knew he only stepped forward because she had gone first. Because he wanted to be as near to her as he could draw. And so he, too, would be in the vast expanse of the sky.

But they were never destined to come together. And she despised seeing the proof. The distant orb floating in the haze of the clouds, sending rays of silver across the forest floors and threading through the ocean waves just as she slipped through the crack of the Door of Night. It was but a glimpse, so quick and so beautiful and so bitter.

Of the full moon. Hanging there, so far beyond her reach.

It was the only time she could really see his glory in its entirety. The silvered gleam of _his_ beauty, the softness and strength that she so desired in the long hours of slipping through the blackness of the Void and pretending to be too brave to need a companion and lover by her side. In her irises, a purple and splotchy afterimage settled against the black background, burned into place, never going away, never leaving her be.

Reminding her always.

That they were wrong. That she wasn't a strong woman with a callous or cold heart beneath an exterior of fire. That she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her. And that she had been too cowardly to reach out and grasp at that most tantalizing desire. Out of pride and out of fear and out of foolishness.

Some choices couldn't be unmade. And there was no way to change her mind now. Not when she was permanently settled in the blanket of the sky. Forever until the end of time.

The elves. The mortals. The Valar. What did any of them really know about the sun and the moon?

About the lonely shepherdess of the sun and the heartbroken shepherd of the moon.

Nothing. Nothing at all. And she hated that, sometimes, her pride purred in delight for that fact. That no living creature save she and he knew the truth of this tragic farce. That her name was spoken in reverence and awe and fear rather than scorn and dismissal as was his. That it was only the distant silvery disk in the twilight that could ever remind her of her greatest follies. 

Her greatest failures.

Her greatest falsities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> maia = lesser ainu (holy one)  
> Anar = the Sun (fruit of Laurelin)  
> Isil = the Moon (flower of Telperion)


	286. New Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change for Maedhros in the face of Maglor's newly adopted fosterlings. Who would have thought that he still had a heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Repeat (Chapter 8), Panic (Chapter 83), Lullaby (Chapter 118) and Memorial (Chapter 44), just to name a few. There are more, of course.
> 
> The fluff of this brings vaguely to mind Cookies (Chapter 97). There is also some other stuff. Mentions of war, bloodshed, child-murder, etc... The usual works.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Nelyafinwë or Nelyo  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno

Always, he had assumed his life would follow a certain path. A certain set of secretly written guidelines and regulations that he dare not breach or disobey.

A prince's firstborn son, the second in line to the throne. Perfect. Intelligent. Handsome.

A writer and a scholar, but first and foremost a politician.

That was what his life should have been. Always, Maitimo knew that was what he had been created to _be._ He could speak and write and debate and no one save perhaps his own sire could stand in the way of his onslaught and hope to remain standing. That was his purpose, his perfection.

But his life had been nothing like that at all.

And now, run down and tired, having just burned the body of his young brother, Maitimo only wanted to go back to the moment he had stupidly raised his sword in a fit of fear and pride and paternal loyalty, and he wanted to snub his father right in the face. Declare that _he_ would not be abandoning _his_ wife to loneliness and _his_ children to certain death, that _he_ was brave enough to face those glowing eyes and speak his mind for once in his life.

Maybe then he wouldn't be here, wishing to die. Wishing to die but having no choice except to live, because he couldn't leave Kanafinwë all alone and he daren't disappoint Findekáno further. And because he couldn't drive the tantalizing glow of the Silmarilli from his mind, nor the knowledge that one was so close and yet so far out of his grasp.

"Brother."

Kanafinwë's voice was small and fatigued, but underlying even that was a sort of tension. An underlying nervousness that had been there, nearly inaudible, since before the Second Kinslaying. Since the last time the second-born had tried to disobey the oldest.

Maitimo hated that his brother feared him. Hated that, when he was lucid, he could see that lingering worry and terror. Hated that, when he was lost in the tides of senility, he did not even care.

"What need you, Kanafinwë?"

"I... I have a request."

Half-expecting another entreaty against further action—and what more could they do at this point, anyway?—Maitimo prepared to admit temporary defeat. To agree to some rest and some time away from this endless field of death, if only so that he could breathe air that did not stink of rotting corpses and drying blood. "Continue."

"I have Elwing's twin sons..."

It took a few moments to register those words. Captives. Kanafinwë had _captives._ And Maitimo almost winced when the first words to rise upon his tongue were cruel and cold, words of death in petty vengeance.

"I want to bring them with us."

It was then that Maitimo turned to face his younger brother, found two small elflings clinging to the back of said brother's knees, half-hidden beneath his tattered and blood-stained cloak. Peering out of the folds and up at Maitimo as though he were Morgoth personified. Silently to himself, he admitted that he hadn't expected the children of Elwing to be so tiny and fragile. So utterly helpless.

If he decided they were to die now, they would not even be able to put up a fight.

"Our war-camps are no place for children, and neither is Amon Ereb," Maitimo muttered, still watching them, observing how they cringed and flinched at his deep, raw voice washing over their ears. "I wouldn't have our men burdened with—"

"I will look after them myself." A stubborn set came to that jaw, a striking and sudden resemblance to their sire that had Maitimo shuddering. Once his father had _that_ look, there was no changing his mind. And it seemed Kanafinwë was much the same. "You need not bother yourself, nor need any of our warriors. I will watch over them and cook for them and keep them out of trouble."

_If only you will let me take them with._ That voice, strong and steely, trembled ever so slightly upon its foundations. A weakness that an enemy would have exploited, but Maitimo felt no need to tear his brother apart, nor to be unduly cruel, not in the wake of his own raw wounds and aching fatigue.

And, perhaps, he did not want to kill any more children. Perhaps he did not want to hear any more high-pitched squeals of terror just before...

"Very well," he acquiesced. "Just keep them out of the way."

Too late to take back his decision, Maitimo arose from his spot leaning against his lonely tree with a view of the slaughter-field and walked away. Let Kanafinwë keep his little ones if so he wanted.

(More than he was willing to admit, Maitimo knew that his brother longed for his children. And he also knew exactly who should have shouldered the blame for the loss of those of blood, the oldest in hatred and the youngest in fear. Perhaps it was that which had stayed his tongue and blade.

But either way, his heart felt just a bit lighter and his blade just slightly cleaner.)

\---

Of course, life upon his dingy and depressing hill suddenly turned in a new direction. One that Maitimo was not entirely sure he could stomach.

(Or maybe he did not want to admit that he liked it too much).

Where usually there was silence, there was _noise._ Logically, Maitimo had known that children were prone to noise—he had helped raise six, none of whom were good at being quiet and well-behaved—but he hadn't remembered just how much ruckus a set of twins could bring down upon his doorstep. Squealing and the patter of footsteps and giggling laughter when he was trying to work.

The pair of rambunctious troublemakers lost much of their shyness after the first few months of living amongst ornery soldiers and their foster father's very unpleasant older brother. They had started calling him "Uncle Maedhros", even in front of the warriors and guardsmen—and he knew Kanafinwë was laughing at the tension in his shoulders and the twitch in his cheek every time it happened—and were it not for the fact that he was perpetually in a bad mood, he suspected they would spend half the day following _him_ around like little ducklings rather than sticking close only to their primary caretaker.

He was not looking forward to the day they gathered the courage to start interrupting his time alone in his study like little time-devouring hooligans.

(Mostly because it reminded him too much of those other twins who always wanted lullabies and cookies and to play games, drawing him away from his studies and his papers into the afternoon sunshine, always making him smile.)

But for now he was content with watching.

With listening to their unsteady and childish plucking away at the harp lessons Kanafinwë had insisted upon. With wincing each time he heard a crash echoing down stone walkways and knew somewhere there was a shattered vase or a pile of armor needing to be cleaned up. Even with observing at a distance—and studiously avoiding—messy "family" mealtimes.

It was different having the little ones there. And not only because of their loudness and messiness and troublesome boisterous behavior.

It was refreshing, much as he hated to admit it.

His warriors smiled more often, the shadows that normally hung as a gloom over the faces of his comrades suddenly parted by light bursting through their net and tearing it apart with resplendent claws and fangs. There was _laughter_ amongst the ranks and talk of making toys and teaching swordsmanship and archery and horsemanship.

As though all of these broken warriors had also, in some strange way, adopted the twins just as thoroughly as had Kanafinwë.

And it was infectious.

Enough so that Maitimo felt his dark, fey moods drifting and waning like fog in early morning. Often he had to fight the upturn of his lips at each stupid, silly question they asked or each strange and nonsensical phrase they produced. Whenever he was around them, the obsession grew fainter, the voices dwindling into silence and the heady _need_ to go out and hunt down his salvation faded.

Faded into something that resembled a frightening sort of _contentment._

Of course, there was still the war. Of course, there was still the past. And, of course, Maitimo was still as barren and alone as ever.

But he had trouble keeping to the Oath. When next Kanafinwë begged him to forswear his vows, Maitimo had almost surrendered without thinking of the consequences. Without thinking of what might happen should the other Silmarilli be uncovered and their way be cleared of an implacable obstacle. Without even stopping to consider all the options, he had _almost_ agreed.

By the third time Kanafinwë asked, Maitimo had given in to his brother's persistence and patience.

_"We are happy, brother. Content. You are happy and content; I can see it in your eyes no matter that you try to hide it. Why deny us that boon? For the sake of a few glowing stones?"_

_Maitimo was supposed to be the persuasive one, the expert in rhetoric and debate. But somehow the thought of the twins—of their upturned, grinning faces covered in sticky jam or smudged with mud from playing in the rain—was more persuasive an argument than any Kanafinwë could have presented with mere words._

_(He tried to convince himself that it was a figment of his imagination, this attachment. They were not his sons—adoptive or otherwise—and he was not their father.)_

_"I..."_

_"Please, Nelyafinwë—Maitimo, please consider it."_

_"I need not consider it, brother."_

_"But Nelyo—"_

_"I will forswear our Oath." Even speaking the words had brought such profound relief that his knees would have given out had he not been sitting. All that weight lifted with ease. So many lives saved. So many innocents whose blood would never run into the earth, testament to the crimes of his House and his brothers._

_"I will..."_

Stubbornly, Maitimo persisted with his grumpiness and antisocial tendencies. Still, he avoided being alone with the little ones and chose to keep an eye on them from far away.

All the while telling himself that they were not his. Telling himself that, one day, he would be able to let them go and life would reorient itself. Re-establish the pattern that for so long had been cultivated. Bring him back to the brink of desperation and insanity as though he had never strayed from its path.

(Except they were his. As much as any child of blood would have been. And, in the dark of night, he knew he would not be able to let them go.

They were his. His sons. And that changed everything.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril


	287. Consubstantial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another bit of Valarin strangeness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, I suppose, connected with Desire (Chapter 258) and Reality (Chapter 275). But mostly it's just a rarely-visited POV. For fun.
> 
> More philosophical debate and brotherly love, mostly unrequited.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor

Perhaps it was a foolish course of action. Reckless. Careless.

From the very beginning—from the moment of their birth together in the quiet of the unraveled universe—Manwë had sensed the _difference_ in his brother. Melkor had been his antithesis in many ways, loud and brash and strong where the younger brother was quiet, thoughtful and wise. But all the same they had complimented one another, and for a time they had been content.

He still remembered it well, the time when there had been no divide of jealousy or resentment between them. The time when they could have spoken civilly—even affectionately—as one sibling to another with their raiment cloaking their joyful spirits in smiling visages rather than scowls.

Once, when they could have sat together in harmony. In peace. Like a soft melody floating as a cloud across an open, clear sky.

Well, he remembered it. Too well. And he tried to remember that—those moments where their spirits entwined together into a mixture of brotherly love and respect and admiration for each other's differences—rather than what had followed after. Rather than the darkening and the bitterness and the unhappiness that followed. The war and the death and the rotting spirit-flesh.

Tried to remember a time where they had been alike to each other in the strangest, most bizarre fashion. So very different from one another, and yet fundamentally the same. Balanced in equilibrium as they had always been intended to be from the very beginning of time.

Many ages later, it was those very memories—those of a happier time—that drove him to be merciful.

That made him compassionate.

_"You will serve your punishment here. Long enough have you stayed locked away in the Halls of the Waiting. I would see you free, my brother, and content with the world and with yourself."_

_Melkor scoffed quietly. "And what, pray tell, have you in mind, little brother?"_

_"Serve the people. Get to know them, our Father's creations. Come to love them."_

I know you are capable of love, _he wanted to say._ I know that you are able to feel softness and tenderness, for you and I are the same.

_"Love them?" The very idea seemed to disgust the shade of his beloved sibling. "You have become weak-minded and feeble in your_ love, _brother. A foolish and gentle creature, one which I will take pleasure in one day tearing apart."_

_It saddened him to know that nothing had changed. That the years of imprisonment had only made that bitterness more acute upon the tongue._

_But he had to try._

_"You will remain under watch, observed, but I would have you walk freely."_

Prove to me that something of the man I remember remains still.

Please.

_"I will do my best... my king..." Nothing had ever sounded more sarcastic or more venomous, but he let it go._

From the start, he should have surrendered to the inevitable. That was what they all said. Every single one of them. His brothers and sisters, all faithless, but none could recall a time when Melkor had not been sour and slimy to the touch. When he had been handsome and powerful and good-natured, enjoying the company of others without scorn and envy and lust for that which was not his. Without the materialism and the obsession.

They did not remember the Melkor that Manwë knew like the back of his hand. A part of his own being, innate and necessary.

Cut from the same cloth, as the mortals said. A truer statement he had yet to hear. And it kept his stubbornness and determination burning through those early years of equally stubborn refusal to cooperate. Through railing tirades of abuse and foul language and complaining and pleading and insulting.

Through the long years of slowly seeing that which he remembered seeping back into the dark hole that had sucked away everything good and pure that once Melkor had been.

But perhaps he truly _was_ naive—him, the King of Arda, the ruler of all the world. Perhaps he was merely thinking wistfully—dreaming of something to grandiose and unrealistic, too fantastic.

Of a reality that could never come to pass.

And yet, even when they had been betrayed—even when the Two Trees lay in ruins and thousands of years of rehabilitation turned out to be nothing more than a falsehood—Manwë sat down and wept only for his brother, his other half. Not for the lost of Yavanna's great works, the sprouts of Nienna's tears. Not for the Eldar lost in the dark, falling apart at the seams. Not even for the ache in his own chest.

But for that residue of the man he once knew that still lingered in the air, a clean and hot scent that was untainted by death and disease and other foul things of the darkness. For the little remaining tatters of Melkor, his brother, and not Morgoth the Dark Lord.

Tears in the moments of despair when he accepted that his brother would never be coming back.

In the end he knew, however, that he could not surrender. That he could not _give up_ on Melkor. They were consubstantial, one the same as the other, woven of the same spirit-fabric and the same polyphonic twist of melody over the harmony of the deep blue sky and the fiery passion of the world. And he knew, somewhere inside that monstrosity, his brother must still be trapped. Captive.

Perhaps it was that which made him merely cast that spirit to the Void. Cast it to known survival, to a known future of apocalyptic battle and tens of millions of deaths. Cast it to a known "we shall meet again" because he could not accept...

Could not give up...

Could not destroy his brother. For they were the same. Always, the same. And, were he in his brother's place, he would have hoped and prayed for salvation where none would ever come. Except from those of a compassionate heart and a reckless mind.

In the end, they were not so different after all.


	288. Ameliorate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Maedhros and Istelindë bonding. Because it's fucking cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously part of the Disconsolate Arc. So Istelindë makes an appearance. Also, she isn't the only one slowly falling in love, so expect some fluff and some angst (because Maedhros isn't himself without the angst). Ye be warned.
> 
> Takes place somewhere in the middle of Soothe (Chapter 206).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo

Between them there constantly remained a sort of thick and unpleasant tension upon the air, impenetrable and uncomfortable. The sort that made his throat constrict around his sly and calculative words and his already displeased features fold into an imposing scowl.

It didn't ever help, that helpless default expression. The sight of his shadowed frown and the sound of his stark silence only ever made her tremble before his imposing height like a fragile, frightened baby bird before a hungry feline. As though he might actually leap forth, fangs bared, and tear her apart like some sort of savage animal instead of treating her kindly like a civilized man. In her eyes, he could see that sickening expectation, the waiting for him to somehow _harm_ her should she dare to so much as speak out against his wishes.

And, like a dark and twisted cycle, her reaction only ever made his mood worse.

It drove Maitimo crazy, the thought that someone had _taught_ her to expect such brutality from her spouse. Certainly, they hadn't married for love or for lust. They had not even known each other's names! But that she would think so lowly of him simply because he could not constantly don a false mask of gentlemanly charm and gravitas...

Truly, he tried not to take it personally, her fear. But it was taxing on his patience and his mood.

How could he spend time with her—with his wife—when she could not even look him in the eye without flinching as though struck?

All he ever wanted to do was grab her by the arms and shake her until she spoke. Demand that she tell him who had been filling her head with such awful thoughts of marriage and of her husband that he scared her into muteness. Ask what he had done to make her think he was some sort of barbaric monster who would have her stand all day like a porcelain doll waiting upon him hand and foot like a mindless slave.

The worst part about it, though, was that it _never dissipated._ That inequality. That nervousness. That sickening anticipatory dread.

They would eat together, and the quiet would sit heavy over their dinner table, scaring off even the most steadfast of servants. Master and mistress would stare down at their plates with shifting eyes, dutifully eating without tasting a single morsel that met their tongues, and then when they finished he would escort her out of the room and she would flee to safety. Back to their quarters to sew or to clean or to braid her hair, she often claimed, but he suspected she usually went to weep alone.

And then, an hour or so later, he would go up to the bedchambers they shared—had to share, if only to keep up the image of a happy marriage that his father wanted to cultivate—and he would find her trembling upon the bed, pretending to be asleep with her face turned toward the wall so that he might not see her terror-stricken panic.

But he never said anything or did anything. If she wished to turn him away, he would not try to change her mind. By no means did Maitimo want to lay with a woman who would do naught but stare at the ceiling and wait for it to be over as though it were a sort of nightmarish duty.

Today, as every day before, was no different in their evening meal, in the lack of eye contact and the hesitance with which she touched his arm as he led her out of the vast hall echoing with their mutual discomfort. No different in her blatant ignoring of his presence, back toward him and facing the blank wall when he arrived in their bedchambers, as he undressed and pulled on loose leggings and a nightshirt. No different in that her eyes remained closed and her back remained stiffened when he settled upon the bed beside her and blew out the candles.

He whispered his goodnight and was not surprised when no reply was forthcoming. Closing his eyes, Maitimo took only a moment to wish that things could be different between them. Thinking and thinking until he dropped into sleep, interrupted by the reflection of his inner wistful unbalance. Light and unsettled.

Rarely did he sleep well by her side. Rarely did she sleep well by his.

\---

When Maitimo blinked his eyes into wakefulness, it took him a moment to realize that it was not morning. No harsh golden light was tugging at the curtains, trying to blind him into the world of the living. Rather, he could tell that Laurelin had scarcely begun to wax, leaving veins only of silver slithering across the floor of the bedchambers.

It took him two moments to realize that he could _hear_ something.

And another to recognize the faint, dissonant noise.

Little hiccupping sobs that she no doubt prayed he would not hear echoing off the far wall. In the darkness, he could make out the slender branch of her forearm arisen from the sheets and the rounded cup of her fingers clamped tightly over her lips as she jerked and shivered on her side of the bed. Only the curve of her cheek could he make out of her lovely face, graceful and soft in its slope, gleaming with wetness in the silvered light.

Crying. He wished he was surprised. But he wasn't. And that only intensified the ache centered maddeningly beneath his sternum.

Carefully—instinctively without thought—he shifted toward her, but she did not seem to even notice his movement. Not until his arms slipped about her belly and his forehead pressed into the space between her trembling shoulder blades, eyelashes fluttering upon her pale cream skin through a sheer layer of silk.

At his touch, she tensed and coiled like a startled feline, her soft gasping cries ceasing. Breath held, she remained as a taut bowstring, the arc of her slender form shaking with the strain of keeping still, of suppressing her weeping into silence and her urge to run away from his touch, as though her utter obedience might hold his wrath and lust at bay. As though morphing into a hard, lifeless, petrified doll in his embrace would make her the perfect invisible, mindless drone of a wife.

But this time Maitimo refused to back down. Refused to be cowed by the heaviness that slammed down onto his shoulders and tried to drag him to the floor in defeat.

Instead, he closed his eyes and pressed close, breathing in her sweetness and warmth. Letting his body fall limp within their cocoon of soft covers and the waves of silver and russet curls. Clenching his arms tighter as his voice softly hummed to life between them.

It was a silly old lullaby that his mother had sung to him a thousand times in his childhood memories. And a thousand more, he had whispered it to his little brothers in the dark before sleep, watching each of them fall asleep curled safely up in their beds. So tiny and so in need of protection and comfort in a supposedly perfect world with just a touch of wickedness waiting like poison under its calm surface.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he felt her relax. The muscles of her belly—tensed and flexing beneath his carefully lax fingers—smoothed into pleasant feminine softness. The stiffness of her shoulder blades, one pressed harshly to his cheek, unraveled into a gentle slope when her shoulders loosened. And then, moment by moment, the jolting rocks of her body fighting against the rising tide of sobs and cries ebbed and faded into the occasional hitch. And then into tranquil, even breaths against the sheets, breaking the silence in tandem to his wordless melody.

It was the first time he could recall being with her and feeling no weight. No unpleasant distance. No gaping abyss of misunderstanding and fear.

Just him and her. Without the unease and the worry and the vicious repeating cycle. Ameliorated.

Even then, he did not stop. Instead, Maitimo carefully pulled himself closer and wrapped around her fully, all platonic tenderness and shared warmth in the night as his voice dwindled with fatigue and sleep threatened to take over once more.

Faintly, her hands brushed against his knuckles, fingers fluttering against his skin. Her touch kept him upon the cusp of wakefulness, nuzzling into the arch of her spine lazily, nose tracing each vertebral bump. It was nice, he thought, this sort of togetherness. Involving nothing more than simply tactile connection and the pleasant sort of quiet buzzing over the skin brought through shared comfort, entirely without the complication of sexual desire and shyness. Just this, so simple.

"Thank you..." So quiet was her voice that he almost did not hear.

And, in that moment, he could have broken that peaceful blanket. Could have asked her _why._ Could have learned the truth of her misconceptions and tried to correct them with fancy words and a dance of logical rhetoric in the early hours of the morning. That had been his desire for many days, to somehow bend her mind to his will, convince her of the folly in her thoughts with iron rationality.

But often enough his father had scolded him and said that actions spoke with greater force and finesse than ever could a handful of words. Berated him for his passionate insistence that argument could be won only through a silver tongue.

Now was his chance. But he hesitated. Hesitated and allowed it to slip away.

In this instance, he was inclined to accept the wisdom of his sire and admit defeat. The last thing Istelindë needed was an interrogation on the unpleasant influences that warped her perception of the world and of Maitimo. More so, he thought, did she need the reassurance that he was here and that she was safe within his arms.

Safe within his protection.

The prince sighed softly and pressed a kiss to her back. Forgoing words, for once in his life, the quick-minded debater settled for the droplets of quiet splashing tenderly around their twined forms. Those unseen, unheard glimmers spoke more in a single moment than all the words in the world could have waxed and persuaded in a millennium.

Together the pair drifted off again. This time enfolded in calm revelation.

In the morning, when he rose at the dawning of Laurelin, Maitimo looked over at his wife's face and marveled at her smile as she dreamed. When she did not look as a timid mouse crouched and hiding in fear—indeed, when she was blossoming like a pale morning glory in the early light of their bedchambers—Maitimo thought he had never seen anything more lovely. More entrancing.

And if his fingers danced carefully over the curve of that cheek and the raised corners of those lips, there were none to witness his fleeting moment of enamored contentment.

Maybe... just maybe... things would get better.

Maybe... just maybe... this partnership might find some way to bloom.


	289. Locket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin made those lockets so that they would never forget one another. And they served their purpose all too well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the Locked Arc and the Nargothrond Arc. I'm not listing all of the stories, too many...
> 
> Basically a shit ton of dramatic irony and angst. I guess it has a fluffy moment, too, but the sweetness gets ruined later.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë, Atarinkë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë

Working in the forge was not an activity that Curufinwë relished. Certainly, he had the talent and dexterity for the task—for the shaping and the pounding and the artistry—but he didn't have the charismatic intensity for design. Not like his father.

Somehow, it had always made him the greatest disappointment of all. Nelyafinwë was a politician and Makalaurë a scholar. Turkafinwë was the rebel and Morifinwë the strange ghost. But then there was Curufinwë, the perfect replica child that his father always wanted, with the same damning features and the same intellectual strengths and the same natural talent with shaping metal and stone.

With everything but the drive.

Rarely did Curufinwë _want_ to create masterpieces. Bitterly, he often regarded the fire and the heat and the smoke with the sort of nostalgia that makes one's stomach churn unpleasantly. The memory of those eyes, calculative and judgmental, following his every move with punishing criticism flashing in their depths, it always left the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

But today he had a mission. A mission that trumped even the unpleasantness of remembering the long, blistering private lessons that he wanted to completely forget.

Now he drew them all back into his mind, categorizing them almost fanatically, searching for that one tip or sarcastic hinting nudge that he needed. His father's perfectionism would turn out to be useful for something, after all, even if it was something the man himself would probably never approve of.

This project had to be _perfect._

Never before had Curufinwë devoted himself to a work of the hands with such enthusiasm, such obsessive drive toward the flawless end result. His father would have been proud to see such devotion to the craftsmanship that ran through their fiery blood.

For days and days, he had been working on this. This gift. Already, he'd had the portraits—one for each half of the set—commissioned and sent to be completed. But while Curufinwë knew he could not paint well enough to perform that duty, he knew this art like he knew the back of his hand, however unwilling that knowledge might have come. He knew the twist of molten metal, the ring of tools and the hours and hours of delicate, eye-straining work.

It was worth it. So very worth it.

Each delicate entwining vine. Each petal of each tiny flower. Each twist of gold and silver. Every single engraved letter carefully etched. Every last detail fanatically planned and worked and reworked and reworked again into perfection.

Even then, it was not perfect. And Curufinwë would start over again and again until his blood settled and the roiling tide of disquieting obsession calmed in his breast. Until he could look upon the trinket in his palm and imagine it hanging around her neck, settled to the warm, pale skin over her heart so that she would always have some little part of him with her.

And the matching other half. So that he would never be alone.

It was, perhaps, sentimental and ridiculous. A fantastical gesture that she could do without. But part of him _needed_ this, and he did not quite understand why. Never would they be parted... and yet...

And yet he couldn't make the thought go away. The thought of having his wife's image lying over his chest, over the throbbing pulse of his heart every second of every day so that she knew, understood, exactly how much she meant to him. Exactly how much he _needed_ her... would always need her...

Foolish. But true. Curufinwë would not stop until he was finished. Would barely sleep or eat because the pull became too powerful to overcome.

If this was what his father felt at all times every moment of the day, he could understand why the Crown Prince hardly ever left the forge—hardly ever left the work that seemed tied directly to his surviving the next hour and moment and second. Because it was maddening.

\---

And, in the end, it _was_ perfect.

Seeing her expression when she first beheld the set—hers golden and his own silvered—lying entwined in the palm of his hand.

"Perhaps it is silly, but..." He ran a hand through his loose hair and tried not to blush or fidget with nervousness. Tried not to make it obvious exactly how many days and days of backbreaking effort he had put into cultivating these two works, sitting tiny nestled in the palm of his broad, callused and burn-riddled hand. "But I wanted to give you something..."

"Atarinkë?"

"I just want you to have a part of me. Even when I am not here. Just... please... to ease my mind."

"And the other one...?" She lifted the silver locket, opened it to her own portrait staring back, green-eyed and smiling gently. It was an expression that he adored, one that always made that tight ball of tension at the base of his throat unravel into lightness.

"Even when we are parted, we will never be apart."

"Are we planning on being parted?" Teasingly, she grinned up at him. "Silly man, but I... I like it." The flush that spread across her cheeks made his head spin. How was it that every day—every moment—she seemed to somehow grow more beautiful and breathtaking?

"Let me put it on," he requested softly, picking up the slender chain of her locket in between graceful fingers.

"Yes..." Breathless was her voice and wide were her eyes. Carefully, he slipped the golden chain over her head, watched as the gilded chamber holding his portrait settled just shy of her breasts. The temptation to reach out and touch it, to run his hands over the pale, soft skin beside it, to know that she was his forever, nearly had Curufinwë losing the little sensibility he possessed when it came to this woman.

Instead, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Put mine on," he requested.

Felt the silver—starkly cold and yet somehow comforting—settle around the nape of his neck as she pulled the tail of his dark hair over one shoulder. The weight dropped, thudding against the top of his sternum, and the prince's breath shuddered out of his lungs. Standing at full height, this time he did not resist the temptation to touch, run his fingers over each familiar loop and curve and indent, knowing that beneath their outer protective layer rested a piece of her, eternally smiling and eternally glowing.

Opposite, in tandem, her fingers traced her locket again and again. But her eyes were still focused on the man before her, immobile and stricken, but all the same every bit as adoring.

"They are perfect," she told him. "I will never take it off."

He did not plan to remove his either.

Never.

Raising her hand to his lips, he brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles affectionately and breathed deeply of her sweet lily-scent. Happiness was a foreign concept to him—a simple defective doppelganger—but at that moment he thought he might actually know what that blissful, bubbling feeling truly felt like. Rising all the way from his toes to the tips of his fingers to the top of the head...

Just being with her made him feel warm.

\---

Every time his fingers brushed the metal, that feeling returned. Momentarily. Indescribably. Giving him a whiff of that relief he so badly needed. Because he _needed_ her like he needed air and water and food. Needed her so badly that it was killing him slowly, the mere faded memory of touch and smell and laughter and love...

Separated by thousands of leagues of land and water and war and broken ideals, he wondered if she continued to wear her locket. Wondered if she needed _him_ as much as he needed _her._

Curufinwë had never removed his. On dark nights he often held it close, stared at her picture in the firelight, wondering if he would ever touch the soft slope of her cheek again. If he would ever bask in the golden light of her smile again. If he would ever kiss her hand and breathe in her familiar scent again.

Tonight, however, his fingers fiddled with the locket, lifting it up and setting it down in a cycle of guilt, hesitation, loyalty and guilt all over again.

Tonight, he had invited Artafindë into his bed.

His golden-haired cousin wasn't here yet. Wasn't here to make his mind go blank, take away that suffocating loneliness that ate slowly away at Curufinwë's sanity. Wasn't here to make him forget about how that golden feeling he so cherished was slowly slipping away, the memory of her smell in the back of his throat growing fainter and the touch of her skin to his lips grayer.

Taking it off... was that the same as betraying her? Forgetting her?

Giving up on her?

Sickness bubbled in the pit of his belly through each new cycle, each vicious stab into his spirit. Should he remove it? Should he keep it on? Should he...?

But in the end Curufinwë could not bear to part with it, that silvered locket settled upon his chest, not even so that that tiny part of her that remained would stay untainted by his sin and disloyalty. Because he needed her, and Artafindë was not her. But perhaps if he kept it on...

Perhaps it would be enough. When finally his lover came and their clothes fell away to only the cover of soft sheets and hot, slick skin...

It still remained. Because he could never forget her.

_But on the other side of the sea, she stared at it, the golden casket of her dreams. Knew that, beneath those intricate twining designs, his eyes would stare back at her, formed of iron and silver and the stuff of stars._

_Reached up and held it in her hand, remembering how happy she had been when he had given it to her and had sworn that, this way, they would never be apart._

_Slowly, these shards of his spirit—sharp and toxic—were haunting her. Poisoning her. Killing her._

_And Lindalórë could not bring herself to breathe another moment with that weight pressing down upon her lungs, stealing her air and leaving her to choke in the aftermath of despair. Here, in this room where rested his belongings and his clothing and his portraits and his works, would rest this little trinket._

_A quick tug broke the delicate chain of gold. Trembling, she set it down in a velveteen bed and closed the lid of the wooden case. Locked it and set aside the key._

_Maybe, she thought as she turned away and left the room, if she left that locket here she could forget all about his existence. Maybe, she thought as she locked the door, she could be happy that way and drive the feeling of his kiss upon her hand from her mind._

_Maybe, she thought as she walked away, the pain would stop. Finally._

And, in the aftermath of his affair, Curufinwë lay alone upon his bed, sated and glowing with temporary satisfaction, and wondered hazily once again whether or not she still wore her locket. Her gift. Her personal piece of his spirit. Wondered if she refused to remove it from its place over her heart.

If she longed for him as much as he did her. If she refused to ever let him go.


	290. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of battle, when you know you're going to die...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very closely related to Alcohol (Chapter 14), Get Up (Chapter 22), Treat (Chapter 63), Affront (Chapter 16), Enjoy (Chapter 129), Pretend (Chapter 45) and Grave (Chapter 142). There are others, of course, but those are the most important ones I think.
> 
> Warning: Fingon angst. I know, rare, right?
> 
> The headpiece comes from the works of a member of the Noldorin Family Store on dA. It's my head-canon. Also, at least one nickname is not "canon" and comes from my lovely icon family's stories.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingon = Findekáno, Káno  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Russandol  
> Turgon = Turukáno, Turno  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro

There was a reason that Findekáno was never seen without his headpiece. A reason he had even had the crown of the High King remade so that it might fit entwined with the golden eagle's wings.

It wasn't only purely sentimental value, of course.

Reaching upwards, he brushed against the gold with his fingertips. No tarnish stained the headpiece, though he had been wearing it for hundreds of years, ever since the day he had first received it. Maybe Findekáno wasn't the most responsible of men, but if there was one thing he always knew he would cherish, it was this.

And the words that had come with it.

_"I do not make things often, and it is not half as extravagant as my father would have crafted it, but nonetheless I thought it would suit you."_

_It was beautiful, this trinket. Why Maitimo would think for even a second that it was of inferior quality, Findekáno could scarcely understand. Or, perhaps, he could understand all too well. The reminder made his lips purse as he stared down at the headpiece._

_Simple but elegant. Two golden wings branched outwards in the cup of his hands, each little feather tooled to perfection. Were it not for the lack of a body and movement and heat, he would have thought them true wings of birds. It seemed as though the faintest breeze could send them flying away into a distance flutter of black upon the far sky._

_"Thank you," he said softly. It was, after all, the anniversary of the day he had been created._

_He wondered how often his father regretted it._

_But the broad grin of his cousin chased away just a bit of that scorn, that disdain. That endless wave of doubt and hatred that lingered behind Findekáno's charming, infectious and utter farce of a smile. Maitimo was always genuine, only smiling when happiness truly struck him, bringing that glow of sincerity to those usually sharply defined features._

_Made him beautiful. They called him perfection already, but Findekáno thought Maitimo was a thousand times more perfect when he was smiling._

_If only the same could be said for him..._

_"Russandol... Why wings?" Not, of course, that he didn't find the gift enchanting, but it did not make much sense. It looked more like the sort of ornament one might find in the hair of a young maiden than a very masculine young prince._

_"I thought you needed them."_

_Again, Findekáno ran his fingers over the edges, taking in the careful, methodical detail engraved into every edge, every centimeter. It must have taken weeks to complete this project, and he knew how much Maitimo disliked working in the forge._

_Judging by the number of bandages he'd seen on his cousin's hands, coupled with the tense frustration practically radiating off the redhead as of late, Maitimo had put aside his sheer dislike and lack of skill to, for once, create something. And that spoke deeply to Findekáno of how much this little piece must mean to his cousin._

_How many unspoken words it must carry._

_"I need wings?" he asked, smiling with self-depreciation._

_"I think you need to be reminded of who you are, my wild and reckless cousin—my little brother." The grin softened to a mere smile, and long fingers fiddled a bit with Findekáno's dark hair. "I think you need to be reminded that, no matter what your father or anyone else says, you are free to be whomever and whatever you want to be."_

_Those huge gray eyes, almost dripping with affection, fluttered shut. "Who would know better than I, little brother?"_

_"Russandol... I..."_

_"Trust me, Káno. Do not let their words stop you. You will be great."_

Maybe it was the mere memory of those words that had kept him going so long. That had kept him from giving up so many thousands of times. That kept him bound together with his sworn-brother despite everything.

That had kept him from turning back when all hope had seemed lost and their family betrayed. That had pushed him to stay alive when the cold seemed to eat away his flesh and freeze solid his bones. That had forced him to go against his family to rescue the man he believed had no affection—brotherly or otherwise—for him anymore.

_"Why would you help them—traitors and murderers? They left us for dead!"_

_"Because he is my brother."_

_"You hold no obligation toward him." Turukáno was angry, and Findekáno understood why. But even so, he could not deny the intensely powerful loyalty and fury drawing him away..._

_Toward the truth. Be it Maitimo's survival or his rotting corpse._

_"I have to do this, Turno. I have to."_

That had him stomping forward and shaking Maitimo into wakefulness. That gave him the fortitude to make his stubborn sworn-brother stand up and force him to fight again and again when all the redhead wanted to do was lie down and die. That eventually brought them both back to life.

_"You are too stubborn for your own good, Findekáno."_

_"Unfortunately for you, I think that flaw is permanent." They both laughed at the younger cousin's cheesy grin. "You love me anyway."_

_An arm, the end hand-less, was thrown over his shoulder carelessly. Affectionately._

_"Of course, foolish little brother."_

That even had him marrying the woman of his dreams and siring a child in the midst of war. A spitfire redhead, a woman of the forest who could hunt with the likes of Turkafinwë and fight with the passion and finesse of Aikanáro. She complimented him perfectly, scoffed at his flirtatious disposition and love of drink, laughed in the face of his hopeless inability to stay organized and get tasks completed but somehow always managed to keep him in line at the end of the day.

Not for a moment did he regret her or their son, no matter that the boy was an ocean's length away and she here, waiting patiently to die when he failed to return.

_"It is against tradition. And a ruler should always follow tradition, if only for the sake of the people."_

_"You have it all wrong, Turno. The people, maybe they need something new. Maybe they need a breath of fresh air in all this stale coldness."_

_"If you think you know what you're doing."_

_And he would brush his fingers across gold. "I_ know _what I am doing. Trust me."_

He was himself. Irresponsible, reckless, kindhearted and foolish Findekáno. The worst king his people could ever have asked for.

And, on the morn, he was marching to almost certain death, for they had not the forces to bring Angband to its knees. And the cold feeling of foreboding had settled deep in his heart.

But nonetheless, Findekáno wove that piece into his hair and braided it tightly down to his scalp. Comfortingly did the metal settle against his skin, its chill rocking through the king's body as he stared at his reflection. Just him, without the crown and the robes and the royal frippery.

The feeling did not go away. But he still managed a faint smile.

Tomorrow, he was sure he would die. But he would die knowing his son was safe. Knowing his wife would soon join him in the Halls. Knowing he was at the shoulder of his best friend and brother in all but blood, fighting for the survival of his people. Knowing that, in the end, he had managed to be a good prince and a good king despite all the flaws.

There was nothing he could say he regretted. And he thought that was a good way to die.

For something he believed in. Wings intact on the field of battle.

"I am ready to depart. To whatever end."

Had any words ever felt so true?


	291. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lalwen has made some hard decisions, but she's strong, and she has no regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Test (Chapter 174) and Whitewash (Chapter 264) talking about the origins of Ecthelion. Yes, _that_ Ecthelion. Obviously this is purely speculation, but I've been having fun so cut me some slack.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Lalwen is the shortened form of Lalwendë  
> Írien is her father-name (in my head-canon)

Sometimes, one had to wonder. About their decisions. About their fate.

If they were taking the right path. Or if they were somehow lost.

And it was not as if Lalwen never stilled from her constant tourbillion of energy and wondered in silent stillness. Every day, she would pause and look out the kitchen window. Wonder how things could have been different if only she had chosen a different path...

Was she really happy with this life, so different and simple?

With her sweet son, half-grown and already showing the stubborn temperament and undeniable recklessness of her family and blood. With her belly rounding again, a second child on the way, squirming and kicking beneath her restless hands in the early morning glow.

With no husband in sight. With no family at her back. Alone.

_"I let your transgression slide once, yenya, but..."_

On the window's rough wooden frame, her hands clenched tightly until the knuckles blanched into white. Truly, she hated remembering those days past now only a few months, looking her father in the eyes and knowing that he was so disappointed in her and her decisions that he could hardly stand to call her "daughter". That he thought she was making a mistake, ruining her life for a mere droplet of independence and rebelliousness.

He didn't understand. None of them did.

_"Why could not have your only son been enough for you, Írien? Why could you not have been content as you were?"_

But that was the strange thing about contentment, wasn't it? It was easy to seek it in the midst of turmoil and upset, in the midst of depression and unhappiness, but it was impossible to _find_ it when all around you looked and looked and only became sadder...

Here, she...

"Emya, are you okay?"

Away from the landscape that she looked at so often but never saw, Lalwen turned to find her son standing before her with a searching expression in his aged eyes. Aranwë, her sweet boy, was reaching that point of youthful independence, the itch to do things on his own without her help or guidance, growing up into a powerful young man who no longer needed his mother. But still he was so very protective of her, the only parent he could ever remember. Growing up in a house of people who sneered down their noses upon her decision to keep him and claim him as her son through blood...

_"It would be a lie to call him anything other." That was what she always said, and she stood by her words to her dying breath. That she swore._

_"A lie that would have saved your reputation. And a lie that would have made his life easier."_

They had forced her to pretend to have adopted him, the baby she had nurtured in her womb for a turn of the seasons. They had wanted to deny him his blood rights, to call him the son of another House. But she had never tried to keep the truth hidden from anyone, even though it made her a social outcast, a sullied and ruined woman swathed in sin and scandal.

"I am fine, sweetheart," she lied softly, running her fingers through his dark hair. _Her_ hair, for his father's hair had been a rich chocolate. Eyes looked up at her with shocking incisiveness—large gray eyes, _her_ eyes, for his father's had been so very blue and so very pure of that calculative glint of royal blood—and Lalwen knew they did not quite believe her.

"Okay..." But he did not leave her side. Instead, his small fingers wrapped themselves into her skirts, clinging tightly.

And the affection she felt for her baby couldn't have been stronger than in that moment. Had she chosen to lie... would they have this bond? Would he look upon her this way, as his true mother, or would she have become nothing more than a cold and distant figurehead?

How could this have been a mistake?

And now, with another baby on the way...

_"You have left me no choice. I did not want to make this decision."_

Well, it was too late to go back now and rewrite actions already taken and words already spoken. Too late for her to take back her wild night of passion in the arms of a nameless man. Too late for her to change her mind about wanting a second child.

Too late for her father to take back his damning disowning or her mother to take back her scathing scolds and accusations. Too late for her brothers to withdraw their disappointed and cold gazes or her sister to withdraw the utter scorn in those cornflower eyes.

Too late to go back to the way things had been before. In a palace as a princess, living in a fantasy dream where all was well unto forever.

Too late for regret.

And yet, she was never certain there was any to be felt. Here...

Here she was happy...

_"You are not welcome within these walls. No longer are you a daughter of the House of Finwë..."_

Her hands lowered from the windowpane, sliding down over her bump again and again. One child pressed against her side, nuzzling and so very warm, her sweet Aranwë, son of kings. Another rolled in her womb, seeking the sound of her heartbeat and the soft thrum of her voice humming an old lullaby, her little angel.

They were beautiful. And she would never consider them mistakes. If anything, they were her salvation.

In the end, she thought, things had turned out for the best.

No matter how much she wondered and paced and stared out at the landscape beyond her windowsill, never seeing beyond the designs of the grain in the wood, she knew that her decision would never change. Never would she crawl back on hands and knees to beg forgiveness and give in...

_"Unless you relinquish the child. Hide your pregnancy, and I shall discretely find the baby a good home with a welcoming family..."_

_"No... Would you ever give up your child in such a way? How can you ask this of me, Atar?"_

_"Írien..."_

_"No..."_

Never would she throw away that which was most precious.

"Come, let us start on dinner." She wrapped a slender hand about her son's back, steering herself and the child away from the frozen place of thoughts and memories and too much wondering for the soul's health and sanity. "There are apples from the tree on the hill that I collected this afternoon. I will make apple pie if you promise to behave and help prepare our meal... No messes this time, yonya..."

For once, that young face wasn't scowling. A beatific smile formed, those eyes flashing vividly with the silvered light of pure happiness. With a hint of something just a little too knowing. And then the moment was broken with a broad grin that reminded her all too much of her playful older brothers in past memories of childhood.

"Promise, Emya!"

Apple pie was his favorite, after all. And she loved to see him smile. Her treasure.

The only mistake she could have made was ever considering throwing this away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> yenya = my daughter (shortened yendë + nya)  
> emya = mama  
> atar = father  
> yonya = my son (shortened yondo + nya)


	292. Heartfelt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short and sweet goodbye. And a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between Puppy Love (Chapter 165) and Loved (Chapter 196).
> 
> Short and sweet romantic angst.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto

Of course she didn't believe him.

Not that it was surprising. All things considered, Angaráto doubted he would have believed himself had their places been reversed, had he been the poor peasant and she the rebellious prince in love. It sounded like a storybook tale read to girl-children before bed, full of false romantic notions and devoid of the lesser idealistic facets of society.

Facets he knew _she_ knew all too well, living so close to the court full of bigots and shadows and whispers in the dark.

After all, he knew many nobles who were fleeting in their affection. Many a young man who seduced a beautiful woman with sweet, charming compliments, dashing flattery and sultry seduction. Certainly, she would have heard stories and whispers and rumors, felt the anxiety at his approaching and cornering her with his affections. Certainly, she would have known that, as he grew older and his advances changed from childish adoration to something darker and sharper, she could not _resist._

Wary, she was. Lacking in trust and faith. Shadowed with doubts.

The gleam in her eyes that silently spoke as his form grew taller and the afternoons in the gardens grew shorter. The gleam that said...

_One day, you will take back your promises. One day, you will turn around and walk away. One day, you will forget all about me._

_One day, I will be a mirage in your past._

_One day, I will not even exist in the back of your mind._

Until the day had come when it was time for him to leave her behind.

There had never been a time in his life when she hadn't been there. That beautiful, earthly creature with her wide-brimmed hat and her loose tunic, her hands stained with dirt and her hair wrapped up into a loosely braided bun. When he was little, she would play with him, gentle fingers tickling his sides, gentle smile filling up every centimeter of his sight. When he was older, she would always listen to anything he needed to say, to whatever was on his mind, and give the best advice.

When he reached adulthood, she would barely look him in the eye. But he still felt the draw every moment of every day, pulling him away from his studies and his thoughts and his dreams.

Filling him up with her.

And he had never meant anything more than he meant that promise on that day.

Staring down at her figure in the garden from the window above. He dared not speak to her face-to-face, feared the scornful doubt that he would see within the depths of her spring eyes. But part of him wondered if she would hear him despite the distance.

If she would sense his heartfelt oath.

"I know you do not believe in me..."

He pressed his palms to the glass, feeling the scrape against his manicured nails and the coolness against soft hands that had never seen hard labor or craftsmanship. Slowly, his forehead followed, the cold sinking deep into his flesh and bone, the barrier keeping him just out of reach of the golden light streaming down. The same light that sprinkled itself across her form and made her look so enchanting.

No matter the simplicity of her clothes and hair and work, she would always be his One. And nothing could dissuade him from his certainty.

"I know you would call it a lie, tell me I am foolish..."

He almost wished she would look up, see him standing in the window looking upon her form as a man looks upon his greatest treasure. Maybe then, in the heat of the frozen moment when their eyes connected and their spirits entwined, she would _understand._

That he _couldn't_ let her go. That he _couldn't_ leave her behind.

That he would never...

"But I promised you that I would make you the happiest woman in the world," he continued, his breath washing a fog over the glass, tracing its way up his cheek, frosting her imagine in his eyes. "And that is one promise that I would never break."

Never stop loving her. He _couldn't._

"I will be back for you. And somehow... somehow... I _will_ convince you of my love."

He hoped that, somehow through the fibers of time and space, that his words would resonate with her spirit, his other half. That she would hear him and _know._ That the little sprout of hope she tried so hard to neglect and destroy would continue to grow.

Would flower. So that she might never forget to look for his returning form upon the horizon.

And Angaráto turned away from the window. Away from her. It would be years and years before he would lay eyes upon her again, the woman who held his fragile heart in her palm without even realizing. And though it pained him to be away from her, he knew...

"I will be back. That is a promise. And I _will_ make you happy."

_Even if you do not believe in me, no words have ever been so desperately true._

And he walked away.


	293. Fading Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one starts to fall apart at the seams of sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related distantly to Stop Time (Chapter 13) as well as the Cleansed Arc.
> 
> Uh... pure angst. Mention of torture and implied non-con. Fading and such.

Thin, skeletal white hands lying upon damask and handmade lace. They shake too hard to pick up the needlework spread beneath their tips, abandoned. To occupy the mind with thoughtless, effortless endeavors ingrained deep into muscle.

In fact, they almost seem as though one could see right through their pale membrane, picking apart the skin to reveal the dying muscle and blue, throbbing veins beneath. They morph and warp until their joints bend strangely and their lengths twitch as the legs of a crawling spider. Monstrous and stomach-churning and withering.

They look sick.

As sick as she feels.

Sitting still all day and all night staring at them. These strange things that should have been so familiar but seemed more disgusting and grotesque and wrong the longer she stared with blank eyes, trying not to think. Sometimes she rather wished that she could look away, stop being fascinated and repulsed by their sight.

Stop feeling so cold that her legs would not move for their sluggish stiffness. Stop feeling so empty that her eyes could not summon the tears to cry because the droplets were frozen. Stop feeling so tired that her body sagged where it sat and yet so alert with lingering, leeching terror that she dared not sleep despite her fatigue and weariness.

She wished to stop feeling this despair.

But she could not.

It took so much energy just to breathe and move. Looking at her husband's face, she knew he wanted to see her smile like she used to, bright and happy to see him, a loving and caring wife and mother with no worries and no pains and no fears. But she could not feel those things, become again that illusion of paradise. Could not feel the sunlight of the gardens upon her face, its heat somehow warped into chill that burned through her muscle and bone. Could not take joy in the beauty around her—in the depths of his gray eyes she had so adored and his handsome smile she once coveted—because everything fell apart...

Fell apart into shadows. Into twisted forms that no longer resembled anything beautiful or wonderful. Into phantoms that chased her through her dreams and held her down and tore her apart.

Because the hugs of her sons reminded her only of powerful arms holding her down as pain wracked her body and violation ripped open her spirit. Because the touch of her husband’s hand, knowing that he loved her and desired her as a man loved and desired a wife, left her stomach twisting in fear and repulsion. Because her daughter could not understand or comprehend the suffering of one ravaged and ran away in tears and fury and confusion, abandoning to darkness the mother alone in her sitting room chair.

Alone. Alone, alone, _alone..._

With that chilled feeling seeping down her spine. All warmth drained away, droplet by droplet by droplet, day after day after day.

Until she felt thin. Like a ghost in the material world. Until her spirit burned out into ash. Until her heart froze over to keep out the aching pain gnawing and gnawing...

_"I love you,"_ he would say softly, sweetly.

And she could no longer say it back.

_"I need you,"_ he would add with timid desperation.

And she could barely stand his touch.

_"Your children miss you."_

She was ashamed to even meet their eyes.

_"Please, do not leave us."_

But, in the end, she _wanted_ to go. _Needed_ to go.

She was sick. So sick.

So badly, she wanted to be able to feel heat upon her skin again. Appreciate the brush of lips across her knuckles and the corners of her mouth. Revel in the squeeze of arms about her small form, crushing in affection and adoration.

So badly, she wanted to be able to love them again as once she had in days long passed.

But Celebrían was fading away. Day after day after day, little pieces of the woman she had once been—the woman her children still clung to hopelessly, the woman her husband still loved and yearned for, the woman they still grasped and clawed for—were crumbling and falling away until she became something less. Something transparent and empty and bitter.

A woman who could not kiss or touch her husband, because his eyes would morph into cruel red orbs and his tender smile into a sadistic grin and his gentle hands into tormenting claws pinning her down. A woman who could not hold her sons or daughter in their time of need, who could not reassure them and draw away the poison of their worries because their fears were all too real and all too true.

A woman who would not even shed tears, because she knew that if she dared let down this frozen veil everything would fall apart completely. She would melt away into oblivion, a mere remnant of a memory of a dream-woman, ruined by the blazing heat of a cruelly forged world.

And she wanted...

...she wanted to be healed...

...and stay...

And no longer sit in her chair staring at these foreign, dying hands. No longer be distant and silent for fear of night-terrors and hallucinations overlapping reality.

She wanted to be whole. For herself. And for them.

She _wanted_ to.

But in the end no miraculous salvation ever came. She could only sit.

Sit and stare at her strange white hands, wondering if the day was done yet so that she might retire to the safe haven of her chambers and be certain to lock the doors. So that she might hide away from her twin sons who tried to coddle her in the midst of her distress. So that she might be away from her husband, whose hurt eyes haunted her dreams, and away from her daughter, so full of anger and upset, who screamed and raged and wept.

So that she might run away from everything that had happened. So that she might fall into that darkness in peace and forget.

Her eyes would open the next morning, and she would return here without breakfast or early morning tea. Here, to sit in her chair as she once had done, needlework draped over her lap in a waxy mockery of normalcy.

Staring at her hands.

So thin and so white and so disgusting.

Until, one day, they would disappear entirely.

Until, one day, she would disappear as well.


	294. Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't judge a book by its cover. Seriously. Don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! It's been a while! This is not me starting up this project again. I'm merely (finally) getting around to posting the last few prompts that I wrote before real life decided to bite me in the arse.
> 
> So! The story! Mostly just sexual thoughts/sexual tension and non-explicit violence (in a spar). And references to Legolas' true parentage and lineage, of course. Related to anything Haldir/Legolas related, as well as anything in the Cheat Arc.

It took all of a moment's glance to dismiss the young prince of Great Greenwood.

Haldir had always favored the strong, experienced warriors with scars and muscles, warriors whose tales and strength were written into the annals of their flesh through marks and calluses. Surely did he fancy beauty and grace of movement, but not of the sort this nymph before him sported. Little use did he have for a fledgling prince, a child who had barely seen battle, who was slender and willowy in body and breakable in mind. Legolas was too soft. Too sweet.

Too innocent and pure.

It was in the eyes, in their liquid softness when they rested upon the marchwarden and a friendly, lovely smile broke across that flawless face like the rising of the dawn to the east. Beautiful though it might have been, Haldir found himself put off by the saccharine expression, by the openness of that gaze and the swiftness of such acceptance. The child-prince had not yet even spoken a word to him, and yet already seemed to trust him enough to guard at his back without second thought.

It was foolish and reckless. Or merely naive. He suspected greatly the latter.

Thus, it was little surprise that he was displeased to be given the task of _guarding_ said prince. He would rather have woven between the ranks of the Greenwood delegation, scoping out the tall, handsome warriors he had eyed earlier with their bulging muscles and sharp gazes from many hundreds of years of skill with the bow in the gloom of the forest. Hot was his desire for a true seduction, to dance the most primal of waltzes in powerful, flexing arms and beneath smoldering, dark eyes that knew well the depths of fervor and bliss.

The mere thought made his mouth water and drew his attention away from his charge. His charge who had wandered aimlessly with eyes—widened with wonder—roving to and fro in delight in this land of golden leaves and ever-summer. So much more interesting were the daydreams of what might come when night fell, and they kept his gaze only half on the prince as they traversed beneath the safety of the mallyrn in the fading afternoon light.

"You seem distracted, Master Haldir."

It was the first time he had heard the prince speak, and it was a voice much as he had imagined. Its tenor was sweet, like the trilling of a songbird in the forest during the spring. Haldir had always liked the deeper voices, the ones that resonated through the body like thunder.

Just another reason to find a way to hitch this burden upon someone else so that he might be free to pursue to his heart’s content a handsome lover. But he could survive _one day_ of babysitting without committing folly and muttering scathing words upon this child. After all, he did not intend to be cruel to the little one, no matter how much he might dislike his duties; Legolas might not be very attractive, but he was a gentle thing, like the maidens who twittered at Haldir from afar with their huge blue eyes and their soft little hands.

With a sigh, he pushed away the fantasies of older warriors and their roughened, broad palms, instead facing the young elf under his care. "I do not mean to bore you, my Prince."

"I am not bored in the least," the young elf protested, green eyes glittering like emerald stars. "I merely wanted to inquire after you. I do not mean to be annoying."

"You are not annoying." A blatant lie, but Haldir did not want to explain to either his Lord and Lady or his parents exactly what he might have said to make this fragile spirit cry like a little girl. "I have other things on my mind that have naught to do with you, my Prince. Forgive my inattentiveness."

Pink lips—lips that were full and belonged on a girl in Haldir's mind—pursed into lovely bows. Even the marchwarden was hard-pressed to avoid admittance of their attraction, so supple did they appear. But the huge eyes and the complete lack of seductive curves and angles kept away any unwanted imaginings. Patiently (as patiently as he could stand) he awaited a response.

_Perhaps the little one would retreat to his guest quarters and leave Haldir free. That would have been a blessing and a relief._

But, of course, it was not to be.

"Since you are bored, Master Haldir, and since I am curious, let us spar." That smile was back, so sickly sweet, looking so innocent when accompanied by the flutter of eyelashes upon rosy cheeks. It was like looking at the face of a flushing, giggling virgin flirting with her first man.

He was supposed to _fight_ this child?

"Are you sure that is wise, my Prince? I am certain we could find something else..."

"Tell me not that you are afraid." For the first time, that voice was something other than soft and smooth and pitched in a perfect tenor. A hint of mischief fluttered within its current, just barely brushing the surface. "I promise I will go easy on you, Master Haldir."

It should not have been so easy to bait a marchwarden and faithful guardian of Lothlórien, but...

_But did the child really think...?_

And, much as he would have liked to deny it, the confidence in this sprout, this half-trained fledgling, left his pride smarting. That this skinny little twig of a creature with that soft face and those naive eyes thought he was so much more skilled that Haldir would not present even a _challenge..._

Oh yes, his pride was smarting something fierce. He would not allow such a slight to pass ignored. Or such a challenge to slip by unanswered.

\---

And that was how they came to be upon the training fields. It was, perhaps, unwise of Haldir to allow a little bit of mockery to cause such an itch beneath his skin, but it was not to be helped now. Besides, if the child wanted to run to the Lord and Lady and whine about losing to a mere guardian, he could always be honest and tell his sovereigns _exactly_ whose idea this little game had been in the beginning.

"I should think only knives or swords would be fair," the prince said, beatific smile still in place as he stepped upon the compressed dirt of the field and left his bow behind in the grass. All about him, the golden droplets of dusk dappled the clearing, spilling fire and blood upon the paleness of the child's hair. Like this, he was _almost_ desirable, like a golden-haired creature of old, a true warrior. But then the shadows cutting across that face waned, and Haldir could see naught but the child underneath. "What say you to that, Master Haldir? Is such a match agreeable?"

"It is agreeable."

With only a knife in each hand, he looked across the field, into the eyes of his opponent. So warm and mellow, that green. It would be a shame to break such confidence and leave behind the shards of the arrogance of foolish youth.

"Whenever you are ready, my Prince."

"Very well, then."

Twin knives slid from their sheaths and rested with ease in soft-palmed hands, their hilts entrapped by manicured fingernails and delicate digits to match. _At least the boy held them correctly._

Haldir smirked, looked up into that face—

And felt his heart still.

For, in that moment, the smile that had seemed so sweet morphed into an edge sharper than any knife, teeth half-bared and flashing with whiteness in the fading gleam of daylight. Dark brows that had arched high over wide eyes were now lowered and furrowed over half-hooded, narrowed orbs of vivid green. In a mere moment, everything about that face, everything about the set of the body and the cant of the lips, had changed.

Like some ancient creature did the slight form stand, tilted forward at the ready, every inch screaming out for blood and sport, in lust for the dance or death. It sent a chill straight down Haldir's spine.

"Are you going to make the first move, Master Haldir?" Even the voice, which had only before shown but a hint of anything other than easy friendliness, was biting and low. _Burning over his skin._

Licking his suddenly dry lips, the marchwarden glanced into the eyes. And found himself enraptured.

There was no sign of that delicate creature he had been worried to break with his ruthlessness. No shadow of an inexperienced young child who knew not the hardships of battle, despite the slightness of frame and slenderness of waist. Not even a trace of all that softness remained in the face and form that had, before, caused Haldir to dismiss with such ease the budding young elf. 

In the eyes that he would have compared to the rustling leaves of the Greenwood for their vibrancy of life, he now saw only fire. Only raging flames reflecting back toward him, hungry to burn away the mirage he had seen earlier, to tear through his disregard and blindness and leave only wreckage in the wake of his defeat. It was passion and power and wild beauty, all the things Haldir found made his heart pump wildly the blood through his veins.

And it was standing before him, staring back. Waiting for his move.

In a rush, he leapt forward, heard the screech of their meeting blades and saw vividly the flashes of flame across metal as they danced and spun about each other like predatory creatures. He had expected an easy match, perhaps a minute at most before he swept the blades from his opponent’s hands and rendered the child vulnerable and defeated upon the ground at his feet.

This was no child, no inexperienced being that had never killed or fought.

No, they danced as two who knew well the steps and the motions. Danced until the air rushed in and out of Haldir’s throat in scalding waves, scorching away the insides of his lungs. Until his arms ached from the strain of taking swift, pounding blows aimed toward his body. Until sweat stuck to his face and throat the wisps of his hair that came loose from his braids in the violence of the moment.

Until, finally, he was netted in by eyes shining with vivid, vehement joy. His guard fell for but a moment, and a moment too long. Pain shocked through his wrists, one right after the other, and his blades lay at his feet, out of reach when a razor-sharp point rested over the racing pulse at the base of his throat.

Never in all his years had Haldir ever been so _attracted._

“Do you yield, Master Haldir?” That challenge from before burned bright, stabbing through him with a red-hot blade. For a moment, he almost feared that the prince might slaughter him if he said “no” and refused to kneel in submission.

And that, to his shame, only made the spark of arousal growing in the pits of his belly grow that much hotter.

Carefully, he knelt. “I yield.”

And watched as the fire withdrew as though vacuumed into a pit of evergreen brightness. The blackness of those eyes faded, replaced once more with the gentleness of early spring, as though its darkness had never existed. Sharp lines so embedded into the flesh were all but erased, leaving behind only a mask of round curves and friendly smiles.

A soft hand—a hand Haldir knew could wield a blade to terrifying affect—caught his own and pulled him back to his feet. It was warm and smooth and tiny.

It was everything he didn’t want. Back, again, was the seemingly naïve child, the boy who sheathed his blades and turned his back to the guardian without question, whose laugh split the air in high peals like birdsong through the trees, echoing with delighted revelry. “What fun! I enjoyed our match, Master Haldir. Perhaps we can spar again before I leave these woods.”

“It… It would be an honor, my Prince.”

The strange childish being was returned. But this time Haldir was not fooled.

This time, he could see the glimmer underneath the façade. He could see the flames writhing behind their thicket of green wonder and delight. He could see that creature of passion and lust sneaking through the shadows of this clever lie.

And, as he watched that willowy form sway and bend beneath the shadows of the mallyrn, new daydreams began twisting and twining to life within the depths of his mind. New visions were birthed as he stared at the retreating form with the gleam of orange and red upon his silken mane.

For Legolas had a spirit that scorched all it touched.

And Valar-be-damned, Haldir wanted to be scorched until his flesh was red and raw. Wanted to be burned to a black crisp as he pressed his lips to those pink petals and sucked the sweetness right out of that slender frame. Wanted to feel the heat sink down to his bones as he had this beautiful creature writhing beneath him in the darkness of the woods beneath the silvered moonshine and the golden leaves of Lórien.

He was enamored. Hopelessly captured.

Lusting for that fire.

Hungry for that burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> mallyrn = plural of mallorn, the golden trees of Lothlórien


	295. Disappointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor picked the wrong son of Fëanor if he was looking for a carbon copy of Daddy Dearest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related most closely to Desire and Perfection. Evil POV. Lots of barely censored sexual thoughts. Fantasies of rape and gore. Evil characters being evil.

It was, perhaps, less for the sake of bribery and more for the sake of curiosity that Melkor ordered the oldest son of Fëanáro brought before him alive rather than carved into pieces. Easily could he have taken the corpse and claimed to hold a hostage in order to draw forth the other sons left behind, for, whether the first son was in life or death, he had no intention of returning him intact to his siblings. Truly, it was pointless to spare the energy and the food and the chains to keep the elf as a prisoner.

But he told his servants he wanted the unfortunate creature alive. And thusly they would bring to him the redheaded firstborn or suffer the consequences.

In the eyes of Mairon, he could see the knowing gleam when he spoke his orders aloud. His lieutenant knew his mind better than most, suspected at the very least that, in the wake of the death of the father, Melkor sought the same treasure within the son. Not, of course, that his sly-tongued servant would ever admit to such knowledge or insight, no more than he would claim wholly the thoughts of treachery that constantly bubbled beneath his accommodating smiles and the cruelty of his fiery eyes.

Nonetheless, it was there. Lingering in the very air as Melkor awaited in anticipation the arrival of his consolation prize. Much work he had put into the forging and caring of Fëanáro son of Finwë, and he did not wish to see that hard work flushed away beneath the rain of failure and ill-fortune now that victory was crawling ever closer to his grasp.

Even if it was just a _piece_ of that which he desired, gladly would he accept such a gift and sate the hunger churning in the pits of his belly.

Well, he could imagine it. Never had he met in the flesh any child of Fëanáro, but always he thought of them with their sire's angular features and fey eyes, with the same arrogant cant to their thin lips and the same swagger through their body. With the same white-hot glow that shuddered and writhed as a living creature beneath their flesh.

That fire. That _light!_

All that which he longed to possess. Rare was it for Melkor to feel such wistful longing for any object of a material nature, but something both pristine and unholy about the sire had enraptured the vala, held his attention flawlessly.

Would not the son be the same?

Tall and formed beautifully as the amilessë would suggest, with flames for hair to complement the burn of silvered eyes, Silmarilli reflected from within the mirrored soul of a being of sin and perfection and wonder. All that Melkor could think to imagine was an elf of supreme make and stature with the same hot-blooded hatred flowing as lava through blue veins, burning against the delicate membrane of pale skin torn asunder all too easily. So much power in such a delicate package. And it would be _his._

For he had no intention of returning any spoils conquered.

“They have arrived with the elf-spawn in tow, Master.”

Soft and saccharine in obedience was the voice of Mairon the Admirable. The traitor. Melkor spared barely a glance for his wayward once-apprentice, the greatest failed work of his ancient hands. Instead, he turned toward the doors and gripped taut the armrests of his great, dark throne. Under his skin, the excitement _burned._

“Bring him forth. My patience wears thin.”

And it was done. First, he could see the red hair, felt the lust curl upwards viciously in his belly, hissing and spitting venomously, the greatest of damnations. And then into his sight came the body, nearly stripped of all covering, so pale and slender but as exquisitely formed as he had imagined, putting to shame all whispered rumors and hushed retellings. The legs were longer than the sire’s, ankles seemingly delicate and calves coiled with tight muscle, so deceptively fragile, so easily broken in his fantasies of grabbing and squeezing to snapping like dried tinder. And the bared upper body screamed of work with the sword and the hammer, perfectly proportioned and flexing with each strain against the iron chains binding slight wrists. A heightened pulse pounded in the curve of a throat bound in a heavy collar of captivity, and he desired to feel it flutter as the elf struggled for breath beneath the taut clasp of his fingers.

The elf was thrown down upon his knees in offering, thrashing and snarling like a mad creature every centimeter of the way until he rested at his new master’s feet. Finally, the collar about that throat was pulled harshly, yanking the head upwards so that the light of the Silmarilli might rest upon the face that Melkor so hungered to see.

Only…

Only the angles were not quite right to his piercing vision. Sharp enough in some places, but much too soft in others. Brows that should have been lowered and creased with fury were drawn up as if in pain. The garish harshness that did the vala recall in his waking dreams was vanquished, left behind, smeared into shadowed smoothness and softness and _kindness._

Eyes fluttered open, ringed with pale lashes, and they were _dark._

The gray was there, the flecks of silver and pale blue and iron metal, but where was the _fire?_ Where was the storm of volcanic _hatred?_ Where was the ruthlessness, the hunger and ambition and lust and _desire for power?_

Resting in those pools, so open and defenseless, was _fear._ They were too soft, too caring, pleading beneath a thin, cracked façade of defiance. Near to _crying._

Never— _never in a million ages of the world_ —would Fëanáro have shown _terror_ in the face of the enemy. _Never._

None of the strength and brilliance he lusted for could be found in this… this…

This _disappointment._

Empty of the dancing flame that scorched even the spirits of the greater beings of the earth and the sky, this pathetic elf was filled instead with the coldness of chaotic fear and the ash of a weak will. Could the blood of the mother have diluted perfection to this degree, sullied it to the point that it was so dulled, so lackluster? So _gentle?_

For, within this elf, he sensed only a loving spirit crying for its kin. No lust. No greed. No anger. Within the mind he could see images of sweet moments between spouses and tending to younger siblings, not the cutthroat bitterness and the will to do anything to succeed that had so entertained his palate in the father. Within that spirit rested soothing water, an endless amount of patience and determination, but not the will to dominate and take and destroy and create.

Pale. Empty. Trembling beneath the weight of his gaze.

Only for a few moments did he stare at the newest slave of Angband, crimson eyes slicing into all that the firstborn ever had been and ever would be. And he judged the creature…

Lacking.

“I have little use for this worthless thrall. Take him away and do what thou wilt with him, Mairon, my dear. But do send a missive to the second son, and tell him of the fate of his brother should his reply be _unsatisfactory.”_

A shudder wracked the perfect body before him, horror splitting open the symmetrical beauty of that face when their eyes met and understanding passed between the shattered spirit and the cruel smile upon the master’s face. Melkor wanted at that moment to shred open that form and tear apart the cage of those ribs, reach inside and dig out the core of that spirit, if only so that he might crush it within his palm for daring to be anything less than resplendent and wicked.

But he did not. Let his servants play. Let them have their fun.

And let this being serve his original purpose faithfully unto his equally pitiful ending. At least he would be useful for _something._ For a time, in any case.

The knowing, mocking eyes of Mairon slithered over his flesh as the lieutenant passed with his newest charge, but Melkor did not look toward his most powerful, treacherous servant as the golden being of fairness dragged away a new plaything toward the torture chambers. The slime was lucky he had escaped so quickly, or the vala might have taken pleasure in ripping open _that_ body instead, hearing that velvet voice scream unto the heavens for mercy that would not come until his rage was sated.

Maybe, then, he would not feel this maddening _want_ so keenly. Maybe, then, the scald of _shame_ would not be itching beneath his flesh. Maybe, then, he would feel some small amount of _satisfaction._

If only to combat the images of star-eyes laughing in the back of his mind, gleaming brightly with sadistic glee at his defeat.


	296. Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon's wife-to-be must choose between the man she loves and everything she has ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to all of the Soulful Arc. Basically just sappy angst from a certain perspective. For me, it's another exploration into the differences between elven cultures. Because all elves are not exactly the same. (And I really wish movie!Thorin Oakenshield would notice this sometime before he dies in the third movie, the annoying little brat!)
> 
> I guess xenophobia, prejudice and premarital sex are the only real warnings for this one.

Some choices were not so easy to make.

If she had known how harsh this choice would become, would her choices these past few months have been different? Often enough in these last days had Sáriel wondered this to herself as she gazed upon the trees and walked amongst her people. And often had she found herself unable to regret the decisions that had led her to this place, this divide in her existence.

Her entire life had she lived here, leaping among the trees and the darkness broken only with the stars and their cold light speckled across the heavens. Long ago, she remembered being a child in a world without the strange golden glory of Anor and the ghostly cast of silvery Isil. Days when her people danced upon midsummer's eve in bliss and held festivals in the harvest months before winter's ravages and then celebrated again when the snows melted and the flowers bloomed and all things returned to greenness and liveliness.

She remembered a time when overhead there were only the constellations of Varda’s dome to guide weary travelers and her mother told her stories of their wonder, of walking up into the sky and touching their pearly, distant light in vibrant dreams. So long ago that was, in a world that did not have danger and heartbreak and shadow.

Different was the world now. But still, Sáriel was home here. The canopies overhead were her roof and the mossy ground her floor and the maze of ancient, whispering trees were her friends and her protectors. And her people, in their simplicity and their beauty, needed not lavish costumes of fancy fabrics and the decoration of glittering, jeweled creations of cold metal in order to be the loveliest sight she had ever seen.

At least, until _him._

But he was not of her people.

Not often did they meet, for he had duties far away and could not often escape to see her, his lover. His father was a king, and he was a prince, though he did not look or act it. Unlike the fey-eyed elves that looked down upon her kin as though they were more animal than person, he held no scorn when he watched her laugh at the brush of leaves upon her cheek or sing the songs of the birds flitting between the trees. No sternness lined his flushed lips or narrowed his exotic eyes when she wore trousers like a man and hunted with him in vast and unsettled lands instead of spending her days weaving and gathering the vegetables and fruits tended by the Green Lady’s graces.

He was _of them_ —the elves that her father warned her to avoid, that made her mother shiver in fear and recall the darkness to the North—but he did not _seem_ like them. He was not haughty like them or greedy like them or prideful like them.

So much was he like _her_ and _her people_ , easy to bring to laughter at the simplest of things, enjoying a good time rosy-cheeked from hand-brewed wine, following her on her adventures with an open mind and a huge, throbbing heart into the highlands where beds were crafted of sharp stone and only company kept warm the skin. There was little, Sáriel found, that she _did not_ like about her beau. Even his strangely sharp features and his frighteningly bright eyes echoing with divine, un-star-like light.

But he was _not_ like her. _Not_ one of her people. And that, Sáriel could not deny.

So far, she had kept him secret from her parents and her companions, sneaking off to meet him before dawn came upon the earth, sometimes not returning home for days on end. Hunting and enjoying the wind in the mountains, she claimed, though she was certain they did not entirely believe her words, and she knew they suspected and were awaiting her announcement of courtship.

_“You glow like one in love,”_ her mother had told her when she returned from her last rendezvous with _him. “Must you hide your lover from us, my daughter?”_

_“I hide no one and nothing,”_ she had claimed.

But that secret smile had not budged from her mother’s face. _“Do you truly think I would not recognize the visage of my daughter stricken with love?”_

Until then, she had not realized how far her liaison had gone. She had not realized she was _in love_ with him, her handsome stranger from far away.

It brought new thoughts to her mind. Thoughts that marred her simple joy.

For his people were _anything_ but simple.

Sometimes he spoke of them to her, of their war and their violence and their unhappiness. Of their fighting and their feuding and the breaking of families through betrayal. Of his cousins with their poisonous eyes and of his father who was tired and of his brother who was bitter. Of the _problems_ , the days spent worrying over his sister’s safety and his people’s prosperity and the battles they fought for days and days and days with no end in sight for naught but a few glowing rocks.

It was nothing like this life she led here. Nothing like the endless days of hunting and returning home to smiles. Sáriel had never experienced problems more complicated than gathering enough food for the long months of winter.

And, whether or not he seemed to be, he was a prince. _The prince._

And she was a wild elf of the forest.

And she _loved him._ Dare she think he, perhaps, loved her back?

But even if he _did_ love her back, Sáriel felt her heart grow heavy and sink down deep into her belly, for she knew that he would never stay here with her— _could_ never stay here with her—and live a life without strife beneath the trees and the stars. She stared out into the vast depths of the forest, at the familiar bends and curves and the twist of bark she knew as she knew the back of her own hand. This place was her _home_ , but it was not his.

“Why do you stand outside, iell-nín, in the chill?”

Her mother had come to find her, and Sáriel wondered if her agony showed upon her face as though it were written for all to see. Wondered if the tear in her heart bled as red as did a tear in her flesh, seeping out to stain everything with its pain.

“I think I am in love,” she whispered.

Settling carefully down a basket of clothes river-bound, her mother stepped up beside her upon the porch. Eyes so pale and clear, so blue and knowing, watched her carefully from behind the loose waves of silvered white hair. “Is that not blessed news?”

_Should she tell all? Or should she stay silent?_

“I do not believe you and father will approve of him.” Which was the truth. Because until she had seduced him on a whim and watched him run after her upon winged feet with an enamored grin, she would have scoffed at the idea of a woman of her village being insane and reckless enough to fall in love with one of _them_ , just as would the rest of her people if they knew of her crazy love. Once, the elves from over the sea had struck terror into her heart and fury into her mind with their oddities and dark light, and she had glared upon them and their strange customs and their avaricious tendencies just as had her parents and her friends.

But he was not like that. Not at all.

“And why do you believe that, iell-nín?” Suspicion therein lingered, narrowing and darkening the blue from its pure pitch to something deeper and sharper. “Is he not from our village. Is that why you hide him from us?”

“Yes…”

But more so than that. He was not even of the forest. Not even of those who had stayed behind.

He was a man from over the sea. And his eyes echoed with sunlight and sorrow.

“Yes, he is. But, nana, I love him.”

And she wanted to be with him forever. She wanted to wake up to his smile and the shimmer of gold in his dark blanket of hair. She wanted to walk at his side and hold his hand and kiss his cheek without fear of discovery. She wanted to lay with him in the twilight and make love and pray for a child into his damp skin as they drifted together into dreams.

Sáriel wanted him. Desired him and needed him. Didn’t think she could live without him.

She _loved_ him. 

But she loved her family. She loved her people. She loved her home.

And he was a prince. Often did he come to her beneath the boughs of her familiar trees and murmur words of love and devotion into her ears, but never did he stay.

_“I cannot,”_ he always told her, sounding sick at heart when they prepared to part ways, eyes already wistful with longing. _“Had I the choice, I would throw away the kingdom and the jewels and the frippery of court. But I am the prince. My father needs me. My_ people _need me. And it is a duty I cannot abandon.”_

So torn were his goodbyes. But always did it strike her…

_“Had I the choice…”_

If he could disappear, give up the life he had always known, would he _truly_ choose to stay here with her and live the simple ways of the forest people? Would he give up the warm beds he told her of so fondly and the rich dining and wines he enjoyed and the indoor dancing and frivolity indulged until the sun rose? Would he throw away even the love of his father and his sister and brother, leave them stricken with sorrow at his loss, to stay here with her forever?

Would he have given up everything and been happy with only her when he was leaving behind his home?

Would she be willing to do the same?

“Will you go to him, iell-nín?”

Softly did her mother speak, and Sáriel found her breath caught in her throat. For she had not expected the woman who had birthed her to know her mind so well, to see her conflict with such ease or understand the reason she fell into black depression and stifled the urge to weep at the stars and pray to Elbereth for guidance. And yet, those blue eyes knew all when she turned to stare into their depths with her lips parted in shock and startled eyes opened wide.

“I do not want to choose, nana.”

Tears pricked and leaked over the edges of her pale eyelashes, glistening their way down her cheeks with only the starlight to mark their passing.

Because there were two directions, two paths. One that led away into his embrace, into a world that she could scarcely imagine and one that was utterly foreign, filled with shadow and hatred and all the taint that had his people brought over the sea. But also with promises of joy and hope, of so much love that her heart near overflowed with its golden champagne. In that vision, she always saw a child in his arms and the most un-kingly smile upon his face as he tucked her body against his side.

The other led only deeper between the trees and up into the starlight, but when Sáriel looked too long she saw no end, and the path twisted into the dread of loneliness and the regret that burned like acid in the veins. Free of burden that way might have been, treading forever among her people, dancing wildly beneath the stars in absolution and singing praise to Elbereth and Aran Einior in the night, but in the end she would be alone. In that end, there would be no more kisses and held hands. No more laughter in his deep, rolling voice or smiles upon his fair face. No more lovemaking beneath the trees and whispering in the dark.

No children. No family.

For she did not think she would ever love another as she loved him, her stranger from far away. Her prince.

And she knew she had to choose.

“I know, iell-nín, that your heart is torn,” her mother whispered, wrapping slender arms about her shaking frame. “But it is all the more important that you choose well. That you make sure you seek happiness. For I would not have you wither in grief at its loss.”

And she knew she would not be happy without his love. Without his smiles greeting her in the morning and his embrace rocking her to sleep when evening fell.

She hugged back and felt some lightness mix together with the heaviness aching through her chest. “Is that a blessing, naneth?”

Fingers tightened in her hair and a kiss met her brow. No more words were imparted. None were needed.

And she understood that her mother knew the truth of her heart as well as did its owner. Sáriel marveled and wept all the same at that revelation, her face buried in that familiar, cloying scent of snow-fallen hair. Quiet would her mother keep in the following days as the daughter packed away her scarce belongings and let anticipation overcome her fragile heart. Speak not of the departure would her confident and protector, until the day she fled into the forest and never returned.

Never had Sáriel made such a choice before. And either path would be filled with some sickness and some heartbreak.

But now, at least, she could hug back in warmth and acceptance, basking in silent reassurance. And she could look toward her future with a smile upon her lips despite the rising darkness in the North and the strife of those strange peoples from far away. Among them, she would not be in this place that she had always called home, but…

_He_ would be her new home, if indeed he would have her. And Sáriel thought she could bear that weight, if only so that she could be by his side. If only his warmth would envelope her and soothe the ache in her heart.

It was a sacrifice, and a heavy one at that. But she knew that she would not regret the pursuit of happiness.

When next she left her small village, she smiled at her father and kissed her mother’s cheek. Squeezed their hands tight and promised to return home safely.

But she never came back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> iell-nín = my daughter  
> nana = mommy or mama  
> naneth = mother


	297. Immortal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curse of the Firstborn continues ever on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Machine, Morgue and Letters as well as anything Aegnor/Andreth related. Modern AU.
> 
> Contains some debatably suicidal thoughts, mentions of human sacrifice as well as discussion of the perception of death. Also, I feel the powerful urge to say that the OFC in this story (Sarah, same as from the others) is _not_ a love interest. Also, the differences between elves and men and interpretation of the "true form" of the Eldar (see FotR and DoS for examples of this phenomenon).

How did one go about explaining his greatest of demons?

Humans, Aikanáro knew, would not oft understand the perspective of one of his kind. Fear of death was a weakness many of them shared, one that festered and raged in their hearts all their lives as they scraped and clawed for each second of breath. They did not like to touch the dead bodies of others or linger upon the departed spirits once housed inside, for it made them uncomfortable and fearful.

Some of them feared death so much that they wished to live forever, escaping the skeletal cage of its fingers. Some of them feared it with such ferocity, so frenetically, that they would do _anything_ to grasp that tenuous hope of forever just out of their reach.

So many times he had seen this, over and over and over. Not only in the ancient world, before the current human reckoning when the Kings of Númenor sacrificed their people’s blood to gain long life that was not theirs to keep, but also in the modern realms. Black magic, necromancy and alchemy, nonsense designed to prey upon those feeble, gossamer strands of black hope strung as the cobwebs of a poisonous arachnid, awaiting the foolish and the weak of heart to fall within their trap. How many, he wondered, had devoted all their time living to finding a way to escape the inevitable end?

How many of them would have scoffed upon his idiocy if he had offered to trade places with them, give them the long life of the Firstborn? No matter the blackness of their hearts or the wickedness of their minds or the sickness that infested their souls, he would have done it in a heartbeat—would have thrown away his _gift_ from the One and laid down eagerly to the ravages of time and grayness, passing beyond the edges of the world with tears of joy upon his smiling visage.

But it was impossible. Even the Lady Lúthien, in the end, was but a fairy’s tale, a story whispered when romance burned heavy in the night and star-struck eyes gleamed between couples with entwined hands. No power within the realm of Eä could grant Aikanáro that which he most desired.

The gift of the Secondborn, the Aftercomers. The gift of _Men._

And here was this girl—this daughter of mortal blood—asking him why he wept, why he believed he was damned and cursed. Why he coveted most the scent of death and the emptiness of oblivion.

What could he say to her that she might understand?

“You will see her again one day,” Sarah insisted whenever he breathed that deep sigh of despair and told her that he wanted to die. “You will be together with her, happy forever.”

“But I won’t” was always his blasé reply.

“And how can you be so sure?” she would always question. “Do you have no faith?”

Until, one day, he did not turn away in silence and ignore her words as he should. Until, one day, the urge to tell all froze his body in place, parted his lips in retort, because he wanted to make her blind eyes see.

Until, one day, he broke the rules and told her that which he had kept hidden for countless centuries of the world.

“I have died before.”

Her gaze was incredulous, narrowed with the parental acquiescence of an adult listening to the nonsense babble of a toddler. But in the depths of her gaze as it turned upon him, she looked as though she believed he had lost his mind. And very well might he have to her knowledge, as deranged as she knew him to be. Why would she believe his words? Why would she not think him senile?

“Aaron, did you…?”

“I did not kill myself,” he told her solemnly. “But I did die, and I came back. I came back to an endless maze of halls that offered no healing and luscious gardens stretching as far as the eye can see that offered no rest, to the faces of my friends and my family who did not understand my grief or sorrow. But not to _her_ , for she is like _you_ , and I am _not.”_

“I don’t understand what you mean,” she said. “Aaron, are you okay?”

“You think I am addled.” His smile was self-depreciating, filled with sardonic humor, bitter laughter caught in the back of his throat. “It is fine. However, you must understand, I am _bound_ to this material world, to the circles of this earth. To this plane. For me, there is no heaven or hell. There is only rebirth.”

In her eyes, he could see faint understanding, but it was clouded with disbelief. No longer did mortals believe in the ancient folk of the trees, graceful and wise and long-lived, wreathed in fairness beyond compare and yet delicate in spirit. Perhaps he should have stopped there, turned back and told her to forget his words as one forgets the images curling through fog in the early morning light. But he wanted her to understand. _Needed her to understand._

“When your people die, they pass beyond the edges of the world. And to there I cannot follow. Do you not see? _To her I may never go!”_

Part of her was terrified of him, of his face and his form as he towered over her, as golden light blossomed upon his skin and unveiled the truth of his form. All she had ever known was a mirage, a dark shadow, a veil all of the Firstborn cast over their bodies to hide the truth of their existence. Now he stood as he had been born, undiminished and nourished in the light of the Two Trees in the days of old.

He was an ancient being, a fell creature of the young world, lit with the light seeded by Yavanna’s nurturing and Nienna’s tears of lament.

“Do you not see that I _cannot die?”_ he raged. And the light spilled out of him as water from between cupped palms, slipping back down into the bowls of the earth and the fire of its blood. Until the gold in his hair was no longer haloed as was Anar and his skin did not glow from the inside out as flesh formed of pearls of Isil’s dew. Until his eyes were no longer alight from within and returned from the whiteness of distant galaxies and newborn stars to the mere blue dappled with the sky’s hues.

Nonetheless, she had seen him in his truest form. Wide were her eyes, their green ringed with the deep tones of the earth, and trembling were her hands where they remained outstretched between their bodies, hanging in the chasm opened by their differences so innate and undeniable.

“Are you an angel?” she asked, sounding so awed. And his physical incarnation withered in shame, for he was nothing so grand or divine. Nothing upon which to look in admiration. Nothing as beautiful in spirit as he was in face and form.

Nothing.

“Nothing nearly so powerful or awe-inspiring,” he whispered in return as he grasped her hands and lowered them down, held them for a few passing moments before cutting their contact as though burned. For what right did he have to touch her thusly? “Merely immortal. Merely unable to die. And naught but a curse does it remain—will it ever be.”

His throat worked about those words, about their finality and their despair. Downcast were his eyes, resting upon hands that would never wrinkle and spot with age, never grow gaunt and veined and unsteady. Not like hers. Not like _hers._

His hands that were grasped in soft palms, her scarred imperfection against his unbroken whiteness. And eyes were upon his face when did he glance upwards in shock at her friendly touch.

“Aaron?”

“So much do your people desire to live forever,” he whispered, clutching tightly at her warmth that reminded him of _her_ but still felt so wrong and unfamiliar. “So much do your people lust after immortality that can never be grasped by mortal hands. But I… I would give anything to have the gift that _Men_ so fear, so spurn and hate. _Anything.”_

And the tears came, falling upon their entwined fingers in slow droplets, staining their skin with silver. _“Anything.”_

Yet there was understanding in her gaze as it met the fell fire of his own and held without fear and without awe. Gently did she squeeze his hands in her palms, and acceptance lingered in her eyes even as they glistened with answering compassion.

“It’s okay to cry, you know. Real men aren’t afraid to show their emotions.”

It was soft teasing, the hint of her own echoing empathy hidden just underneath, and his lips wavered tremulously upon a tiny smile even as a sob bubbled up his throat and out in a choked, wet gasp. For the first time, he felt the cradle of comfort sliding against his soul, something that even his brothers and sister and mother and father could not give him in his time of greatest need.

And he leaned against her shoulder and gave in to her tight hug. Gave in and cried.

And _Eru_ , but it felt so good. So warm.

So clean. 

Like the purity of untouched, cool water pouring down over the burning, festering open wound that cut straight through his spirit. And Aikanáro could not remember a time when he had felt so safe as when the heat of her tears dripped into his hair and down his temple, as when the shudder of sobs hitched the chest beneath his cheek, stained with his sorrow.

Foolish had it been to allow himself this attachment, this fleeting dream of a friendship, this tiny taste of comfort, but he could not bring himself to regret this balm. He could not bring himself to regret the pain that would come with her inevitable departure from the edges of the world, past the grip of his shaking fingers.

For the curse still lingered like a slow-acting poison. And he closed his eyes and turned away for the sake of the little time he had left.

Such was the fate of one who never dies. But for now, he would smile and live. Just for a little while.


	298. Open Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epiphanies suck sometimes. Like a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Cheat Arc, but specifically anything Valthoron/Tauriel or Legolas/Haldir related. Has unrequited love (one-sided Legolas/Tauriel as in the movies) and thus some mildly sexual implications. Other than that, mostly teenage angst (of the elven variety) and sibling bonding.

It was easy to be blind. And Legolas had been willfully blind for a very long time.

He did not like to admit that he was in the wrong. He did not want to admit the truth and thus had looked the other way. Pride was hot in his blood, indignant and fierce. But even more so than that, the pain that seared with each pang of his heart only became sharper and more potent with the knowledge that he desperately tried to ignore. The knowledge that his love was unrequited.

Unrequited.

_"You know that I do not love you, at least not in that way, my prince. Please, make this not more difficult for yourself than it must already be." Her voice was soft, nearly pleading, and gentle. But underneath lingered the strain._

_Irrationally, his anger ignited._

_"Is it my father? Has he threatened you?"_

_"If true was my love for someone, no force upon this earth could halt me," she hissed back, he was startled by the catlike glimmer in her eyes. "Not even King Thranduil himself!"_

_"Then... why?" he asked, frustrated, embarrassed and flustered. "Why?"_

_Why?_

Why indeed. But he _knew_ why, did he not?

Bitterly, the younger of two brothers stomped his way through the halls, his mood fouler than it had been for at least a few centuries. Little did he want to think about this truth, did he want to finally string together each dancing, mocking design of this mural of his life.

Little did he want to see the end he knew was awaiting. The end he knew was not that which he desired.

_"Is it that dwarf? That dwarf that died—"_

_"Bring not Kíli into this fight!" she cried, her patience finally running dry. "Between us there was nothing, nothing but the innocent love of a young man and a woman indulging his foolish wistfulness to soothe the burn of her guilty conscience."_

_"I am certain your lover would_ agree." _It was low and vindictive. As soon as he said those words, the prince wished to recall them._

_Especially when her eyes flashed in fury and her lips blanched to white._

_"My lover knows that I would never betray him in such a way, that I shall always be his and his alone! If you had any love for him at all, you would respect my choice!"_

Why did it have to be so difficult to find that respect?

Why did the woman he loved with all his heart have to be in love with his _older brother?_

It was not, he knew, Valthoron's fault. What his brother had done to win the love of their Silvan Captain of the Guard, Legolas knew not and dared not speculate. But he knew that they had been lovers in secret for a very long time, and he knew also that he had shoved aside all the signs, all the hints that had been lying out in the open for him to see and piece together. Every whisper passed between their bowed forms in the shadows, every time he watched them slip away in each other's company for privacy, every time they touched a little too long and a little too tender with the tips of their fingers...

Legolas had not wanted to be jealous of his brother. He had _wanted_ to believe that what lay between the eldest Prince of Mirkwood and Tauriel of the Guard was nothing more than friendship.

But it was not. And no longer could he turn away. But neither could he relent.

_"You know that I love your brother, so why do you continue this pursuit?"_

Because he was a fool. Because he was _in love._

Because he could not stop.

And that, perhaps, was why Legolas ran away.

\---

He had been welcomed in the realm of Lothlórien before many years past, remembered the bliss of its eternal summer and the calming warmth of his enveloping trees and light, and how the folk of those woods did not even ask him why it was that he came. The marchwarden he recalled from the back of his mind—the one he had once sparred with beneath the summer-dappled golden trees with their dripping honeyed blooms—welcomed him as one did a brother-in-arms, grasping his forearms tightly.

"Welcome, cousin."

The hands were warm, he took pause to notice. But after that, he turned away.

Little mind did he pay that elf—who had smiled upon him in friendship just a little too broadly and openly for their nearly being strangers—or any other elf he saw. The Lord and Lady did he greet briefly, and then the prince descended into the depths of the forest to mull over his thoughts in the silence with only the night-sounds and the twitter of birds as his company.

Alone, there, he walked.

And thought about her. And thought about _him._

And thought and thought. And tried not to become bitter in heart.

That was where his brother found him.

Perhaps it was foolish for him to believe no one would come after him. Or, perhaps, he had even more foolishly believed that _Tauriel_ might come after him, as she had once gone after that young love-struck dwarf-prince she did not even love in return. That she might change her mind, forsake her relationship with his older brother and take up with _him_ beneath the splendor of the mallyrn in the dusk.

He should not have dared to even _think_ of wishing such pain upon his brother, but...

"Long enough have you lingered out here, little Greenleaf."

Shocked, he turned to face the redhead. Valthoron was so tall, towering easily over Legolas, and leaned lazily against a tree just a few feet away, blue eyes settled upon the younger brother. The younger brother who had not even heard him move. Had not even seen the shimmer of setting sun upon vibrant hair, staining it to blood.

"Why are you here?" he asked, upset and frazzled and humiliated by the knowing gleam that overtook turquoise blue.

"I am here because you are my brother," Valthoron said, his voice so low and so soft. "I swore to protect you when I first held you in my arms, and I would see you happy."

_If you would see me happy, then give away your love for—_

But he could not bear to finish that thought. What sort of person wished heartbreak upon the other? What kind of brother would wish this pain—this rending and tearing and aching and burning—upon his closest of kin, his only sibling? What kind of horrible—?

"Legolas?"

"You know," he murmured. "Are you not angry?"

Brows normally furrowed into an expression of permanent irascibility were, at the moment, softened and finely arched. "I can never stay angry with you," the older said, "but even so, no, I cannot be angry with you for falling in love. Not when the love between myself and Tauriel was hidden."

"Because of adar..." he accused.

"Because we were not ready," the older prince replied, chastising and sharp before his tone descended again into softness. "But I am not here to speak of myself. I am here to speak of _you."_

"Of what is there to speak?" Legolas asked, feeling every bit as harsh and unpleasant as his voice sounded at that moment. "How can I return home spurned? How can I move on watching her every day with someone else?"

_How can I allow myself to see after so much darkness?_

At his back, Valthoron sighed. "So blind you are, little one. So blind and so oblivious to those around you, to those whose favor you carry, whose eyes follow your form. But it will come in time. You will open your eyes, and you will see not only the bad in your life, but the good as well."

_Good? What about this fiasco is good?_

He wanted to shout that into the face of his brother. Wanted to scream and rage and throw something if only to quell the shaking rage that trembled in his muscles and bubbled as spilling lava from the depths of his marrow. But none of those things did the young prince do, for he had learned dignity and compunction as soon as he had learned to speak and walk, and he would not lower himself to barbaric behavior in the face of this personal tragedy.

"I am not oblivious!"

"Oh, are you not?" Arms crossed, and Valthoron sneered in a manner that would have made a lesser man shudder. "Tell me, then, of the marchwarden Haldir."

He thought back to the elf when they had first met, to the arrogant smirks he could recall as a thin haze of cloud upon a dazzling valley and the voice that had spoken shortly to him as though he were a child, layered with grudging civility. To the annoyance he had once seen in hazel eyes and smelled upon frivolously spouted titles, the looks that had left him all too eager to leave behind his guide and guard to escape the reek of condescension. If anything, he had thought the man disliked him, thought of him as something weak and beneath notice, too young to be of interest, too inexperienced to hold attraction and too childish to be an equal.

But he could recall, too, the recent way in which the warden had brushed his arm lingeringly. The way in which Haldir had smiled upon the prince and welcomed him readily.

The way in which his hands were warm.

"I do not..."

"Did you know, little brother, that he frequently inquires as to your health whenever I send a messenger to Lothlórien? Did you know that he speaks high praise of your skills in battle to his own kin, though it paints him in shame for losing a spar to one so young and fair? Did you know that he rarely holds in high esteem anyone other than his brothers, and even more rarely hands out compliments? Did you know...?"

The list trailed away into quiet. The voice that followed was but a shadow in the dark as the sun set.

"Did you know that he watches you as though you were forged of starlight?"

A pause. The young prince held his breath.

"Did you know that he smiles when you are near, and that his eyes fall downcast when you look away?"

And Legolas felt his heart rise into his throat.

"Did you know that, even now, he stands far off and watches you wistfully as once you did my lover? That, even amongst the safety of his Lady's enchantments, he worries for your safety? Did you?"

Of course he did not.

He had not ever noticed Haldir more than passingly. He had not ever thought about the marchwarden in the way one might consider a lover. He had never noticed how powerful the other elf's muscles were from centuries of hard work and practice with a bow and sword until he really thought about it. He had never taken note of the tresses so faintly lined with gold in the sunlight until he could no longer ignore their reflection in his memory. He had never thought of those eyes that had crinkled at the corners when a smile bowed usually solemn lips because it had never been important.

Why had he never recalled clearly that smile? Why had he never noticed that low, crooning voice?

But he had not.

Blind, his brother said, and blind he had been. "I see," he whispered. And he said nothing more.

All that glowed now of Valthoron were his eyes flashing in the night. So painfully knowing. So easily casting down shame. "Come, little brother, and let us go back to the city. On the morrow, we can depart for home."

Legolas followed unquestioningly with his head bowed, trailing upon the heels of his unwitting rival, the man who had defeated him utterly in the game of love and war. But no longer did his mind linger upon Tauriel with her fiery hair and her sweet-as-honey smile or upon Valthoron with his arms wrapped around her waist and his lips pressed to hers. It ached and strained rather with compassion and with guilt than with the bitterness of lost hope and love.

That someone else could suffer this same agony that had consumed his heart so easily left his throat tight. And that he, the object of their affections, had not even taken a moment to notice…

It left him blinded by the garish light and the flutter of dark lashes upon his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> adar = father
> 
> Silvan = wood-elf


	299. Electrify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting of a future King and Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avarin culture. Festivals with heavy sexual overtones. Drugging, I guess. Premarital, casual sexual relationships. As close to smut as I'm likely to ever get. Basically just sensuality. Companion to Soulful.
> 
> Oh, and it's OFC-centric, so find another chapter if you aren't into that.

It was not as though she had never kissed or touched a man before. Not as though she had never taken a lover beneath the stars during the spring celebrations when wine flowed and incense burned from dusk until dawn. No young and inexperienced maiden was Sáriel.

Tonight, she danced among the experienced womenfolk, the daughters who were not yet bound to a single man, who still were free to wrap their arms about a suitable male and drag him off into the forest for a night of ecstasy before Anor's rays cut garishly through their dream world. Feet flying, she felt her blood sing and burn as hotly as did the red-hot gleam of flame reflected upon her red curls as they soaked with her sweat and stuck to her bare skin.

Minute by minute, starting from her toes and creeping upwards, she felt the inhibitions drain away, replaced by the blood of the earth and the energy of the new-found spring life blooming in every corner and shadow. It was, she imagined, as if she bloomed into a being of sensuality and soulful, fiery lust.

Her blossoming drew many eyes, eyes of men she had before taken to bed upon the soft forest floor. But even as she wove amongst their brushing fingertips and hungry gazes, she felt the need to wait. None of their touches brought passion into her skin. None of their gazes left the itch of arousal crawling through her veins and burning at her apex. Until she sensed an edge, something near, tracing over her curves and searing her bared flesh.

In the midst of heavy drumbeat and raised voice, she waited with caught breath for _him._

And then the shadows parted to her widened eyes.

When at first he had come, she had been surprised. Like a massive cat he stalked, his gold adornment gleaming sharply in the light of the fires when he prowled forth beneath their ravages and heat, tossing his head more like a wild creature of the forest than a civilized being from out of the light and the West. Circling, he came toward her with dark eyes, narrowed and ringed in thick black lashes at half-mast, so starkly dark against the pale whiteness of his skin.

Everything about him was exotic like an incense come from the far south in Harad that filled her nose with spice and scent she had never conceived in her imagination. He moved like a skilled warrior, every muscle flexing beneath his silken coverings embroidered in eye-scattering designs of great detail and beauty. More, though, did she notice the strength of his legs as he loped and the waves of his hair as they fell loose about his shoulders and grasped at his flesh like shadow come to life.

And the gray of his eyes. Like twilight were they, pale light flecked in stars and darkness. But in their depths they glowed both with divine flame and with heated desire.

Desire for _her._

Never had Sáriel felt so much like a maiden dancing in her very first spring festival, not since she had been but a century of age in search of a first gentle lover to bathe with in Elbereth's sacred light. This, though, was very different. With his eyes upon her, enveloped in wisdom that she could not fathom and brilliance that outshone the white diamonds set in the heavens, she could hardly bear to breathe and yet fought in great gasping heaves for that sweet taste of oxygen upon her tongue.

Suddenly, every draw of air into her lungs seared and tightened in her throat until she swallowed. Reaching still for the sky's limit, her hands trembled and her skin broke out in chills where his gaze touched.

Unlike her kin, he did not grab her immediately and kiss her senseless upon her parted, gasping lips, not like a nameless lover would have in a fit of passion. He did not sweep her up upon his shoulder and carry her away in the dark like a savage or a ravisher, either. Rather, a broad hand captured one of her own, brought it forth to his mouth so that lips softer than the lap of still water or the petals of a wild lily could trace over the angular softness of her knuckles.

And that single touch, sliding up the curve of her hand to rest upon her bare wrist, shocked through her as did lightning striking the heights of a tree surging down to the ground in a blaze of blinding light. That same tingle that set her hair upon end when did the sky open up in white fire now burned up her spine and down into the depths of her belly. Electrified, for his touch might as well have been of the cold fire so blissful was its pain when it sank down to her very bones and centered in the nerves of her flesh.

"My lady," he breathed upon her skin. And he was watching her as she shivered.

For a moment, they stood as a single spot of silence in a writhing tangle of chaos.

All that she could think to do was pull him forth into the circle of broken harmony, into the honeyed gleam of midnight burning and the limbs' black outlines swaying. Into a dance with her, he swept, knowing instinctively how to move and how to touch, how to entangle and lose himself in her form. How to make her skin tingle and her cheeks flush full with blood and need.

In those eyes, all sense was lost, but she did not mind, for her own senses were addled by the cloying sweet scent upon the air mixed with his musk.

Never had she met a man who inspired this feeling, this perfection of coming together merely by brushing hands and seeking lips. Bare touch lit her skin like the stars, and she imagined herself as one of them—and he as her companion beside her in the sky, a pair forever together never to be parted—as she pulled him away into the shadows.

As they made love beneath the trees.

Never had she felt this way.

And when she awoke to her right mind, she looked upon his sleeping face, the odd sharpness of his cheeks and the square-ness of his jaw and the length of his nose. In the early morning light, he looked as a ghost with skin too thin to be real, too fragile to be protective and too pale to have ever felt the kiss of the sun. About him lay gossamer black strands in a corona about the shining light of his features, and her hands could not help their last few caresses across his perfection, tangling in those locks and holding them to her nose to breathe their perfume.

But, in the end, she looked upon the elegant golden strands that were braided into his locks—that were cold to her fingers—and upon the widespread wings of gold set unto his crown and upon the fancy clothing that lay scattered about them in the grass and between the thick, ancient roots. And she saw that he was different.

That he was not of her people. That he was not of _her._

How then could they be as one?

Every touch felt so right, but had anything ever been so wrong?

For she was of the dark elves, those who had stayed behind for love of the darkness and simplicity of sweet life drunk pure. And he was of the West, its alien light burning through his very veins, and the pride and prodigality of his people was in his spirit.

They could never be. Such love would be folly.

But their night she would remember fondly. Remember his kisses and his touches and the scorch of white-hot bliss across her flesh. Remember as they lay after curled together, his voice murmuring nonsense of his graceful tongue upon her temple. Remember how she had smiled into his shoulder as they drifted, warmed and bare in the grass.

As she dressed herself and braided her hair, she thought, and was certain that no man could compare to her stranger. The man who could make lightning flash through her blood.

Only when she was ready to depart, to disappear, did she lean down to press her lips one last time to his skin. For all its cold alabaster appearance, it was so warm.

"Good luck to you," she whispered against his cheek. "May Elbereth bless you and your kin."

There, she left him behind. And she dared not glance back.


	300. Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A comparison of two loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to Scowl (Chapter 155), Winter (218) and Color (220) as well as the rest of the Cleansed Arc. Basically just something vaguely resembling romance with metaphors. No content worth warning anyone about I don't think.

Out of any form of light gifted unto their sight, the elves that had never set foot upon the golden shores of the Undying Lands loved most the light of the stars. Their eternal companions. Their guidance in a dangerous world of creeping shadow and endless night.

The rising of Anor and Ithil had not changed that reverence. Still hot did it run through their blood, that fascination and adoration for the droplets of brilliance dotting the heavens.

Still hot did it run through the blood of this man, this man who had been born in the fading light of the world, in the dawning of an age where starlight was usurped by the brilliance of the sun.

She could see it in his eyes. Feel in in the pound of his heart.

"Did you know that your inner glow, it so resembles starlight?" he whispered against her ear.

Warm hands touched her cheek, hardly more than a brush upon her white flesh, as though he feared she might shatter beneath any roughness or hardness, as though she were formed of ice and might melt should his heat remain for too long and take away her chill. So careful. So tender.

And he gazed upon her with that reverence, with that burning love.

She knew her hair was silvery and shone bright even when the moon was new. She knew her skin was pale and her lashes and brows darkened and graceful cutting across its pallor. She knew that her eyes glimmered with tears that reflected as pinpricks of faraway light.

Beautiful, he called her, and was so enamored. Like another she recalled with pain in her heart.

_"You remind me of the stars. Of their unreachable, untouchable and cold beauty."_

_The man was uncouth, not beautiful by the standards of her people at all. Dark hair and gray eyes like a deep elf out of the far west, and tall as well. Broad of shoulder, heavy of muscle and powerful in bone, strong in the chin and arched in the nose with a beard and a mustache across his upper lip. Nothing about him was elegant or graceful or gentle. Nothing about him was reverent or smooth or soft. And he was not enamored with nature, but with the buildings wrought of white stone and callused hands._

_No, he was no elven beauty. He had none of their brilliance and preternatural glow. More so, she thought, was his beauty an evanescent sort. Fleeting, barely captured within her fingers before it was blown away._

_"You say that often, Imrazôr."_

_"Often do you deserve to hear it said, my lady."_

_He pressed his lips to her skin, and they were not soft, but chapped and roughened as though the wind had torn away their outer layers and left them raw. Yet, she found that she did not mind their touch so much, for it left a pleasant tingle upon the end of her nerves._

_Carefully, she let her eyes cross over his face. When first she had seen him, he had been very young and very strong, his hair like the night and his eyes a storm upon the sea. Now, frost had crept into his locks and the wild ravages of youth had mellowed into something content and gentle. Carefully, she watched how he smiled that familiar smile, how the creases of his cheeks and the corners of his eyes wrinkled._

_Mithrellas knew her husband was aging. But she had not expected it to happen so_ fast.

_"You remind me of the stars that fall from the heavens," she whispered as she brushed her fingers through the waves of his hair and traced them down to the fullness of his beard. "You burn so very bright, and you disappear so very quickly."_

_"I could never compare to you."_

_But he was wrong. That was all she could think. He_ was _beautiful. He_ was _made of divine light._

_But not of_ her _light. Not cold and distant hanging in the heavens. Not cemented forever in position in the pinnacle of the sky._

_When he died, she would depart. And she would not look back. For she was a star destined to be alone forever when her partner—her mate and best friend and lover—fell down to earth in a fiery blaze and burned into ashes._

Beautiful, he called her. Starlight, he named her.

Now, Mithrellas looked upon him—upon Elrohir. Star-knight was his name, and within the deep wells of his eyes she could see not only the wild passion and the shadow of despair and grief, but light that fought its way through all the darkness.

Often enough, she had connected with him through mutual pain and understanding of suffering. Something in both of their souls ached and groaned and called to the other so potently, in the most primal way, that ever had she felt a bond with this much younger elf. Loss was a heavy burden to bear, and it had left its mark upon both of them until they were too scarred and too cold to move past their memories and their nightmares.

But they were cold together. And his light was every bit as unreachable, as untouchable, as her own.

As she once remembered touching her husband, so too did she touch the lover of her heart, stroking through hair that would never be laced with the gray of old age and tracing down a cheek that would never have the roughness of stubble and finding at last the upper lip that would never carry a well-groomed mustache that tickled when they kissed. Forever would Elrohir be just the same.

Forged of the same starlight. The same ancient bliss.

"Did you know," she murmured as her eyes met the twilight gray of his gaze, "that so, too, does your own?"

Widened were those eyes and parted were those lips, and his surprise was endearing to her. Mithrellas laughed softly, thawed for but a moment in time as they interwove and twined together, as she came close enough to feel the burn of his heat sinking into her flesh once more.

As she came close enough to brush her lips across his—soft of plush—and breathe in his beauty.

Never had she expected to find another. Never had she expected to allow herself the heartache.

But he was no falling star that would slip between her desperate fingers. And Mithrellas found that, for all her distant coldness and loneliness, she longed for the comfort of his touch. She longed for the sigh of his breath upon her cheek and the brush of his fingers against her skin. She longed, even, for the feeling of heat and forgiveness and forgetfulness that never had she allowed herself to embrace.

Maybe it would not be so terrible to love this man of the stars. Maybe they would hang together in the sky forever, bathed each in the other's fair light.

That, she thought, would bring her happiness. That, she thought, would bring her contentment.


	301. Úrui (August)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obvious sequel to Cerveth (Chapter 257). Related (of course) to the Dismiss Arc, as well as peripherally to the Winter Arc and Cleansed Arc.
> 
> Pregnancy. Some soppy romance and slight escapism, but in general just a little something nice.

Outside, the earth was hot with the dying blaze of summer. So warm was the world that Nimrodel could not withhold her sigh of deep contentedness as she walked beneath the rays of Anor, wide-brimmed hat shading her eyes from the blinding brilliance of the sun sweltering overhead. The days of Úrui had begun to pull to a blistering close and welcome the coming fading of autumn. But the chill had yet to set in, and the hot wind combed through her hair affectionately, as though greeting an old friend.

A simple life was that which she led now, nothing like that which she recalled from before. No lady of the wood was she, and no prince of a great kingdom was her husband. But she was content with this simplicity and beauty.

Content with their small homestead and their self-sustaining vegetable garden flourishing in the shade of their home. Content with the meat brought back from her mate's long hunts in the wilderness. Content with gowns woven of simple cloths and sewn with her own fingers rather than elaborate pieces of silk and lace that before she had donned.

Far to the west lay the shadow that crept upon the world. To the east, they stayed, far beyond the reaches of Eriador and Rhovanion, far beyond any whisper of their kith and kin. And here the shadow did not touch, for there was little here to conquer. Few people lived upon these wide open plains besides the odd nomadic wandering tribes.

Little known was the return of those few elves that had forsaken the west and traveled back to their homelands of old. Like Nimrodel and Amroth.

The fair, white-haired lady climbed the steps of her home and stood upon the porch of her simple house and stared out at the open lands, untouched and uncultivated. Untamed wilderness. On and on stretched miles of golden fields beneath the gaping blue maw of the sky, the buzzing of insects and the rustle of grass keeping a steady drone of flourishing life beneath the peaceful quiet that laid over the land. Birds flocked to the young woods and bees stalked out the blossoming of the late wildflowers that would wilt before the month was done, the scattered watercolor gathered about the small patch of forest. Here was the only growth of trees for leagues upon leagues in any direction of rolling hills and flat-lands.

It was not Lothlórien, not the towering, ancient forest that had been so dear in her heart. The brook that babbled nearby was not familiar to her memories as had been the steady Celebrant or the Nimrodel for which she had been named, and its banks were decorated with the common gold of dandelion and moss rather than richly blooming elanor. Lilies blossomed in the shade rather than the graceful niphredil and the trees were by no means golden with dewdrops of pure honeyed sap dripping from their boughs but had their own sort of charm that required no glistening gold in their leaves. No, it was not Lothlórien.

Nonetheless, it had come to be home. Perhaps far more of a home than had been the dazzling, enchanted woods in their days of early glory before the Lady of the Woods brought forth the darkness with her Ring of Power. Here, evil did not touch.

Here, Nimrodel could breathe again.

And here, she would start their family.

Secretly smiling, she laid her hand upon her swollen belly.

Together, she and her husband had lived here for countless years in plenty and happiness, but it was only near twelve months to the day past that they had finally conceived their first child. A girl, she was quite certain, for she could feel it in the depths of her mind, the resonance of her unborn child calling.

And soon... soon their family would grow from two to three. Soon, their first seed would be sown. Soon, their first child would be born.

Delighted despite the sore back and ankles, despite the discomfort of her distended middle and the ill-fit of once perfectly tailored gowns, Nimrodel could not cease her crooning and humming when her hands stroked over her womb, over her daughter. She hoped her lullabies echoed in the child's dreams, that the little girl would remember the whispers of golden star-flowers and the song of waterfalls and the symphony of starlit nights when the moon was new.

In a few days... in a few days...

Larger hands joined her upon her belly, and she felt the body of her husband press up against her back, his hums joining in harmony with her own as he rocked her against his chest. Tangled together, they stood in the heat of the fading afternoon.

"Are you excited to become a mother?" he breathed against her ear. "Are you happy?"

Always, he was asking her, and always her answer would be the same. "Our family grows and our lands remain at peace. Together, we can live out our days without strife, and I do not believe Aman could have blessed us greater than does this wild land of plenty." Turning her head, she nuzzled into his throat, took in his familiar scent and watched the flutter of his pulse, his life-blood flowing beneath her eyelashes. "I do not think I could be happier than I am now. And I am so very ready to become a mother."

"So very ready to be done with swollen ankles and cramping feet?" he asked, laughing softly against her cheek as he pressed kisses to her skin.

"That as well." They shared their chortling and kisses, entwined until their foreheads rested together and their blue eyes melted into a single shared shade. And Nimrodel relished being cradled in his powerful arms, relished the feeling of his broad palms sliding over her womb with adoration and the flutter of her daughter’s answering kicks and squirms. Perhaps their petite baby was just as ready to greet the world as her parents were to bring her forth.

Bring her forth into the heat of Úrui and the beauty of the sun overhead and the glory of the golden fields. Into warmth and contentment. Truly, Nimrodel was ready. So very ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of flowers:  
> Elanor = Sun-star; star-shaped flowers often gold but sometimes silver (or both at once on the same plant)  
> Niphredil = little pallor; small white or pale green flowers that grew first at Lúthien's birth  
> Both flowers were found in Lothlórien on Cerin Amroth, which was, of course, named for our dear Sindarin prince :)


	302. Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all love to idealize Finrod, but he is no more the ideal man than are the sons of Fëanor, and the curse that haunts the line of Finwë has not skipped over him. Still, he tries his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the most part, this piece is characterization. Incest, adultery, cheating (technically, Finrod's still a free man, but spoken for I suppose in a way even if I imagine he urged Amarië to move on without him), mildly sexual content (nothing explicit really, just hinted), samurai ideology, family politics, suicide (in a weird sort of way) and skewed logic. Then again, the entire line of Finwë is packed full of skewed logic, so that's nothing new.
> 
> Related to the entirety of the Nargothrond Arc.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno

Artafindë would never claim to be a perfect person. Far from it, indeed, he had known himself to be exceptionally selfish at times. Materialistic. Sometimes heartless. Even downright cruel.

But he tried his best and always had. Tried to be a good man. Tried to be a worthy prince. Tried to be a brother his cousins and siblings could lean upon in their times of need.

It was rather like an obsession, every bit as potent as the madness that tainted the blood of his half-uncle. Every bit as all-consuming, pounding in the back of his mind like a drum, fighting always for his attention, demanding always every scrap of spirit he had to give.

He couldn't have said when it started or why. Perhaps it was the betrayal.

Yes, perhaps that.

Perhaps it was how his father had turned his back on the quest of their people and left him to guard his brothers and sister alone. Perhaps it was how he remembered so many faces—hundreds of them—contorted in terror and confusion as they stared across the dark waters at distant burning ships. And, perhaps, it was the striking realization that their supposed brothers—sworn comrades-in-arms—would not be coming back to rescue them from the biting cold.

That there was nowhere to go but forward. And then the tragedy that followed.

His cousins had grown dark-eyed and bitter with betrayal of family and loss of kin. His brothers had become resentful, their hearts full of death and the endless tormenting winds. His sister had seemed lost, her terrifying omnipotence rendered obsolete by the white walls of snow and ice on every side. All of them floundered, uncertain and shattered and confused and betrayed.

And they all turned and looked at Artafindë. Level-headed Artafindë who always knew what to say in any situation, who always smiled no matter what hardship he faced, who could make anyone laugh no matter how heavy their heart might be with despair.

He tried. Truly, he did.

And, somewhere along the way, it became important to keep his promises. More important than anything. More important than his health. More important than his _life._

_He would always keep his promises._

Promises that they would get out this icy wasteland alive, together and whole.

 _Because he remembered how he had felt when suddenly his father had turned back out of fear and cowardice. He remembered the feeling of abandonment like a knife coated in poison buried deep in the cavity of his chest, slicing him open from throat to belly and dragging back the skin until his bones glistened white with grief and fear and the most horrible sense of_ betrayal. 

_Had not his father always promised to be there? Did not he love his children more than he loved his safety and his life?_

_Had they not been enough of a reason to stay?_

Promises that things would get better, that they would feel warmth again upon their skin.

_Because he remembered the throbbing panic in his throat when he realized that his half-uncle had cast them aside to die, forsaken his sworn brotherhood with Nolofinwë as though it were something worthless and useless. Something tainted. And he remembered how hopelessness had overcome his heart, a swift dark shadow across the plain of his spirit, temporarily extinguishing his light in the face of the northern wastes bearing down upon their heads._

_He remembered the terrible ache that rocked his body, left his hand clutched to his breast. And yet he remembered, too, the terrible eyes of his kin, and would not succumb to the rage or the vindictiveness or the hate._

_He would not become that fey monster who left them behind to rot like filth._

Promises that sustained their tenuous threads of hope with little silken strings of cobwebs, grasping desperately at fraying edges, trying to hold them all together when everything was falling apart. And he knew he could not take away the ruination that had come upon his family house like a looming shadow of dread, but he tried nonetheless.

He swore he would see them through to the end of their first perilous journey, and the Artafindë who had emerged on the other side of hundreds of leagues of ice and frigid water was not the Artafindë who had gone into the hold of unmerciful white cruelty.

This new Artafindë was not a perfect man. But he kept his promises. Free of the icy wasteland of Helcaraxë—looking back upon the horror that would linger indefinitely in the minds of those who had walked the long paths of dark, chilling nights and starving, dread-filled days—he had sworn to keep his word or die trying. He had sworn that he would _not be like them._

He would not be a traitor. Like those men who had caused his suffering.

Thus, it was rare that he made promises now. And never those he did not believe he could keep. Swearing oaths was like holding a knife to one's throat, praying that it would not be jostled and slice through delicate, vulnerable flesh and spill rivers of blood.

But Artafindë had _sworn an oath._

"He saved my life."

"And so you are indebted to his family line forever, this mortal man's line—this vagabond's line? Doubt I that Barahir saved a great prince of the Noldor out of the kindness of his heart!"

Skeptical was his lover—pessimistic and full of spite—as had always been the way of Curufinwë, his temptation, the personification of his shameful broken promises. Distant affection bubbled beneath Artafindë's skin, for he found the argument more endearing than anything else. How his cousin pretended not to care if he lived or died! And yet, here he was, fighting and clawing to save the very man he claimed most vehemently to despise.

"I owed him, and I swore that if he called for repayment, I would answer."

"Answer to a mortal man..." Curufinwë scoffed. "This is ridiculous!"

It was not about mortality, he wanted to explain. It was not because he was a lover of the Aftercomers, nor that he was foolhardy and too kind of heart. It was not even about friendship, for what king would risk the future of his kingdom upon the whims of gossamer threads of vague brotherhood long spent such as lingered between him and this son of his savior?

No, it was not about Beren or his quest. It was not about right or wrong or living or dying.

It was about honor.

He dared not say that to his cousin, his lover, for Curufinwë would have called him worse names than softhearted, reckless fool of a coward's son. Oaths kept could a son of Fëanáro comprehend, but the Oath that his lover kept to his breast like a treasure was not one kept out of honor nor fueled by ethics and conscience. Curufinwë did not understand this sort of crazed obsession, so far had he fallen from the young and essentially kind creature he had been in the blossoming of the golden age of Valinor.

"I will answer to whom I will," Artafindë chastised lightly, "And you will not tell me to whom I may or may not answer."

"You have lost your mind," the dark-haired elf cried, but his eyes held no malice. They were, rather, ever so slightly frightened, but it was overlaid with the mirror-bright gleam of madness in the blood, the briefest glimpse of the father waiting and watching.

The reflection of a demon that even now haunted Artafindë's steps. The remembrance of white-fire eyes and a charismatic smile and seductive, persuasive words upon a breath of cloying sweetness. Like a drug had been that voice even when it wove lies.

No. Intrinsically, Curufinwë was a liar. He could weave falsehoods just as easily as he could speak truths if they suited his purpose, and he understood not the concept of such honor. Of keeping one's self clean of betrayal. Of holding one's purity above their continued existence. This dark creature was fey and desperate, and his heart had long ago been given away to his inner monster. Even this darling face, contorted in faint worry, lips pursed slightly in concern, could so easily be a lie.

Curufinwë could never understand.

And Artafindë did not try to explain. Instead, he smiled and stroked his fingers through long, dark hair—hair unlike _hers_ , unlike his own, so black he thought he could lose himself in its pitch—and he brushed his lips softly against those which had been pressed to whiteness, felt them soften beneath his intimate caress, blooming into delicate petals that longed for his attention.

He pulled away, and silvered eyes looked up at him through equally midnight lashes, hazy with lust but challenging and hot as ember-laced coals. "I will stop you, Artafindë. I would not loose anyone else whom I care about."

_But it is not your choice to make. I have my promises to keep, and I will keep them. No more can I afford to break._

"I swear to you," he whispered against those plush lips, "you shall not succeed in hindering my path, be it to your liking or not, my dear."

Again and again, they had argued about this journey. Again and again, Curufinwë had tried to turn his mind away from folly.

Again and again, the King had dreamed of his death in darkness and agony.

But Artafindë knew his path, and he would break no promises spoken from his lips. Not this one or any other. For that was his way, and no more could he turn it aside than could Curufinwë cease his wickedness or Turkafinwë cease his madness or Turukáno cease his bitterness or Findekáno cease his recklessness. It was, now, as much a part of Artafindë as were his fingers and toes. Undeniable. Irrevocable.

And, when the time came, he would go with Beren on a suicidal quest to reclaim a Silmaril from the crown of Morgoth, deep within the bowels of Angband.

And he would die trying to succeed. With the greatest pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aftercomers is a reference to the race of Men.


	303. Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingolfin is trying his best to hold together what remains of his family and his people. Even if that means hiding his own suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related most closely to Waste (Chapter 87) but connects with some others. Basically just angst. Family politics, death, the usual stuff I write.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

The worst part of this desolate wasteland, he decided, was that there was no end in sight. Day after day, Nolofinwë looked ahead to the east and saw naught but the stretching blankness, the merciless flatness broken with the jagged towers of deceitfully glorious ice, fangs that tore viciously into the dark gray of the sky. Some days those distant peaks looked so familiar that the prince wondered if they walked in a deadly circle and were lost in white forever.

Some days he wondered—when his faith dwindled and the despair near overwhelmed the fluttering beat of his aching heart—if they would ever see earth again. If they would ever feel the touch of grass again. If they would ever feel the lick of flame again.

If they would ever hear the sound of laughter again.

Trailing upon his footsteps, his suffering people crawled through this desolation with sullen, dulled eyes and hunched, quivering shoulders. And Nolofinwë could not bear to look upon their faces, to _see_ with his own eyes the gazes that were distant with sorrow, that were frozen over with terror, that were broken shards of grief.

Nor could he look upon his children and grandchildren. Upon his brother's children entrusted to his watch and care. Upon even the closest and dearest servants of his House.

He did not want to _see._

But the worst was his eldest son. He could not bear to look Findekáno in the eye, for he was afraid of what might resting seemingly innocuously within those depths.

He was afraid he might see the reflection of his heart staring back, gaping and terrible and ready to swallow him whole. Afraid that, in its piercing, silvery flash of light, he might crack.

He was afraid that they might _see._ Every bit as vividly and nakedly as did he.

For the king was as shattered as his people. As desperate and faithless, drowning in the sinking feeling of his heart and the dousing rain of his spirit.

_An oath of brotherhood I swore. And I would have followed you to the ends of the earth, my brother. My King. What more could you have wanted? Was my word not enough?_

What had he done wrong? What more could he have sacrificed to prove his sincerity and trust and faith?

Nolofinwë had left behind everything for the sake of that face he had always so dearly loved and despised. For the velvet smoothness and molten passion of that voice. For the starlight speckled madness and brilliance of those eyes. For the gravitas and charisma that like a blanket suffused with warmth that blazing spirit unto blinding light.

He had given up his wife. He had given up his home. He had given up his birthright.

He had given his life. He had given his children. He had given his grandchildren.

He had given the future of his House, the line of his blood. He had given every last drop of the precious crimson river that flowed through his veins and every last strand of obsidian hair crowning his head. He had given the very essence of his soul into the keeping of _that man..._

He had _trusted his brother_ with the safekeeping of his family and his people. With the safekeeping of his fealty and his faith and his existence.

And he had been betrayed.

It was a wound like none he imagined before. It burned and festered, grew infected with resentment and the fierce slashing of the razor-sharp shards of his dreams. It tore at the fragile weave of his soul until he wanted to scream and throw himself down upon the ground, writhing and begging for it to cease.

Nothing could ever draw from his wound the toxin that Fëanáro had left behind.

But Nolofinwë could not allow them to see.

"Atar...?"

With a deep breath, he faced his eldest son. Tried to hold at bay the howling, baying winds that struck his cheek as the clawing of icy talons, turning instead to look into blue eyes. Eyes the same shade as his own. Eyes that were darkened with emotion and with fear.

Bitterness was not the way of his oldest child, who had a kind heart if a foolish head. Nor was hatred or resentment or anger. Instead, there was disappointment and sorrow and worry.

A heaviness that he had never wanted to see in the shoulders of his child.

"What is it, yonya?" he asked, drawing the younger elf close so that he need not shout through the blizzard. Like this, they were pressed together shoulder-to-shoulder, their faces but inches apart. So near, the potency of those eyes—of the stinging tears frozen into adamant upon dark lashes—wounded deeper still, and with greater agony.

There were no words forthcoming from his offspring's lips. Rare was it that Findekáno would seek his council, for he and his child had always had their differences of opinion, a disheveled rift in their relationship that had only widened with the long years. More a head of house and his scion than a father and his son. And so he knew it must be dire if the child should seek his company willingly.

If he should appear so weak before the man he thought despised his weakness.

Always had Findekáno tried to be strong for his father. The heir. The firstborn. The eldest. He had tried to be responsible and brilliant, tried to match stride for stride the vast loping gait of the first son of Fëanáro, and he had failed utterly. The legs of Nelyafinwë were long and the focused determination of his mind on par with his sire.

No chance had Findekáno ever had of winning such an ill-conceived battle. But he had tried. And, often, Nolofinwë wished he had not.

For its scars ran deep. Never did Findekáno look upon his father with a smile. Never did he come pleading for advice. Never did he come seeking comfort.

Never did he come upon the brink of tears. Not until this day.

And Nolofinwë did not need words to understand, for those lips parted and offered none. It was as though the bite of the wind had stolen away the fancy speech his son had prepared to give, left only the blankness and the hopelessness and the brokenness behind, too shattered to find even the prose to explain.

But the father knew. The bond of brotherhood between Nolofinwë and Fëanáro had not been the only bond shattered that day when the flames echoed across the water in a last fading lick of warmth.

Silently, he offered his arms. And he pretended not to see when Findekáno wept.

Any who had seen them embracing would have called him cold. Still did he stand, as though he were made from the very ice that tormented their people, that killed their children and drowned their friends and stole away their lives. They would have seen a blue gaze as empty as the glisten of an aquamarine gem, the palest in color and the sharpest of edge. They would have seen a face carved of stone, stoic and set with a strong jaw and an uncompromising frown.

They would have seen nothing of the pain that rattled his insides, scoring clawed across the inner cage of his ribs and up the tight column of his clenching, convulsing throat. They would have seen nothing of the weight of failure and despair that weighed his feet down with the strength of a mountain’s foundations, determined to bear him over the edge and into the abyss.

They would have seen nothing of the grieving husband and father. Or the betrayed, estranged brother.

They would have seen nothing at all.

But Nolofinwë could not afford to break and weep. He could not afford to give in to the catharsis of comfort in the arms of his son. He had to be strong, for all eyes were upon his every word, his every movement.

His every heartbeat and breath and moment.

None could see how he winced inside at the sting, how his spirit curled up in the face of a tirade of wicked blows and sobbed for an end. None could see that, to Nolofinwë, the wales and welts of the frigid winds upon his cheeks could not compare to the bite of the bitter loss. The broken bonds of family. The ragged threads of faith. The loyalty left in utter destruction.

This suffering of the body he could endure. But watching his son cry... It only further shredded at his desperate façade, pounded at the gates of his stubborn resolve to fight away the agony. He looked upon his child, and he knew _exactly_ how Findekáno suffered.

And there was nothing— _nothing_ —he could do to end that pain. That, perhaps, was the worst torment of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father


	304. Commit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Finarfin and Doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character development. Related most to Vehement (Chapter 30) and Waste (Chapter 87) but is tangled up with a few others I'm sure. Has canonical character death, family politics and some religious aspects.
> 
> See Notes at the end for commentary on canonical dialogue (if you care).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Mandos = Námo

_"Can you commit yourself to our mission? Can you commit yourself—your life, your blood, your family, your very_ soul— _to avenging our fallen kin?"_

Well did Arafinwë recall those words, for they were new in their make and fresh in his mind.

He remembered standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Nolofinwë, his full brother in blood, before the eyes of his half-brother and beneath the burning torchlight. In the dark of a newly tainted Valinórë, Fëanáro had been a demonic creature taken straight from a nightmare and given corporeal form, something to be feared and revered all at once. A face of beauty one could not deny, for the Crown Prince was the most handsome of men, but beneath that outer layer...

Something about the eldest brother had frightened Arafinwë nearly to death. Frightened him and given him strength.

It was, he recalled vividly, in those moments of being scorched beneath the white light of that divine gaze that the knot in his throat had unraveled. It was in those moments that he saw before his eyes a flashing vision, the image of his beloved father spilled down the steps of Formenos in a mangled jumble of broken limbs and glossy eyes staring up into the darkened sky. Blood dripped, dripped, dripped down the stone, a river of defiled sacred ground that caused the frozen core of the youngest brother's conscience to melt.

To _boil._

Rage was not an emotion he oft experienced, for he was tender in disposition. Arafinwë was softer than stern-faced Nolofinwë and cooler than flame-hearted Fëanáro. He was not prone to anger or fits of impetuous recklessness, nor was he nonchalant and distant and cold. Rather, he had always been a mellow creature—fairly faint-hearted, a lover of the arts and of peace and of song.

A true vanya, they called him, his brothers who thought him daft and spineless. He was a lover of the sky and the stars and the light. No pleasure did he take in the forging of jewels or the battle of silver tongues.

But in that moment, he felt _rage._ Primal and pure.

It was as though all the hatred captured in the net of Fëanáro's core, released in a volley of devastating glory and spite and scorn, had somehow slipped beneath his skin and sunk down deep. The flame that fueled this vengeance—this mad quest to return to Endórë, this vendetta against the Valar, this crazed need to reclaim three useless glowing rocks!—was spreading, burning the pyre of his stubbornness and pride down to cinders and leaving him ablaze with its ferocious hate.

He recalled the words that followed well.

 _"I will go with you, my brother,"_ Nolofinwë had cried, his voice not wavering, his reaction carrying no hesitation. And, for once, blue eyes were not cold and did not look upon their eldest brother with disdain. Rather, they were as steam off the water, crackling and spitting white fire slicing open the dome of the heavens. _"I will see this retribution done."_

And the white-hot gaze had turned upon Arafinwë then.

_"And you, little brother. What say you?"_

Looking back upon that moment, Arafinwë wished he had said "Nay", that he had stuck up his nose at the ridiculousness of the Crown Prince's farce of a claim against the Valar. Prisoners, he claimed they kept the Eruhíni, like twittering, brainless birds in their pretty golden cages. Conspiring, he accused of the Powers, to lord over all the Eldar and keep all the precious creations and knowledge of the Children for their own. Dangerous, he named them, for they had too much power to wield and were too foolish to wield it without harming those under their “care”.

And those eyes looked upon Arafinwë as a man looks upon a traitorous worm hiding in the soil of lies and half-truths, for he was _of the Vanyar._ And the Vanyar were the favored of Manwë the King of Arda.

But the fires burned hot and the passions ran high and Arafinwë had been stricken with madness and grief at the vision of his father's mangled body and the echoing sound of his mother's shattered cries. The glowing eyes of his children and nephews and brothers had been trained upon his furrowed brow and his wide blue eyes, trapped in expectant silence.

 _"Aye,"_ he had said. _"I will commit myself to seeing your revenge taken, my brother.”_

Hardly more than a whisper had it been.

But he had meant it. He had.

He just had not known how terrifying that commitment would be. Not until now.

Not until he watched his wife's people screaming and fleeing before the swords of his kin, their pleas for mercy unheard and their cries for help unanswered. Not until he saw the blood of men he knew by name—simple people who smiled and laughed and sang as they worked, but always stopped and waved or called in cheer to the strange golden-haired noldo passing by—cast down in blasphemy upon their life's work. Not until the pearl of Alqualondë bled scarlet and the feathers of her graceful swan-ships were stained with death.

Not until his eldest son had turned toward him with haunted, confused eyes, begging to be told _what he should do._ Not until his family emerged from the fray, all torn clothes and bruised flesh and glistening eyes, Nolofinwë's face hardened with stunned grief and Fëanáro's face twisted into a mockery of regret.

_"You are late, little brother."_

Shuddering, he had not dared to meet those eyes. _"Was this... was this necessary?"_

 _"They stood against us,"_ Fëanáro snarled, all feigned remorse lost. _"This was but a taste of our rage and our power. Sworn friendship with us had Olwë, their king, through his daughter's marriage with_ you, _but in our hour of greatest need he turned his back. And I will not suffer traitors to try and obstruct my path to retribution.”_

 _"But they had not... These men had not done anything to us!"_ It was the first—and the only—time that Arafinwë had spoken out with raised voice against the terrifying specter that was this shadow of a once great if flawed man. _"They did not deserve this."_

_"All who stand in my way deserve suffering."_

It was not until then that he had begun to realize what that commitment truly meant.

Not just body. Not just blood. Not just family. Not just wealth. Not just loyalty.

Heart and soul. Every last drop of goodness. Every last scrap of morality. They were to be burned upon this altar of madness.

And this time the fear came with no awe and no strength. No glistening ruby of righteous hatred. No pearly light of false absolution. Only the black abyss of damnation.

 _"Surely, you do not doubt,"_ Fëanáro had purred. But his eyes, as ever, sought for hesitation and betrayal. Tried to corner his prey and spill forth its secrets, for the Crown Prince suspected that he held not Arafinwë’s full loyalty and trust.

And rightly so, for Arafinwë doubted.

He stood upon the shore and doubted. Doubted that he could make this sacrifice. He was a gentle soul, not made for such brutality, such bellicosity. Certainly, he mourned his father. Certainly, he hated the Black Enemy. Certainly, he wanted to see justice be done.

But at the cost of himself? At the cost of every ideal he held dear, every teaching that resonated in his heart? At the cost of everything that made him who he was?

Could he really commit all of himself to this path, this road that led to nowhere but a bloody end and an empty reward?

Could he... truly...?

\---

It was later, upon the shores of Alatairë in the shadow of the Pelori, that the darkened figure appeared before them in a wisp upon the winds from the west. Cast in a veil and blackness and mystery was it, and at first none knew who this stranger might be save that they could not have been amongst the Eruhíni and therefore must have been amongst the Valar or the maiar their servants. And, at first, Arafinwë feared that it might have been their Enemy appeared from beyond to slaughter them now that they lay vulnerable and shivering upon the beaches, unprotected and naked in their trembling passion.

But the presence did not feel slimy and evil, not as had the presence that overcame their beloved home in the hour of the Darkening. Rather, it was an ominous presence, filling up all the space of the air without even speaking, drawing forth all eyes without glistening in beauty.

Even Fëanáro looked to that stranger and drew to a halt.

“I carry a message.”

The voice rippled through Arafinwë every bit as potently as ever had his eldest brother’s. Many faltered in their steps as it reverberated across their skin with power, sent chills washing through their flesh with its faded echo.

From the darkness, the deepest wine-red eyes watched them from a white visage. And Arafinwë could not have looked away had his very life depended upon it. Has his very _salvation_ depended upon it.

“What to say have you, prison warden,” the Crown Prince snapped, though for once his smooth words paled in comparison to those that still rang in the ears of his subjects. For all his power, for all the light that lit up his violent spirit, Fëanáro was still only an Eruhína, no more or less than any other elf, and no equal to a vala or a maia in strength or divinity.

“You have committed a great crime—a great sin—against your kin, Son of Finwë. This you know, no matter that you might see yourself as justified. And we, the Valar, have been kind, have tried to forgive you in your mounting confusion and grief. But no more…”

_“But no more.”_

The doubt blazed bright.

“To you, I carry this message, and let it rest heavy upon your shoulders and upon your heart,” the stranger spoke. “Let your decision in its wake be wise:

“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed, and the Valar will fence Valinor against you and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains…”

_Cries and screams and pleas. Because, truly, what could they do against such horror and such power as that which did wield their foe? Would not the Black Enemy crush them beneath his heel with ease and laugh at their torment? Would not they fall, one by one by one, until all hope had been lost?_

_And he saw them…_

“On the House of Fëanáro the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also.”

_Saw his children, their faces contorted in terror and sorrow. Saw at his feet the bodies of his sons who had once upon a time smiled up at him and pleaded for bedtime tales tucked safe within his arms. Saw his daughter lie down and weep for the loss of her innocence and her family and her dreams…_

_Saw himself standing alone, and his fingers dripped slowly with blood…_

“Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue.”

_Saw the lights above his head, three of them like stars in the flesh. But their gaze was cold and merciless. Their gleam was utterly deaf to the screams of the dying and suffering, to the thousands of lives sacrificed upon their altar._

And Arafinwë knew who spoke and felt a chill steal into his heart like a thief in the night, shattering the windows of his resolve and snatching away the precious breath from within his lungs until no air would pass his parted, dry lips. Fear—fear unlike any he had felt before, that eclipsed even the strike of Fëanáro’s mighty eyes—took up residence where had before lain his pride and his shame.

Fear that choked him as tangibly as could any hands. For he came to understand…

“To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well, and by treason of kin unto kin and the fear of treason shall this come to pass.”

Came to understand that this was only the beginning.

Lives lost. Homes abandoned. Children crying in fright. Wives clinging to their husbands. All eyes desperately fixated upon their ghostly visitor, the Doomsman standing before them in his great glory and fury.

_They were the sacrifice on the altar of revenge._

“The Dispossessed they shall be for ever.”*

Like the toll of a bell did it strike him. And Arafinwë slipped down to his knees in the sand, heedless of his robes or of his dignity.

Silence reigned for long minutes. But Fëanáro would not be cowed for long.

“We have sworn, and not lightly. This Oath we will keep. We are threatened with many evils, and treason not the least; but one thing is not said: that we shall suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens. Therefore I say that we will go on, and this doom I add: the deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda!”** The words were of passion and promise, but that beautiful face might as well have been a twisted clay sculpture, for its beauty was lost and its light was tarnished, and no longer did Arafinwë hear the overwhelming tidal wave of charisma when that voice rang hollowly in his ears. “Now be gone! I will hear no more of this slanderous nonsense!”

But it was not nonsense.

Perhaps Arafinwë had wanted revenge for his father’s death, but he had never believed in the great “evil” of the Valar, who had ever adored and cared for their people. He had never doubted the words of their guardians and protectors, the great holy beings who guided them as did parents their beloved children.

He did not doubt Námo now. In his heart, he knew this Doom to be true.

And perhaps he was a coward, to fear.

The figure was gone like smoke, and they were alone again. But none would speak or move, and Fëanáro turned upon his brother’s in a flurry of rage. “Do you subscribe to this, Nolofinwë? Will you take back your words?”

“Of course not.” No hesitation, though the voice was soft. “I would not go back on my words, brother. I would not forsake you.”

And then those eyes were upon Arafinwë, terrible and great. “And what of you, little brother?”

Those eyes were accusing, doubting, disgusted.

Those eyes were all Arafinwë could see.

“I would turn back,” he whispered. “I would turn back and ask forgiveness.”

Daring had it been, this contradiction. But Arafinwë could see before his eyes the unfolding future as Námo had shown him in his mind. Could see the bitterness and the despair and the hopelessness, the utter insanity of this quest. They would all die. _They would all die!_

And when they were dead and forsaken, to where would they go? Who would take them were they Exiles, banned from their homeland, cast aside by their protectors?

They would be left to the mercies of their Enemy. And he would not be kind.

It was _this_ that Arafinwë feared. A life of slaughter, of merciless killing, and so much blood soaked into his flesh that it would forever be stained red with sin. Everything he loved, he would abandon. Everything he cared for, he would surrender. Everything he owned, he would give.

Everything he was, he would cast aside. _And he would commit himself to ruin._

But he could not. _He could not._

Fëanáro knew this—had perhaps known this from the beginning—and his lips twisted ghoulishly with revulsion, as though the very sight of Arafinwë turned his stomach. “I see,” he whispered, and his voice was as poison upon a blade that slid between unsuspecting ribs. “So your loyalties are revealed, _lover of the Valar.”_

And then a smile. A smile that was too hideous to even be named as one, but could be called nothing else short of sickening. “But then, I always knew the blood of Indis would rot away the little integrity and honor your useless spirit possessed.”

It hurt. It hurt like a brand to bare skin. For Arafinwë had only ever desired to love his family, to care for his people. Even his eldest brother, who had no love for him in return.

Still, in this case, he would do as he saw fit. As he saw was _right._

Damned be Fëanáro. Damned be Nolofinwë. Damned be the Silmarilli.

“I will go back,” he spoke in defiance. “And any who desire the forgiveness of the Lords and Queens of the Valar are free to come with me now with no repercussions. We shall return to Tirion in safety.”

“And grovel on your knees like slaves,” Fëanáro hissed. “Be gone with you as well! We need not pathetic, spineless worms in our company, eating out the core of our strength!”

_And good luck to you as well, half-brother, my prince._

Sneering, Arafinwë turned away, heart in his throat.

Let them say what they would. Let them call him a coward. Let them lay scorn upon his honor and disrespect upon his name and mockery upon his devotion.

Let them run headlong to their destruction.

In the end, their journey would be long and empty of promise. They would reach their goal and hold in their hands those precious treasures they so coveted, and they would weep for their foolish greed and for the suffering of their kin and the deaths of those they loved. They would look back upon this day and hate Arafinwë for his wisdom, despise him for his cowardice.

But they would envy his choice nonetheless. In the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eldar = People of the Stars; name for elves who answered the summons of the Valar  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru; reference to the races of Elves and Men; singular is Eruhína  
> vanya = one of the Vanyar (beautiful ones)  
> noldo = one of the Noldor (deep elves)  
> Valar = greater ainur (holy ones); singular vala  
> maiar = lesser ainur; singular maia  
> Valinórë = Valinor (sorry, kind of obvious, but just for the distinction)  
> Endórë = Middle-Earth, though one could debate that the name includes Beleriand (as it does in this case)  
> Alatairë = Belegaer, the Great Sea
> 
> On dialogue:  
> When I wrote this, I did not have access to the Silmarillion, having borrowed it to my mother (who never did read it anyway), so it is missing dialogue in one place and canonical dialogue is used in two others (one of which was changed later), all marked above with asterisks.
> 
> *"Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. Etc..."  
> I decided not to add this later because of the "And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after" would screw up the Noldor-return-to-ME!AU because I've decided that the messenger was Mandos and, by his own assertion (in this AU) anything he speaks is fated to happen. 
> 
> *Also, obviously I didn't make up the wording for the Curse of the Noldor. So I don't own it. Disclaimer.
> 
> **From _Of the Flight of the Noldor_ in the Quenta Silmarillion. I don't own. But _damn_ is it ironic! I loved Fëanor's lines here so much that I changed what I had initially written back to the canonical version. So if it's a tad choppy, that's why.


	305. Fake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, Fingolfin adored his older brother. But that was a very long time ago indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dysfunctional family. Potential mental issues. Most closely related to Devious (Chapter 214), Precious (Chapter 201) and Murmur (Chapter 213), but is related to many others as well.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

There had always been something just on this side of _wrong_ about the way his older brother smiled.

When he was very small, Nolofinwë had taken no note of such intricacies in his interactions with the shockingly tall, awe-inspiring Crown Prince, too entrapped in the tangled net of a younger sibling’s blind regard to _see._ Before he had been old enough to understand the political subtleties that raced through the undercurrent of palace life, the tiny prince had toddled about after those clicking heels and that long, lovely mane of braided hair and those beautiful, glowing star-eyes with adoration and idolization that could come only with the purest and strongest of unconditional love. The love of a child for his brother.

All he had wanted was that attention focused upon _him,_ even for a few moments. It always made him feel so special whenever Fëanáro granted him that boon, whenever his brother picked him up and smiled down at him, more brilliant than the Trees. But such embraces never lasted long, for all their sweetness equally bitter, and always after a few moments he was set aside like an abandoned toy.

He hadn’t understood, for what child could?

But one could not remain oblivious forever. And, eventually, though, he began to _notice things._

_“Leave your brother be, darling. He is quite busy.”_

Like how his mother never wanted him alone with his older sibling, never left the room when they were together, always held him tight in her arms whenever Fëanáro was near. As though she were frightened of what the glorious, fire-eyed man might do to her precious child when her back was turned. As though no trust—to love—lay between them as would between a mother and her son.

_“Come, child, it is time for your nap. Leave your brother be.”_

Like how his father would always make any excuse to separate the pair whenever Nolofinwë took to morphing into his older brother’s personal duckling. Finwë tried hard to be subtle and to cover up his misgivings, but something in his eyes and his voice always betrayed his concern, laid bare his anxiety.

_“Will you play with me?”_

_And Fëanáro would smile._

_“Maybe some other time, little brother.”_

Like how, no matter how much he begged to be held or to be cuddled, no matter how good he was and quiet he was, no matter how many times he asked politely just like his emya taught him, Fëanáro never wanted to spend time with him, never wanted hugs or kisses on the cheek. Never wanted to read stories. Never wanted to play. Never wanted to sing.

At first, he had written it off—had not emya said his brother was busy? But Nolofinwë was a smart child, an observant child. And, as he grew into his intelligence, the world became clearer, was unveiled in all its paler—and darker—glory.

Because, when he was older, he began to notice the strain of his mother’s lovely smile whenever his brother was in the same room. He began to notice how Fëanáro never looked at her, how he pretended she wasn’t there. He began to notice how, whenever his parents were sitting together, Nolofinwë perched innocuously between their warmth and tenderness, his brother would leave and his mother and father would not allow him to chase after that retreating back to implore his beloved sibling to stay with them. To sit with them and be a _part_ of them—their little family.

He most especially began to notice the tension beneath his brother’s smile. The erratic twitch of his jaw and beneath his eye. The annoyance that sparked like crackling embers from the hearth. The paleness of his lips as they stretched over his teeth in a twisted grin.

It looked painful, he had thought. Uncomfortable.

Fake.

That was the word that had come to define their interactions. Their family. Their _lives._

Even though he was older and smarter, even though he could speak more intelligibly and had become more observant, his brother’s behavior toward him had not changed. Fëanáro would gift him with an indulgent, feigned smile and a few soft crooning words that melted like warmed chocolate on the spirit, and then he would set Nolofinwë aside or send him from the room without a second glance. Without even parting words of affection.

There was pretend warmth. That voice was never rough or harsh. It was never even cold or distant. But it was a lie.

Just like those eyes were a lie. Just like that smile was a lie.

Just like their “family” dinners at the big table in the dining hall were a lie. Just like their pleasant gatherings in the sitting room were a lie.

Because Fëanáro would sit and pretend to be happy and content as he prattled on meaninglessly to his father about his craft and his projects and never glanced toward Indis or toward Findis and Nolofinwë. Finwë would sit and pretend to enjoy their time together like a proud father, and his knuckles blanched white where his fingers clenched taut upon the arm of his chair with growing tension. Indis would plaster a smile upon her face and stare straight ahead with her hands folded demurely in her lap, pretending with equal vehemence that Fëanáro was not present. And Findis would cross her arms and glare petulantly at the wall, her blue eyes glimmering with half-hidden tears.

Nolofinwë began to _see._

See that the happy times he recalled like fuzzy daydreams of infanthood were naught but delusions.

Their family was not a happy one. His emya would call his older brother “dear” and Fëanáro would address her as “mother”, but Finwë would stand between them as though he feared one might attack the other but knew not which side he would take for he loved them both. Even his crooning, soothing words lacked that ring of sincerity, felt forced and not genuine. For kind words in this house were nothing more than a façade, and placating hands were the only fragile threads keeping the chaos of discord from falling upon their heads.

The second-born son of Finwë was growing up. And he was no longer oblivious.

He could see the sadness layered beneath his father’s cheery words now plainer than a red flower’s stain in broad daylight. He could see the stress that tainted his mother’s eyes, the glisten of silent tears that trailed over her cheeks like the dew of Telperion rained from the heavens, shining beneath the stars.

But, most of all, he could then see the crimson gleam of hatred that lingered in the depths of his brother’s eyes. No matter that that smile was always cordial, that those words were always kind, that those hands were always gentle. He could _see._

Like a wildfire it screamed and clawed and writhed, barely hidden beyond something cool and cracked. That gaze would settle upon him—upon the second-born who was no longer a baby but had reached the height and inquisitiveness and perception of a young child—and somewhere in those depths Nolofinwë would see the way they shifted into something frightening. Dark lashes would narrow about silver-white, and a cold shiver would slide down the child’s spine.

Eventually, Nolofinwë stopped trailing after his older brother. Stopped begging for attention. Stopped watching in awe and adoration.

Stopped, because all that he had ever loved about Fëanáro had been a lie. Entirely fake. As fake and broken and unnatural as had become their family. Nothing but a lost little daydream melted away beneath the garish heat of midday.

Sometimes, as a child with a blossoming perception of the world, he wished he had never grown up.

At least then he would have the bliss they called ignorance. At least then he could pretend that the love his family shared was real.

At least then, maybe, he could have stayed happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> emya = mama


	306. Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little by little, Maglor uncovers some of the beloved brother he once cherished above all others. Little by little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dysfunctional family. Mental instability. Mentions of the Kinslayings. PTSD and traumatized children. Child murder insinuated. All of the ugly, nasty things that are typical of a story about the Sons of Fëanor, of course. Related most closely to Repeat (Chapter 8), Lullaby (Chapter 118) and New Direction (Chapter 286), but is entangled with a handful of others.
> 
> On the twins:  
> Canonically Elros and Elrond are _very young_ children (5) when they're taken in by Maglor, and you could argue that they were somewhat more mentally advanced than human children of the same age (even if they were physically behind in development), but I know that I don't remember much of my life before maybe the age of nine or ten, and I doubt elves are going to remember things from a very early age either. They will probably forget almost everything about their parents as they grow up, and they will not spend a large amount of time resenting their foster family over the deaths of people they will probably barely remember. In my opinion, they're too young to be able to hold a grudge, or to even understand the concepts of wrath or murder, when they have been raised in a relatively peaceful and normal environment and thus would not have been exposed to darker themes of life until the Kinslaying. This is, of course, my personal perspective on the matter, but I just thought I'd mention it.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë, Kanafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Nelyo  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Amrod/Amras = Ambarussa  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Having Nelyafinwë anywhere near the little ones set Makalaurë on edge.

Images, long past and green with splendor, remained still in the back of his mind to whisper and entice. He recalled the days of old when Nelyafinwë smiled easily upon his younger brothers. The smell of freshly-baked bread and sweet delights still wafted in his nose when the image of the redhead in an apron came to mind. The remembrance of warmth as he was pressed against a powerful frame between steely arms still left him with the instinctive feeling of safety. And the sound of that voice when it smoothed into the velveteen tone he recalled so vividly from childhood still made Makalaurë want to trail after his brother with unconditional admiration only a child could have for their favorite caretaker.

But many of those images and scents and sounds, those cherished little daydreams, had been sullied. Tainted perhaps beyond repair.

As vividly as did he recall some of the days of the long distant past, the present was so much sharper and closer. So much more tactile and bitter. The scent of metal, blood and fire scorched away the sweet smells that tickled a smile onto his lips. The recollection of being pressed against a wall, trembling in primal terror at the sight of his brother’s looming form, chased away all security.

And rarely did he hear the voice of his memories that once sang him songs and whispered goodnight in his ear as he was tucked into bed. When Nelyafinwë spoke, his low tone rattled and grated with ash and tar. No beauty was there left to be found in a voice that had screamed until the throat was ruined beyond repair.

All wildness and strength and dark obsession now lingered in the shadow of his brother’s prime. Eyes that once glimmered silver-bright were darkened with pain and with hatred. Instead of bringing comfort, often Nelyafinwë struck fear into the heart of his last remaining brother. Too much had the redheaded warrior come to resemble _him._

Never smiling. Never laughing. Never singing.

Never _crying._

Not even for their brothers. Not even for Findekáno. Not even for _himself._

It was as if the Nelyafinwë—the man he always knew would be a wonderful and doting father to an army of cute little elfings—had been completely washed away, his image scratched by filthy, clawed fingers and burned by each destructive clash to the north, a monstrous visage drained of the rosy color and left bleeding only black. This man, the man he lived with, his commander and leader, was not the man he remembered so fondly.

Not the man who loved children. Not the man who always knew what to say. Not the man who had ever been gentle despite his stoic disposition.

Gentleness was a thing of the past. Softness was a weakness to be exploited. And compassion was simply asking to be used and abused.

No, Makalaurë did not particularly want _that man_ near the twins, who still suffered nightmares of listening to their nanny being slaughtered outside the closet door as they prayed for their mother to come back and save them. They were horribly frightened of the flame-haired specter, had even occasionally had a night-terror of his terrible eyes and harsh voice shouting at Makalaurë in fury, and they would not go near the older sibling.

Or, at least, they _had_ been frightened of him. As young children were prone, their curiosity could overcome any residual fear that stilled their bodies and sent racing their hearts now that the trauma was beginning to pass. Children were not wise in the way of caution and care, and they were oft too inquisitive for their own good.

Makalaurë just hoped they would stay out of trouble and leave Nelyafinwë be. He did not want to give his brother any reason to change his mind about keeping the little ones. Not when he knew with a certainty that broke his heart exactly how cruel and cold the once-loving prince had become in these long days of death and disappointment.

He would care for them alone. And if Nelyafinwë wanted to pretend they did not exist, Makalaurë was not going to complain.

Too many times had he seen the blood of children drip from the edges of his brother’s sword to have his heart at ease. And that, more than anything, had wiped away any memory of sweet lullabies and tender hands in the dark of night.

\---

Was it any wonder, then, that he was hesitant about leaving his brother alone with the little ones, even just for few days?

Of course, he was required to go with his men to negotiate trading with the elves to the east. He could not just throw that assignment at his captain and send the poor man on his way, shirking his own responsibility for the sake of the fosterlings who were meant to _be no great hassle_ to the working machine of war that had become Amon Ereb. Certainly he daren’t send _Nelyafinwë_ in his stead, for it would not surprise him if the redhead ripped the locals apart with his tongue and his temper and ruined their trading alliance before it even began. And he doubted his brother would accept his excuses in any case.

But if he went and Nelyafinwë stayed…

It left Makalaurë sighing, this conclusion, as he vaulted up the stairs to the upper levels of the fortress. Perhaps he could convince the servants to take his place as the primary caretakers of the two five-year-old elflings. That way, he did not have to worry about them pulling an _Ambarussa_ and interrupting—

Makalaurë’s throat tightened. Once upon a time, _other_ twins could have gotten away with _murder_ and Nelyafinwë would not have batted an eyelash. Now, though, he could never be certain how the volatile older elf might react to even the smallest breach of protocol.

It hurt, this lack of faith in his own kin. But all too well did he remember the eyes upon his face, the fear for his life that burned in his blood, the tremors that had overcome his hands from fear of violent attack.

The shock and the broken trust.

He turned down familiar hallways and came upon the door wherein the twin sons of Elwing lived, pushing aside the dark thoughts. His lips parted halfway as he pushed against the hardwood door without bothering to knock. At this time a day the children were usually playing or napping as they were too young for proper tutoring.

“Little ones? It’s Maglor.” His eyes swept across the room—no children on the floor—and moved toward the beds off to one side. “It is time to get up now. We have to get you cleaned up for… dinner…”

Only… the beds were empty as well. _Empty._ There was no sign of either Elros or Elrond.

And Makalaurë felt his blood run cold. Had he looked in a mirror, undoubtedly his face would have been spilled milk upon black stone, for all color drained from his skin and the hairs upon the back of his neck stood in alert tension.

He _always_ knew where the twins were. _Always!_ And no one would have removed them from their rooms at this time a day!

Unless…

Panicked, he perhaps was irrationally upset, but Makalaurë couldn’t bring himself to care about rationality. All the sly words his brother had hissed into his ear, the warning signs blatantly displayed. Dark eyes sharpened to spears when they fell upon the dark-haired pair of children. Lips pursed into an ugly frown whenever they spoke or laughed or squealed. Hand clenched into a tight fist, callused knuckles creaking with the strain of tightly coiled tendon and bone.

Nelyafinwë did not like the fosterlings. But would he have gotten _rid_ of them, just like that, without warning? Would he have had them _disposed of?_

_“You should not become attached, Kanafinwë, brother. They are not our children—not_ your _children—and one day they will be gone.”_

He had not wanted to believe… But he knew Nelyafinwë was capable…

“Brother,” he whispered as he turned and fled the room. He _had_ to speak with Nelyafinwë _now!_ If something had happened to those two children under his watch, if they had somehow provoked a violent response from his sibling or done something to infuriate the temperamental Lord of Amon Ereb—and nearly anything could upset his brother these days—Makalaurë did not want to think of what his brother might do to them. Did not want to think about the fact that two _babies_ who could barely speak or walk—who _could not fight back_ —might be facing the wrath of one of the most powerful and ruthless warriors alive.

Out of his way did servants dart as he swept the halls in a frenetic tourbillion of pure anxiety, robes flying out behind him with the speed of his passing. Like a wild creature he must have looked, fey-eyed and white-faced as he was at this moment, wrapped up in something visceral and parental and uncontrolled.

They were not _his_ children—not _his_ babies. But they were his charges, and… and…

And if Nelyafinwë had done anything to harm them…

(There would be no forgiveness. There would be no forgetting. Just as well as any other Fëanárion could Makalaurë hold a grudge. But he did not want to think of this possibility. Did not want to suspect the worst.)

“Brother,” he gasped breathlessly as he reached the study door—found it cracked open in such a way as Nelyafinwë would never have left it. And almost did he throw himself inside immediately, demanding the truth from the lips of his closest kin. But the sound of muted voices within gave him pause, pulled him from his hazy frenzy.

No, not muted voices.

Muted _humming._

Nelyafinwë _never_ hummed. No since before Angband. Not since before Losgar.

Heart in his throat, he peered in through the crack like a spy, shifting to try and find the redhead in the scope of his vision.

But when he did, the pounding beat at the base of his neck ceased for a moment.

No blood. No organs. No intestines. No dead bodies splayed out across the floor beneath the feet of a completely cracked, senile monster grinning broadly at the rampant death and gore. There was no red at all, and the two tiny bodies within were plainly breathing, their shoulders and backs rising up and down in a steady rhythm.

They were draped over his brother like lazy kittens. Nelyafinwë sat upon the rug in front of the desk where normally he spent his days rifling through reports and trading agreements and supply counts, and today his work spread out before him in a mess of papers and spilled ink staining woven fabric. But the children took up the space on either side of his cross-legged form, one dark head pressed up against his side, the other lolling into his lap, both caged in place by the flex of powerful arms.

Even as he watched, Makalaurë felt the tears brim. Other twins—their hair vibrant red and their eyes verdant green—had sat exactly this way before, cuddled up to their frighteningly tall brother for warmth and comfort when Fëanáro and Nerdanel could find no time to spare for the youngest of their brood. But Nelyafinwë always had time to spare, no matter how busy, and never turned any of his brothers—especially the babies who yearned for and coveted attention—away no matter what he might need to finish before night’s end for the academy the next day.

Like a shadowy vision did that image overlap this domestic scene. There was no fury upon that face, no wickedly sharpened hatred in distant silvery eyes. The stump of his right hand stroked over one back soothingly to the beat of the old nursery rhyme whispered beneath breathy sighs.

Even the shifting and mumbling of the other child was met with a steadying hand, guiding that head back to where it pressed—probably uncomfortably—to Nelyafinwë’s stomach and lower chest. Indeed, like a mother cat with kittens…

Indeed, like a father with his sons…

“Oh Nelyo,” he whispered. “I ought to have had more faith.”

In all these many years, he had never seen his brother move this way, act this way, not even in private. Decades of training to become a talented warrior—a skilled and nearly unmatched killer on the battlefield—had dried up the wispy softness of the caress of scarred, rough fingers. Many more decades after—of hardship and watching their brothers die one-by-one—had choked out what little remained of the beloved older brother Makalaurë remembered.

Or so he had thought. But not all, he realized. Not all.

For the touch was soft, and the eyes that rested upon the sleeping children were tender. Nothing at all like the eyes that haunted his nightmares.

Nothing at all like the eyes of their father.

Without pushing his way into the room—without demanding answers that he no longer required or spitting accusations he now knew were falsehoods—Makalaurë stepped away from his brother’s study and snuck quietly down the hallway to the soft sound of humming. That sound that brought to mind those days of old so easily forgotten.

Guilt pressed down upon his heart when finally did he turn the corner and depart fully the sound of his beloved brother breaking through the overcast storm of the broken and scarred man Nelyafinwë had become. 

When, he wondered, had he so completely lost faith in one of the few people he had always trusted with his life and his breath—with his very soul?

One moment of fear. One moment of insanity. One moment in time and it all had been shattered. But he had been blind. So very, very blind.

For, with every hint of discontent and danger, there had also been a hint of something _else._

And he could _see_ what he had missed. The yearning. The longing.

See the twitch at the corner of the lips that tried to smile. The flash of silver through blackened eyes. The pause in the doorway of the twins’ room as they slept the afternoon away.

Nelyafinwë, perhaps, hated the little ones. Hated their similarity to other twins, other children they had failed or killed or left to starve and die. Hated how they were adorable and sweet and so terribly innocent to the woes and horrors of the world. Hated how they could bring back the urge to grin and chortle with amusement and filled the halls with laughter where once they had been quiet and somber with despair.

But, more so than anything else, Makalaurë thought Nelyafinwë hated the children because they were so frightfully easy to love.

And love them Nelyafinwë did. To Makalaurë, that was unmistakable. And it brought unexpected warmth to his frigid spirit. The overwhelming despair lessened ever so slightly.

Now, he would have no qualms about leaving them in his brother’s care alone. Almost did he anticipate the results, in fact, for he would dearly love to see Nelyafinwë’s shadowed heart clear and open up to the warmth of the affection of two children who lacked the ability to judge harshly a man for his sins. To the sweet and loveable little ones who so desperately needed a father to go along with their mother.

Perhaps, Nelyafinwë needed them also. More than he would ever know.

Perhaps there was hope yet to be found. Now that he knew where to look.

Makalaurë smiled softly as he slipped away. Dinner could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro


	307. Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Írimë does not know as much about her oldest (half) sibling as she would like to believe. Or about her sister-in-law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, another story about Valinor being just as awful a place as everywhere else. Includes mentions of premarital sex, unplanned pregnancy, an unhealthy dose of politics, dysfunctional family, misogynist tendencies, feminist undertones and Fëanor being his usual dickheaded self. Well, maybe not quite as much as usual. But still. Related most closely to Test (Chapter 174), Whitewash (Chapter 264) and Mistakes (Chapter 291), but to others as well.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Lalwen = Írimë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

Trouble.

That was the word they whispered behind her back. The word that meant ruin. The word that meant scandal.

The word that meant her life was unraveling at the seams.

Lalwen was no foolish young maiden. She knew that those who chose to observe could see it as plainly as they could see the sky and the grass and the mountains and the rivers. Even the loosest of her gowns covered with the most voluminous of robes could not hide the roundness now growing at her center. And even were the physical indicators not enough, her trips to the bathroom each morning like clockwork would spread word amongst the servants, whose gossip would be like flame unto dry wood.

Everyone would know. Everyone _must_ know.

Whispers began to flow like good wine tainted with poison and sweet music with a single discordant voice. Everywhere she turned, she sensed the eyes watching and waiting for her to make a mistake. For her to reveal her shame.

Her trouble.

For it was trouble. Lalwen wondered if she had been too brave—too foolhardy and careless—with her liaison. She had not _tried_ to conceive a child either of love or vindictive bitterness, but neither had she gone out of her way to _avoid_ conception. Recklessly, she had thrown aside all thoughts in the heat of the moment and allowed herself the freedom she so often had craved since the long days of whitewashed lies had begun to eat away at the murals of her mind.

It had been a statement then. Disobedience. A way to spit in her parents’ faces for their callous treatment of their illegitimate grandchild. A way to make them sorry without ever needing to breathe a word of the untruths that had destroyed her heart and wild spirit.

 _My spirit is not tamed!_ That was what her actions had screamed. _Think you truly that you can control me? That you can hold me hostage and bend me to your will? That you may decide the fate of my son and I will stand back and watch demurely as you deny him his birthright?_

She did not regret her actions. But this was farther than she had intended to go.

And it was only a matter of time.

A matter of time before her father demanded the truth that he already knew. Before he disowned her and stripped her of her status and left her helpless and homeless to save face. Before the rumors would become facts and the facts would become concrete and the true ostracism would begin.

Part of her wondered what would happen to her now—to her and her young son and her unborn baby. Her reputation was transferred automatically upon the shoulders of her children. Would they be shunned, thrown out of the palace and left to wander the city like beggars until Lalwen found a patron who would take a loose woman into his or her employ? Would they starve, because she could sell her jewelry and her expensive clothing and even her skills should it be necessary, but eventually even those vices would run dry?

It was not often that she agreed with anything the wily bastards and prissy peahens of court hissed behind fluttering fans and beyond closed doors. But this… this…

This was trouble. _Real trouble._

And she knew her father saw by the strained look that glazed gray eyes normally so soft and tender. She knew her mother saw by the tremble of the lower lip and the shattered blue eyes. She knew even that her siblings saw, for Findis turned up her nose and Nolofinwë averted his eyes and Arafinwë pretended at oblivion.

Even Fëanáro must have known. Must have _seen._

Yes, it was only a matter of time. And she did not know what she would do when that time came.

For now, she could only hide in the darkened corners of the palace and soothingly stroke the swell of unborn child, hoping that her turmoil was not reflected upon his young and innocent spirit where it rested in her womb. More than anything, she would have liked to give this baby the life she could not give Aranwë, the life that she could not even give herself, without all of this political scandal and the weight of a thousand eyes bearing down upon their backs.

“Why can life not be simple, I wonder,” she whispered. “My sweet baby, what I would not give…”

“So it is true, then.”

Barely did she restrain her gasp, catching it heavily upon the rise of her tongue and against the wall of her closed lips. Slowly did she let her gaze rise from the place where her hands rested upon her child, up and up and up toward another figure half-hidden in the shadows. Another figure with eyes that could have lit their own skies for their intense resplendence.

He was the last person she would have expected to see.

“Your Highness,” she whispered with a bowed head, neither acknowledging or dismissing his claim. “What can I do for you?”

“Tell me the truth,” he said. His voice, at least, was not harsh or sharp. It was frightfully soothing, raw silk and velvet, and immediately Lalwen was put on edge. Never was Fëanáro charming for no reason. There must be something…

She licked her suddenly dry lips. “You already know the answer,” she replied as calmly as she could manage. Her voice still quivered with nerves. “Why would you want to hear it again?”

“Because I do not want to hear it from the lips of my backstabbing courtiers.” Too close did he draw, near enough to touch her skin should he reach out. Near enough that she could feel his heat through the layers of her clothes. Near enough that she could see how his normally razor-edged smile was rather dull and drawn. The tilt of his head was wrong, and the stance of his body was different—where were the challenging thrust of broad shoulders and the condescending angle of that glorious face?

It was wrong. Strange.

_What do you want, I wonder…_

“I am with child.” The admittance was harder to grind out than she had expected. And it left her feeling naked and vulnerable before a predator, a man she knew could pick her apart with villainous delight and would feel no remorse in the ravaging. “But you already knew.”

“Of course I knew.” And, for once, he did not sound arrogantly pleased with himself at his deadly perception. “My wife has been with child enough times that I recognize the signs. I may be a man, but I am no dullard.”

Of course, with four children now and a fifth on the way, Fëanáro _would_ see the signs with clarity, just as did the King and the Queen. Lalwen would not have been surprised if her eldest sibling had known before _she_ had known.

But why, then, would he say nothing?

Normally, he took great pleasure in bringing low those who laid bare their secrets. Never one for compassion, he tore them apart like a vulture gorging its hunger upon a corpse, eagerly consuming them until nothing was left but bones and he—the predator—was purring in contended sadism. It was, she had learned young, simply the way of the strange and paradoxical Crown Prince, who could be so gentle and loving one moment and, without so much as batting an eyelash in shame, be so terrifying and heartless the next.

“You know,” he began, “You are not the only woman to have ever faced such a situation.”

“Do I know?” she asked, raising a brow to hide her anxiety, her growing unease. Women at court who became with child out of wedlock were taken away to the country, hidden beneath the shadows of their many relatives. Later, they might appear again, childless and with nothing to show for their extended stay upon the green expanses of Valinórë but for a smile more wane and many conversations more dull.

Of course, it was rarely _proven_ or _acknowledged._ She could, if the father consented, always marry to keep the child in wedlock. Then, they need only a few extra months to…

To… cover it up…

_She understood._

“Nerdanel.” Somehow, it did not surprise her as much as it should have. “Little Nelyafinwë?”

Well could she see that image in her mind, of a young Nerdanel seduced with ease by Fëanáro’s persistence and unwittingly charming vehemence. They—as she and her lovers had—would have lost themselves in the fire and the passion and the tangle of limbs slick with sweat. In the aftermath, they would have cuddled and whispered soft words in the dark, basking in the warmth of another body and mind and soul so close to their own, as at one and whole.

And then morning would come and bring all its troubles to bear.

“Do not misinterpret,” the Crown Prince said quickly, frown lining the sides of his mouth and furrowing his brows. “I love my wife, and I had intended to marry her from the beginning, else I would not have courted her as I did. But we were foolish. I had not even asked her father for her hand when the first signs appeared.”

And Lalwen knew the rest. A swift engagement and marriage—at Fëanáro’s insistence—and a grand ceremony in which the groom and bride glowed equally bright and radiated happiness even through the damper of somber state proceedings. Then Fëanáro had scooped up his giggling new wife had retreated to Formenos—to the country—and proclaimed that he wanted a year of respite from the hardships of prince-hood so that he might enjoy his time spent with their future queen.

It had seemed innocent, innocuous, and was meant to appear as such. Well played. Well played indeed.

“Are you good at slipping through the knots of trouble, your Highness?” 

His smile was back. Incisive and conceited as ever. “Very.”

“Ah.”

What more could she say to that? Was he here to gloat?

“However, I am not nearly as cold-hearted as you think me, dear sister.” He spoke as though he could read her mind. The Crown Prince stepped even closer, and Lalwen was swallowed up in the swirl of silver-white eyes circled by dark lashes, almost hypnotizing. “I have a little… present, shall we say… as a gift of congratulations of my newest niece or nephew, of course.”

His hand upon her own was like being touched by open flame. Shocked, she was, that it did not char her flesh down to the bone from just a mere moment’s brush! But, somehow, the searing pain of heat did not come, and she felt his fingers curl around her own, pressing her fist tightly shut. Icy cold metal—ornate edges and loops—dug into her palm beneath the pressure of his iron grip.

“What is this sup—?”

“Hush.” A finger stopped further words from departing her lips. For a moment, he almost sounded gentle in the softness of his tone. “As I said, a gift. I have more houses than I could ever need. What harm will one less do? It is just a little cottage in the rolling hills, neglected and left to gather dust, but I thought I ought to provide a proper gift of congratulations for my darling younger sister who carries a babe with the blood of my father in their veins. Just something to keep you and your children under roof until you find your feet in the real world.”

“Children…?” she whispered. _Children, not child. Plural. He knew about Aranwë._

But, then, she should not have been surprised. Of course he would know. He had probably always known despite never being privy to that most delicate of family secrets. On his face, she could see the knowing look directed her way, tainted with that undercurrent of smugness that made her stomach coil in old distaste and resentment to battle the unwanted surge of gratitude.

“Both of them,” he replied matter-of-factly, his hand dropping away from her own. “After all, with all this trouble you have caused this household and upheaval you have created within this family, no one else will bother with you or your brats.”

Cold were the words and vicious was the smile that played their counterpoint, but as Lalwen watched her half-brother walk away without so much as a kind word of parting, as though nothing had happened, she had to wonder…

The key rested there in her hand when her fingers blossomed open to reveal its glory. And a glorious rose it proved to be. Heavy and brass, it weighed down her arm and yet seemed to make her shoulders feel so much lighter.

Her father could frown. Her mother could cry. Her sister could scoff. And her brothers could look the other way.

But at least someone _saw._ At least someone _cared_ , if not about her than at least about the children and their precarious future.

Or, perhaps, Fëanáro only _understood._

Maybe more than she suspected. Yet, somehow, that was a comfort.

Silently, she pressed the key to her bosom with her left hand and stroked her unborn child again with her right. Perhaps the life she desired for her son or daughter was not yet beyond her grasp.

Thanks to _him._

A slow, sharp smile curled up her lips. She might hate Fëanáro, but there was no denying that she was now deeply in his debt. His graciousness and cruel mercy were invaluable in her time of need. She could ask for no better an older brother.

After all, he always _had_ been an expert at getting out of trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Valinor = Valinórë


	308. Final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In your final moments, what do you care about most?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insanity. Kinslaying, including implied child murder. Some vague gore (nothing terrible). Dysfunctional family (hardcore). Revenge. General disturbing-ness that comes with the Sons of Fëanor. I also screwed up canon again. Oops. Very heavy reference to Tide (Chapter 55) and is a continuation of Reap (Chapter 61) from a different POV. Also related to Search (Chapter 186) and anything Celegorm/Lúthien in nature.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo, Nelyafinwë, Nelyo  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Turko  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

From the moment he had divined the true purpose of the third son—here within the hallowed halls of Menegroth, within the home of the woman who haunted his brother’s every step and every breath with the sweet voice of a nightingale’s song—Maitimo had suspected that he would lose more than the last of his humanity this night.

It was no secret. One needed only look and not blind himself with pride and bitterness to see. To see how those silver eyes darkened in vengeful lust, how those blanched lips curled and sneered with gleeful desire.

Desire for death.

And death had been wrought. Slowly did the oldest son of Fëanáro wonder the halls as they echoed with the last dying cries and words, as his soldiers picked through the bodies to mercifully cut short the suffering of the dying—the betrayed. The only courtesy he offered was that his boots did not step upon the splayed limbs or into the pools of blood, never crushing mangled bone beneath their weight or sacrilegiously tainting spilled crimson with dirt and filth.

No word yet had come from Turkafinwë, and so he was searching. Searching, but not hoping.

With emptiness aching in his heart, he found the royal apartments, knew this was where his younger brother—caught in the fey madness of rage and loss—had gone in the heat of his passion. 

To tear apart the last bonds holding his sanity together, Maitimo supposed. No great love had Turkafinwë held for the Silmarilli, and he did not care about them now, would not care about them in the face of _her_ child. Would not care about them in the face of death and his own final gasping breaths.

He cared—painfully and pitifully—only for _her_ love and _her_ betrayal.

Maitimo dared not call the infatuation pathetic, at least not aloud. It was too raw, an open wound that festered and screamed with pain beneath the rub of salted insults and scorn. And what good would it have done anyway, to be crass and rude and childish about his sibling’s foolishness? What good would it have done, to anger his brother and push him further and further into the insanity and the darkness?

What good would it have done, when Turkafinwë would never listen to his wisdom in the end no matter what he might say?

Now, he found the bodies he had been searching for. The first was near to the door, a woman in a white and amber gown soaked with burgundy. Silvered hair washed out over the rug and the marble of the floor, molten mithril and moonshine that had lost its luster in destruction. If he had bothered to touch her—to turn her face upward so that he might appraise her features—he was certain he would have recognized her as Nimloth, the Queen.

But he knew already who she was and did not bother to defile her corpse with his bloody hands. Instead, he skirted around her, noticed how her hand reached for the doorway, how her children—three of them, all so very young—were nowhere in sight. Taken. Probably slaughtered. And she had died reaching for them…

He could barely bring himself to feel for the coldness. The eerie silence closed in.

Mere feet away lay a dark-haired figure, and Maitimo sighed to look upon that visage frozen in a contemptuous snarl of pain and hate and desperation. Dulled silver eyes glared up at him, and white flesh was broken by thin lines of red seeping from parted lips and the slit line of that slender neck.

A hand had risen, clawed loose the ties of the tunic and grabbed at the chain beneath even as the tide of life had spilled from the fatal wound. Almost reverently was the casket of love held and protected from stain between stiff, cold fingers. Maitimo did not stare for long, could hardly bear to witness that final act—any more final acts. Yet his feet still carried him forth in dread and resignation.

What a pair they made, curled together upon the floor. The wounds were to the torso. Dior, he saw first, crowned and stained and fallen and pale like snow. Blue eyes stared up almost defiantly, thought the horror that reflected in their depths could not be denied. A stab through the heart and the lungs, quick to kill, for it bled like a river unto the white floor and spread and spread to the edges of other bodies and other pools of blood, all mixing together and together…

And then there was Turkafinwë. Exactly where Maitimo had expected to find him.

Slowly, he knelt beside the body, taking in the silver hair that was no longer silver. It was only when he drew around the fallen form and saw the face that he felt his heart still.

No visage of rage and sated lust for vengeance stared back at him. Wide eyes looked up and up, distant and blurred with agony, but not with madness. And the sheen of tears dripped steadily down sharp cheekbones, each droplet landing so singularly within the sea of crimson, sucked away as though it had never existed. The death so easily swallowed up that sorrow, sucked it away, leaving only silvered streaks behind to mark the passing of sanity and heartbreak.

Crying. Turkafinwë was still alive—still gasping and struggling and _breathing_ , a hand raised as if reaching for someone (anyone)—and he was _crying._

“Hanno,” Maitimo whispered, drawing closer, uncaring of soaking his own clothes and wetting his own hair with blood. “Turko?”

The reaching hand twitched and faltered. It was only the instinctual movement of his right arm—handless and lame—that ceased the fall. Fingers—such a weak grip, so helpless and drained—gripped taut to his forearm. Desperate and trembling, they squeezed as if to keep him still, to keep him close and draw him near, but lacked their usual strength and fortitude.

“Nelyafinwë,” the dying elf gasped, choked upon his blood and let it dribble with the sweat and saliva and tears down that once-haughty face. “Nelyafinwë… Nelyo, please…”

“I am here.” He could not soothe, could not help. He could only stay and wait for the inevitable. Not even the most powerful and experienced of healers had a hope of helping his little brother now. But even if they did, he doubted Turkafinwë would have wanted to live.

“Look at him.” Laughter, scalded and broken. “Is he not beautiful, Dior, my son?”

_My son… my son…_

Like a whirlwind of tumultuous thought, Maitimo felt the realization crash down upon him. Glancing from the corner of his eye, he looked upon that face that had frozen in an expression of _realization._ The last act on earth killing…

Killing his father. As his father had killed him.

It was sad, truly pathetic and repulsive and terrible. Maitimo did not know who he hated more at that moment—Turkafinwë or Lúthien or Dior or himself—or who he ought to hate, or even if he ought to hate anyone at all. All he knew was that this was truly Fate’s declaration of war. Revenge upon the pride and arrogance of their House. The beginning of the descent into ruin.

He looked.

There was no denying the resemblance. To think, his brother had come here to murder the last of his love for Lúthien Tinúviel. It seemed, Maitimo thought sardonically, that his little brother had succeeded in his quest.

“Please, Nelyo… listen… listen…”

“I am listening,” he replied, voice low and rougher than he wanted. Such weakness displayed. Such vulnerability lain bare. But, for once, Turkafinwë did not sneer in scorn and take the bait, ripping him to shreds with that pleasured smirk upon his corrupted, handsome face.

Lips struggled with words, and no matter how that tongue slipped out to wet them it seemed they were too parched to depart words. A swallow—it must have been painful, for a spasm shook that dying body—and then those silver eyes looked upon him again. No hatred stared back, and Maitimo wondered if all this despair and sorrow had been buried beneath layer upon layer of fury and bitterness and craziness all this time.

A tide of it, so many tears and wracking half-stifled sobs. Maitimo tried not to look away, tried not to feel anything at all.

“The children,” Turkafinwë finally gasped. “I have a… a final request… for you…”

Of course, if Dior was his brother’s son, then the princes and the tiny princess would be his brother’s bloodline. Grandchildren. Children of the House of Fëanáro.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“Please… Please protect them, Nelyo…”

He dared not say that he thought they were likely already dead. Most likely he would scour the remains of the city and find their tiny bodies beneath the cut down form of a nanny or a guard, gutted and left to drown in blood or with their throats slashed in a quick but frightening demise. Three little children who had barely lived, their lives destroyed by their own family.

Maitimo was not yet heartless enough to tell the truth. Not when those breaths grew thick with blood and the light in those eyes faded into the oblivion of slow death. Not when his brother’s last act on earth was to desperately beg for the lives of his son’s children, holding on to Maitimo’s arm as though it were the lifeline that kept alive the little faith yet left in his breast.

“You know I can promise nothing, brother.” Much as he wished to say otherwise.

“Please.” Begging and lost and broken, holding on to the very last threads of life to ensure the survival of those children who were probably already dead and departed to the Halls. Not at all like the Turkafinwë he knew, but something stripped naked down to the core, so intimate and so vital and so _vulnerable._

He could not promise their survival. But…

“I will try.” That was all he had left to give. That was all he could offer.

And it seemed to be enough, for Turkafinwë smiled in his final moments. “Thank you…” So soft, so relieved. So sincere. Never had Turkafinwë asked _anything_ of him, so independent and wild was that spirit, but that unshakable trust left the foundations of Maitimo’s spirit quaking.

No light was left in those eyes. But that face was soft. Almost contented in the end.

“I will find them,” he swore, reaching out to grip at the hand now falling away from his arm, limp with death. He held it aloft as the last weak flutters of a pulse petered out into stillness and silence.

He would carry out his brother’s final wish.

Letting that hand fall, he stood and walked away from the carnage and the death that he had known was fated to pass. Instead, he turned toward the ruins of Menegroth, eyes alight with a new fire of determination and need.

Let it not be said that he would let his brothers down.

He just prayed he would find more than torn bodies and empty eyes. Or Turkafinwë might never forgive his failure.

Or that final smile might have been for naught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Menegroth is the capital of the realm of Doriath. I can't remember how often it's mentioned by name in the Silmarillion, so I thought I'd just mention it.
> 
> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril  
> Hanno = brother (colloquial)


	309. Decadent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall of Greenwood the Great into shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Cheat Arc and anything related. Definitely Thranduil-centric from OMC Valthoron's POV.
> 
> General warnings: Non-graphic deaths by spider. Alcohol abuse. Mental instability.
> 
> Literally the first thing I've posted in ages. I actually wrote this... quite some time ago. Just never edited and posted it. But I've been working on some new prompts, so I thought perhaps I should finish posting the older ones before putting up new ones.

The forest was growing darker. And, with its darkening, the king’s eyes grew haunted and weary.

Oh, but Thranduil was very good at hiding his troubles. The pain and the fear that riddled his thoughts. The encroaching dread that overshadowed his heart. The doubt and the despair that wormed their way deep inside his core. If one dared look, they would not see their lord and leader faltering, but merely colder and more bitter than he had been in the long years of peace.

Valthoron was not fooled for a moment.

Days were becoming shorter even when spring’s warmth was meant to turn green the boughs of their trees. A chill rested over the land even when summer’s heat should have come up from the south and tried to coax forth the flowering of buds of trees. Shadows grew longer and deeper, and the forest creatures now went quiet. No one could deny that sunlight no longer broke through those canopies overhead, no longer dappled the clearings of the Greenwood with radiance and welcome.

Dark and dangerous was the home Valthoron had grown to love through his many long years. And it hurt him as well.

It hurt to hear the sobbing wails of the trees echoing in his ears as their suffering overcame their ancient resilience. Their towering bodies became gnarled and twisted, riddled with filth and parasites, rotting into putrid destruction as leaves burned red and fell to the floor, covering the softness of the moss and the grass. The ancient spirits were dying, more and more every day, as the taint spread northward, crawling into the realm of the Elvenking with slow but inexorable force. Unstoppable and powerful and evil.

But worse still than the creeping darkness were the spiders. Creatures of wickedness and greed, they slaughtered the animals that once frequented the forest and wove their webs above the pathways through the trees older than time. Long, sickening, gangly legs and an array of black, gleaming eyes that followed passerby, stalking them through the dimness of a once radiant land. Waiting for a single moment of inattention... a single moment of lowered guard...

So many deaths. Not only of unwary travelers, but of those unlucky enough to lose themselves in the once-familiar labyrinth of trees. All it took was a sip of enchanted water or a trip over a jagged rock or the slice of a hand upon broken and splintered bark. The sickness would infest itself into flesh and down to bone, drag the victim down and down into the darkness from which none would ever awaken. They became a feast for the monsters and the spiders that now inhabited those sick and contaminated places.

It brought waves of nausea forth, remembrance of those bodies found, bloodless and shriveled husks, emptied of their organs, left face down to poison the pools of water that once were pure or to sit upon the forest floor and blacken the soil until there naught would grow. These bodies Valthoron would not allow his men to touch for fear of the toxin. They would be burned into charred ashes immediately, and the acrid smoke would choke his lungs as it swirled up and up through the tangled of webs and trees into the sky beyond.

It was horrible. But he could not imagine how horrible it must be for his father.

For Thranduil, who wallowed in his love and responsibility towards his people, his duty to keep them safe in these times of encroaching evil. For his father, who now sat upon that throne and brooded with distant eyes in the chilly silence of winter’s first kiss killing off the last leaves of autumn’s reign. For the Elvenking, who was frightened at the age-old threat of shadow falling down over their eyes to blind them and lead them away to their doom should he falter for but a moment.

Truly, the oldest prince understood the failings of his beloved king, his father. He understood why Thranduil’s mind darkened in the long, decadent days. Days spent cutting their people off from the world outside to keep them safe as prisoners in their own homes. Days spent lounging upon that throne and thinking and thinking until the dark clouds of relentless stress strangled any bright rays of joy from that mind. Days and days and days spent trying to ignore the signs and the warnings from the old fortress in the south in vain hope that they were false.

The alcohol was a ruse. Wine flowed into his father’s cup thrice and tenfold faster than did water. It took more liquor to make Thranduil tipsy and woozy and smiley than it did to make Valthoron pass out in drunkenness. A vice to try and drown away the troubles that burdened the king.

But it did not serve its purpose. No matter how many parties were thrown in delight for the stars— _the stars they could no longer see, for the forest blocked the sight of Elbereth’s dome from the wanderer’s eyes like a net woven of the finest, blackest of spider’s silk_ —and no matter how much revelry was indulged— _such frivolity, an attempt to make light of the falling glory of their home as it crumbled at the foundations_ —there was nothing that could hide the truth. Not for long.

The drinking took then a turn in a more dangerous and obsessive direction.

It was in those days which followed that Valthoron beheld the fey gleam of madness beneath stillness and turquoise calm. Fingers would clench upon the thick armrests of that throne, going white and then red beneath the weight of desperate decisions and the adornment of rich, useless jewels. For hours and hours—hours that drew into long days and wary nights—those eyes would stare and stare down as if all the answers to all the great mysteries of the world rested upon his decorated fingers.

Thranduil would gaze upon the gems on his hands, and he was drawn to white and adamant the most. No starlight could the Wood-elves find in the skies, and so he sought salvation elsewhere.

Never had Valthoron seen an obsession like this. But he heard of it—knew of it—and dreaded it with all his heart. For it was such greed—such all-consuming lust and fiery need and pitiful longing—that had brought his wretched life into this world through pain and blood.

He could have sworn he saw the light of the Silmarilli reflected in those beloved eyes.

_“White gems”_ his father desired, sighed blissfully in the imagining of holding them in his palms, of their star shine overflowing through his fingers like crystalline water. _“White gems of starlight threaded upon the silver of the moon’s frail whispers. Something to bring light…”_

_To bring light…_

It hung in the air, untouched and unfinished. To bring light…

To bring light when their hope was as diminished as their forest and their king and their people. To bring light to their empty hope, their useless and childish hope. But when one could grasp at nothing but that final flimsy thread dangling before their desperate, maddened gaze…

In the end, Valthoron could not blame his father for this descent. He could not blame Thranduil for feeling useless in the face of such a burden of command and defense. Nor could he blame his father for growing desperate as the nightmare-reality closed in around them, broke through the walls of the fortress of the mind and ate away at the strength underlying.

Thranduil was lonely. He was so, _so alone._ Without a mate. Without a confident. Without support. Pushing away those who knew him the best and loved him the most, too afraid to pass on his troubles to another that he in turn loved.

And now he was unraveling, the threads once forming his seams tangled around Valthoron’s fingers, falling and falling through into the depths of flame and death. Those eyes, so bright, were darkening. That compassion, so strong, was slipping into apathy and coldness.

There was no kindness. There was no compromise. There was nothing but desperation and eyes drawn to the south and east.

There was nothing but empty prayers.

Nothing that Valthoron could do to help. Nothing he could do to ease this burden. Nothing he could do to bring back even a glimmer of that light he had so loved in his lone parent's eyes.

He could do nothing but watch. Nothing but wait.

Nothing but stand still and helpless in the face of the inexorable slide into decadence, watching as everything fell to pieces.


	310. Awareness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first encounter between a certain daughter of the Golden Wood and the Lord of Rivendell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another thing written ages ago that I'm only just now posting.
> 
> Fairly light-hearted. Related especially to Stop Time (Chapter 13), Zeal (Chapter 46) and Fading Away (Chapter 293). Mostly, though, it's a girl-meets-boy sort of deal. With more complications. It also briefly mentions Orodreth, so it's part of the "Noldor return to ME" AU as well, technically.
> 
> Characterization of young!Celebrían is an experiment. If people don't like her, they can feel free to disagree. This is just how I would imagine she was raised (because, if I was Galadriel, I would certainly want to protect my daughter from all the shit that went down in the Second Age) and how that might shape the person she is before she ventures out into the real world.
> 
> General warnings: something like a teenage girl crush, mentions war but doesn't talk about anything particularly explicit

For most of her life, Celebrían was oblivious to the world of men and war and darkness.

She had never bothered to take great notice of men and their troubles before. They flitted here and there through her life, both before and after coming to the haven of Lothlórien, mere ghosts in the background of more important matters and more important people. The world she frequented was one of women and beauty and simplicity, not of war and death and the power struggles of male pride.

Days were spent embroidering or chatting with her lady's maids in the quiet shade of the mallyrn. Hours were spent seated at her mother’s side in quiet companionship amongst the womenfolk as they lay upon the ground down by the river, uncaring of the grass staining their white skirts. Baths would follow and were conducted with much giggling and gentle splashing in the softly caressing currents upon naked white skin. There was always a soothing pair of hands to wash her back in the shallows and brush her damp hair each evening before it was braided into an elegant tail for bed.

Dresses. Dancing. Music. All flowers and scents and softness. It was a world separated from the outside. A strange sort of obliviousness, she thought of it as, for she _knew_ that beyond their borders much had been happening in the wide open world. War had ended and the rebuilding of the tattered remains had begun.

But here, within these borders, she was detached from that chaos and dirt and horror. Somewhere so safe and evergreen, so without a trouble in the world, that the hardships and realities of the lands beyond her home rarely even crossed her mind. 

Men simply fell into this category of realities of which she had no understanding, for they were strange and distant figures in her mind. They might as well have lived only in distant Gondor or beyond Ered Luin for all that she thought of or cared about their everyday comings and goings.

There was, of course, her father. Celeborn would kiss her upon the cheek and smile at her crookedly each morning they broke their fast together. Her uncle Orodreth was also a permanent fixture, but the mild-mannered healer was far from what Celebrían would have considered to be the ideal and stereotypical male specimen. Really, it was just her and her mother and endless days of blissful ignorance.

Until they had a visitor.

It was exciting—novel—at first thought. They did not _get_ visitors here, for they were a private people. The elves of the Woodland Realm did not like to stray so far south—indeed, their king was not overly fond of the Lady of Lothlórien no matter that he had once been friends with its Lord, her husband—and the scattered people of Eregion and Lindon were by no means cast aside but neither were they overtly welcome.

A newcomer was different and refreshing. Celebrían well remembered gathering herself and her ladies in waiting, clutching at the lace and softness of her dress as she swept across the grassy clearings with bare feet and climbed into a tree to get her first look at the stranger astride his dark horse and draped in equally dark robes.

“Hiril-nín,” one of her girls called softly, “Celebrían, hiril-nín, please, you should not be this far out of the city without an escort.”

“Hush,” she called back, straining for a better vantage point. “He is nearly around the corner!”

“Hiril-nín…”

They were nervous, and Celebrían understood that to some extent, but who would hurt her within the borders of their fair realm? The mallyrn and the songbirds? And, anyway, her curiosity so often got the better of her “proper” upbringing and graceful, womanly manners that they out to have been used to her antics by now. She did not want to wait until dinner to _see_ this interesting anomaly in her life of sheltered comfort.

Indeed, the wait was worth the trouble of snagging her dress thrice on the way up and scraping her palms on rough wood at the crook of two massive limbs. Poised in place, high over the head of the stranger, she caught her first glimpse of his face.

His beautiful face.

Powerful features, slightly rugged, older than any elf’s face she had ever seen but by no means wrinkled or repulsive. There was a firm furrow in the brow and a sternly down-turned mouth, but they did nothing to decrease the unique glimmer of dark gray eyes or the graceful tilt of the head. Regal, like a prince, and straight upright, like a warrior. It was a posture she had seen in her father before, but…

But this man was nothing like her father. Tall, broader in the shoulders, stronger and sharper in the features. And with dark, _dark_ hair. The moonless night shade that allowed the stars of his eyes to be seen in all their magnificence.

The princess, for the first time, felt a blush form upon her cheeks at the sight of a member of the opposite gender. And he had not even realized how she spied upon him from the boughs overhead.

“Hiril-nín!” The hiss was urgent. “Please, we need to prepare you for evening meal. You have twigs in your hair… Please come down…”

Twigs and leaves in her hair, scratches and a few splinters in her palms, tears at the seams of her dress… What a hooligan—what a child—she would have looked had he seen her in that moment! Suddenly more embarrassed than she could ever recall—for she had never felt embarrassed about any sort of unkempt appearance before—Celebrían vaulted down from her position upon the young mallorn, hoping that she had not been spotted by those extraordinarily incisive, clever eyes.

Suddenly, the idea of bathing and grooming before dinner had its merits.

She glanced down at her dirty hands, which normally she would not even have bothered to wash before eating. And she imagined what he might say if he noticed their stains.

Yes, bathing _definitely_ had its merits.

\---

The princess was _spotless_ when she made her appearance at the table for dinner.

Her parents already awaited her arrival, sitting in their usual places with her father at the head of the conservatively short private table, her mother poised upon his right side like a white-hot flame. But, where usually she would be seated to his left, another person—a dashing and dark-haired person whose mere presence had her heart skipping a frantic rhythm in her chest—was already seated and amiably talking to the Lord of Lothlórien.

It was when her footsteps echoed upon the wooden floor that her father took note of her presence and smiled broadly. “Ah, Celebrían, iell-nín,” he breathed, beckoning with a hand for her to draw near. “Come and meet our esteemed guest.”

_Oh Valar… Up close he is even more handsome…_

Dreamily did she take note of every line and angle of his features. The dark locks that had been modestly braided back earlier were now loose, elegant and complex knots tied into the hair framing his pale face and accenting even more his stunning eyes. He looked less like a warrior now, and more like a prince or a dignitary with his ramrod straight spine and his perfectly folded hands. But, more importantly, those eyes were upon _her_ as she came forth, fixed and inquisitive.

Awareness stung her skin, prickling like needles and biting like a chilly wind. 

Her dress was flattering, the neckline just a hair lower than normally would she wear so that the top of her bosom and the swanlike arch of her throat were plainly visible when her hair swayed just so and parted in tantalizing silver waves. Vaguely did the thought cross her mind that she hoped he appreciated the pearls inlaid upon her necklace that dipped down into the valley between her breasts in provocative silvered lines against pale skin. As gracefully as she could manage— _And why, oh why could she not pull of seamless and effortless harmony of movement like her mother?_ —she approached the table (upon the left side) and stood before the newcomer’s chair, desperately clenching her hands together to hold at bay the fidgeting.

He was looking at her. _He was looking at her!_

“Greetings,” she murmured, wishing her cheeks had not darkened to damask when her voice wavered precariously. Covering the slip with a faint dipping curtsey and a bowed head (anything to keep from looking directly into those eyes), she introduced herself. “I am Celebrían, daughter of Celeborn. May the stars shine upon our meeting.”

And, gallantly, he stood beside her as she straightened, towered over her, every line of his body screaming of courtly perfection and a soldier’s straight posture. Even when he bowed, he seemed to fill up all her vision, effortlessly capturing her attention when his lips air-kissed her knuckles. “I am Elrond of Rivendell,” he replied— _and his voice was so smooth, so lovely in its faintly exotic lilt, in its stoic firmness tempered with just the slightest hint of warmth and kindness_ —as he rose back to his full height. “The stars do, indeed, shine upon our meeting. How could they not shine upon one so radiant?”

The damask turned to blush. Celebrían wished she had a fan.

“Sit,” Elrond requested, pulling out the chair at his side for her and waiting for her to delicately place herself upon its cushion before sliding it inward. “I was just discussing how lovely your home is. I have never seen a place so beautifully preserved and timeless. So peaceful.”

Peaceful. Celebrían thought it rather boring, not peaceful or tranquil or even terribly beautiful. It was simply as she always recalled, effortlessly wondrous. But to this man, whose irises were darkened with sorrow and whose eyes were cornered by the faintest of crow’s feet, this place must seem like paradise.

_A warrior_ , her mind provided faintly. _He has seen the battlefield. And its many sorrows._

Scarcely could she imagine what that must be like. Tales in old history texts always made out everything to be so chivalrous, so amazing and full of bravery and great feats of power. This man, however—for all his powerful stance and impressive posture—did not seen like those heroes in the old tales.

“Is Rivendell not peaceful, my Lord?” she asked.

Perhaps she had said something wrong, for his mouth tightened faintly. “Orcs still roam free upon the plains and in the forests. Our valley is protected somewhat, but one can never be too careful so close to Hithaeglir.”

It was mildly chastising, as though he spoke to a spoiled, naïve child. The blush deepened to humiliating red as she thought about how she must sound. Of course nowhere abroad was peaceful! War had just ended, and this man had been in the thick of its torturous grasp!

Foolishness and ignorance had never seemed so menacing before. All eyes were upon her, eagerly awaiting a response from her slightly parted, stunned lips. And Celebrían did not know what to say.

_What should I say? What should I do?_

Luckily, her mother drew Elrond back into conversation with frightening ease, saving her the embarrassment of spouting out some equally ill-thought-upon comment and pressing insult upon injury. But the damage was already done; she could see in his eyes the sudden dismissal. He very nearly ignored her.

She had never been so aware of her own faults in all her life. Her own failings.

Despite her great beauty, he thought her a _child._

And she, of course, was hopelessly enamored.

Shamelessly did she gaze upon that profile in the twilight gleam of the forest—the straight nose and the full lips and the long eyelashes—with searching, wistful eyes.

He was perfect. _Perfect._

And she had never been more drawn to a man in her life.

It was then that she knew—as she looked into her mother’s pale eyes filled with faint disapproval and glanced at her father’s half-hidden frown of consternation—that she wanted to marry this man. This perfect, handsome man with the kindly, sorrowful eyes. Not only marry him, but _understand_ him. He had effortlessly piqued her fancy and her curiosity and her pride.

Effortlessly captured her in his web and left her skin and her mind and her heart crawling with sparkling heat and a lust to prove her worth in uninterested eyes.

Like her mother before her, Celebrían of Lothlórien knew _exactly_ what she desired. And nothing—not her parents or her upbringing or even her future husband—would stand in the way of her desires.

Such was the blood of the daughter of Galadriel. Such was the blood of Ñoldorin fury tempered with Vanyarin charm and Sindarin wildness.

Elrond had captivated her senses. And she did not think she could escape even had she wished.

But she knew that she wished not to be free.

If she needed to gain worldliness to understand him, she would find a way to match his wisdom with her hunger for learning. If she needed to leave the comfort of her soft, protected life in order to claim his regard, she would swallow her lingering doubts and fears of the unknown, plowing forth with abandon.

One day, she thought as she looked upon his profile from the side, Elrond of Rivendell would look upon her again. And then, when that time came, he would be aware of _her_. Not as a child, but as a grown woman with the capacity for true understanding.

And then, perhaps, she could claim his heart as he had already claimed hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> mallorn = golden tree, specifically a type of tree originally from Valinor that grows only in Lothlórien  
> mallyrn = plural of mallorn  
> hiril-nín = my lady (chose hiril of all the words for lady specifically because it matches the word for lord "hîr")  
> iell-nín = my daughter  
> Hithaeglir = Misty Mountains


	311. Turn Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is such a fine line between love and hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of those old stories. I think there are three more unpublished ones before I get to the new stuff that I've been writing.
> 
> This belongs with all the Celegorm and Lúthien stuff, but with Obvious (Chapter 122) in particular. Basically, I broke canon. Not really sorry, of course.
> 
> General warnings: Depressing as fuck. Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Mentions the Kinslayings and war in general (nothing graphic). Sex is mentioned several times. Also has this weird ring of non-con about it, though all the sex was consensual. Can't decide in which direction the non-con is going, though. In a weird sort of way, it could be either one of them.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Tyelkormo = Celegorm

One never forgets that pivotal moment. The moment that remains set forever as a gem—beautiful and light or dark and grotesque—set into the center of the crown of their timeless fate. The moment that will determine the future of their existence forever, that leaves them gasping and breathless, reaching out to hold it back in primal terror but feeling the last vestiges of its celestial robes flit through outstretched fingers.

Certainly, Tyelkormo would never forget _his_ moment.

Much had already changed in Beleriand. Things that were once important—resisting his father’s iron grip, disrespecting his older brothers for their compliancy and attempting to beat individuality into the younger ones who might still be salvaged—were suddenly no longer important. In fact, they seemed downright petty in the face of the murder and violence, in the face of the Darkening and the Exile and the chaos of war that followed.

The hunter was no stranger to killing. But there was a difference between hunting in the peaceful quiet of Oromë’s Woods and fighting for one’s life upon the field of battle, risking one’s life each and every second for square inches of ground. A different between shooting animals, whispering blessings for their sacrifice so that their bodies might sustain his, and slicing open and stabbing and slaughtering other living, sentient beings. Even ones so dark and disgusting as Orcs. And the Kinslayings… Those innocents…

It changed people; that was certain. Those experiences made him more ill-tempered, riled his temper and left a bad taste constantly sitting upon the back of his tongue. Such was his fate, the warrior so far away from everything he had ever known and held dear in his heart, forced and contorted into this mold that shaped his body and spirit into something shriveled and repulsive just for the sake of revenge not his own. For a few glowing trinkets and his father’s prideful arrogance.

That pivotal moment, he had believed, was his decision to uphold his father’s Oath. The decision to hold aloft his sword in the torchlight and swear proudly with a sneer of hatred upon his lips and white-hot fury in his eyes. The acceptance of his father’s final words upon his deathbed of flame and ash.

But it was not.

Perhaps, even after all the hardship—even after the massacre on the docks of Alqualondë and the abandonment of their kin to flee to Losgar and the loss of his father and brother and even the following war that had no end in sight—he had believed there was still something left to be salvaged. Still something left to hope for.

Seeing _her_ for the first time had only cemented that belief, for how could a condemned world house such glory, such salvation?

Kissing _her_ had lightened his heart in a way that Tyelkormo could not even describe, not in words and not on paper and not even in the depths of his own mind.

Becoming _one_ with her—with the woman he was fated to be with forever, the woman who completed his broken and ravaged spirit—had been…

It had been like finding home. A home greater and more all-encompassing than the eternal verdant of the Woods of Oromë or the lavish mansions and halls of his father could ever have offered. Feeling her around him, in his spirit, breathing upon his lips, stroking over his bare skin—it was indescribable. Unfathomable. Perfection.

It was the first time he had believed—truly _believed_ —that everything might be all right in the end. That there might be happiness waiting somewhere in the far distant future after war and heartbreak and suffering.

That, one day, this madness would find an ending. Just as his father had said. Fair, though hard-won in suffering. She would hold his hand and kiss his cheek and nothing in all the world could be wrong.

But how wrong he had been. How terribly, utterly _wrong._

The moment upon which his fate rested had not yet come. Not when he gazed upon the Lady Lúthien for the first time. Not when he had kissed her for the first time. Not when he had _made love_ to her for the first time.

It was the moment he told her they were to be married.

He was in love—he was so, _so_ in love with her, this woman, this flighty, perfect songbird creature of ethereal beauty—and he had believed she loved him in return with all her being. Why else would she stay by his side and cry upon his shoulder? Why else would she kiss his sorrows away until he could once again breathe? Why else would she become one with him beneath the stars and then stroke her fingers through his hair until dawn came upon their bodies curled together in the grass?

But that moment… that moment…

Her eyes were blue and gray, gentle twilight perched just above the horizon, lightening the sky and sliding its veil over the pinpricks of the stars. But they were not alight with the same joy that raced as wildfire through his veins, eating away his heavy sorrow with passion and adoration. In fact, they did not change at all in the face of his bold proclamation.

They just stared almost blankly. Almost _pityingly._

“My Lady…?” His voice wavered in hesitation, uncharacteristic diffidence. Would she not kiss him? Would she not say she loved him?

Would she not be happy as his wife?

Tyelkormo knew she had loved that mortal man before him and that she missed her lover, and he knew their marriage would be difficult what with his family’s reputation and her father’s stubborn hatred of his kin, but if she truly loved him would she not have thrust all of that aside? Would she not have wrapped him up in her wonderfully soft arms and her charming croons and her sweet scent and held him tight, refusing to let go? As she had done for _him_ —her mortal.

_Why was she not happy?_

The longer they stared into each other’s eyes, the more _realization_ set in with icy fingers and sharp nails scratching trenches into tender flesh. It was a painful, horrible realization. The kind of epiphany that splits the soul like an earthquake splits the ground and leaves the vulnerable blood and life and love gushing beneath so utterly exposed. He stood before her steady gaze—her coldness and her rejection laid bare—and felt like his entire body was an open wound that lay beneath the poison of her scorn and the knives of her callous frown.

Because, after that long, terrible moment, he watched her turn away.

“I do not love you, Celegorm Fëanorion. And I will not marry you.”

 _I do not love you._ Like a drumbeat of war, like the foreshadowing of doom. _I do not love you. And I will not marry you._

Did not their oneness—their wholeness and intimacy—mean _anything_ to her?

The kissing and the lovemaking had meant _everything to him._ They had sewn together tattered shreds of his mind that he had not even known were floating away upon the wild winds of insanity. Each moment he breathed her in was a blessing. Each word she spoke in his ears rang like heavenly bells.

Each touch she imparted to his flesh was as purification of the spirit, chasing away the stain that lingered putridly upon every inch of his soul.

She _completed him._ And he _loved her._

And to her, he was nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but a toy. Nothing but a means to an end.

It was that pivotal moment—that mere breathless pause—that changed _everything_. And, later, he would look back upon those shallow breaths and remember the pain that blazed through his chest like fire and _know_ that, if only she had not been so cruel, things might have been different.

If only she had truly loved him then. If only.

But, as a fragile structure of glass caught beneath a falling hammer, something holding his mind intact shattered at the blow of her rejection. Sprinkled crystalline splinters down in a shower of pain that left him reeling with confusion and fury and terror. A lesser man would have slid to his knees and allowed himself the shame of begging for reconsideration at the overwhelming _despair._

But not Tyelkormo Fëanárion.

He did not allow such weaknesses. He was a creature forged of his father’s fire and his mother’s intelligence and his line’s innate determination. A man who could not be tamed or beaten down into the dust, left crying and suffering and sniveling like a slug. Never would he be lowered as such. Not even for the woman he loved—this woman.

This woman who had used him, and he had allowed her that vice. She who had manipulated him, and he had fallen for her wiles.

She who hated him, and he had been blind to her disgust.

If she wanted to play this game, though, he would oblige her want. He would lock her away in her chambers and leave her to rot in a cage, a captured songbird whose voice slowly faded day-by-day into oblivion, chipped away with sadness and heartbreak...

_Heartbreak equal to his own. For his chest hurt worse than any wound had ever ached or any words had ever stung. Worse even than his father’s burning eyes and his mother’s disappointed gaze._

_It hurt so badly that he wanted to scream. But he would not… He would not… give… in… to… her…_

He would force her hand, and she would spend her days married to this man she hated. She would bear him his children and carry on his line and serve him as his wife. And, when the long days had passed and the war was ended and all that she loved was gone in the fleeting blink of an immortal eye, he would be all she had left to hold, to covet… to cherish.

Tyelkormo would _make her_ want him. He would _make her_ love him.

“We _will_ be married, Lúthien Melianiel.”

It would be an empty and cold and bitter marriage. But the reality of their world set in with all the chill of Helcaraxë and all the malice of Morgoth. The disillusionment was almost as painful—as grating and cruel—as her vicious words and her distant eyes. He _was_ a bitter and cold man, and there was no salvation waiting to embrace him and wash away his taint at the end of this journey through hell. He was an awful creature, a sinful murderer, a heartless _wretch_ , and he would not care for anyone ever again. There would be no absolution. There would be no stability. There would be no safety.

“I will _never love you!”_ Her birdsong was riddled with darkness, with dripping fangs and hooked claws. “I could never love a _monster.”_

There would be no love.

There would be only him and her. And the broken crags between their fitting pieces, chipped away by her pure cruelty and his pride and despair.

Let her turn away from his face and scoff at his infatuation. Let her hide in the dark and cry for her lost love. Let her learn the meaning of agony as he had learned it through centuries of suffering.

For he would turn away from his love. Away from his hope.

“So be it.”

And he would never look back. Never look back. His fate was sealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor  
> Melianiel = Daughter of Melian


	312. Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the kisses of Celebrían daughter of Galadriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth of the six old unpublished things.
> 
> Everything from angst to hurt/comfort to outright fluff to just a hint of sensuality. Related to Fading Away (Chapter 293) and Awareness (Chapter 310), but specifically serves as a sort of counterpoint to Goodbyes (Chapter 232).
> 
> Warnings: Angst. Implied non-con and torture. Reference to sex, but nothing explicit. Kissing, obviously. Bleeding is limited to scraped knees.

Her first kisses were from her nana and her ada. 

Celebrían remembered them even when she was fully grow as pleasant little dreams half-hidden in the haze of memory that followed her into her years of adulthood. They were always gentle things, those little gifts. Sitting in her nana’s lap, feeling tender lips brush over the tip of her nose as she giggled into soft white lace. Being lifted up by her ada into the air and twirled, squealing in delight at the feeling of his chapped lips on her rosy cheeks.

Feeling hands cradle her face as goodnights were whispered in her ear and a tiny kiss was pressed to her brow. In that spot, she would feel the love of her parents spread outwards until she drifted off in the rocking embrace of that pure sensation.

They were lovely things, those little gifts. Always did they bring warmth and love upon her heart, and their memory always soothed away the worry and sorrow in her spirit when the days darkened with shadow and her parents’ eyes grew saddened and cold.

They always allowed her to smile. Just a little bit.

Even when there was nothing left to smile for. She remembered.

\---

But those little kisses were nothing like _his_ kisses.

Her nana’s kisses were like a moth’s wings in the twilight, full of delicate sweetness and underlying affection that could not be spoken in mere words. Her ada’s kisses were all warmth and sunshine streaming through the forest trees, playful and teasing and bringing forth laughter.

But _his_ kisses…

The first time was a shock. Standing beneath the boughs of lantern-speckled trees, a clearing breaking overhead into the heavenly dome, they had been together. And his eyes had sparkled with each and every star, reflecting down at her, enchanting her and holding her hostage.

Celebrían remembered the first touch of his lips. Elrond’s lips.

They had been hesitant, barely a touch at all. But it had felt like nothing she had ever known. Like fire igniting beneath the tingling flesh of her parted, shocked lips. She remembered how her breath had caught and held. How she had struggled to gain her next breath in the wake of such a tiny, vastly powerful gesture.

“Would you allow me to court you, my Lady?” he had asked.

Somehow, she had found the air to say “Yes”.

And he had kissed her again.

\---

Those kisses only became deeper. More wild. Harder to control. Harder to stop.

Before him—with his strangely aged beauty akin to the finest of ancient wines upon the blissful tongue—Celebrían could not understand what it was that drew together a man and a woman in the way of lovers. Her handmaidens had tittered and whispered about it behind demure hands, their eyelashes fluttering as they beheld the guardians walking past in packs, backs straight and eyes glued in forward position looking so composed and so handsome. There had been so much blushing and giggling. So much sighing with dreamy eyes.

Celebrían had seen _beauty_ in men. But she had not seen this heat. Had not felt this passion scorch across her skin and fill her cheeks with blood.

Nor fill her belly with molten fire.

That was what _those_ kisses did. They started as a tiny searching brush, a teasing caress to part her mouth, to share her air. Teeth gently scraped the too-tender skin of her lips to the harmony of her punctuated gasps. And then he would tilt her head and they would connect.

And she could feel them come together. Could feel his tongue everywhere inside her mouth. Could taste his heady flavor on every inch of her overwhelmed palate.

Her hands would thread through the dark hair at his nape, pulling him closer…

And then he would pull away. Cut the strings of their wholeness and leave her hanging, panting softly in the scant few centimeters that lay between their flushed and impassioned faces. So close and so far away.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

But soon… Soon they would be married. Man and wife. Soon he would be her husband. And then they would not need to stop when the flames grew high in the intimate darkness and began to consume their waking thoughts with a red glow. Then they could clash like thunderstorms over the plains, and they would come together entirely.

\---

In a kiss far more intimate.

Together in their marriage bed.

Celebrían had never imagined.

She had never imagined…

\---

The first time she held her sons in her arms, Celebrían had been sweaty and exhausted from the birthing of twins, long and arduous as it had been. The bed upon which her marriage had been consummated was the bed upon which she gave birth to her husband’s heirs.

And they were beautiful.

She held them, cradled them close and stared down into their red, slightly wrinkled newborn faces. Identical, but she could tell them apart already, for they felt so different when they resonated within her heart. Each with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes and big milky blue eyes.

They would be gray in the end, she imagined. Like _his._

Beyond words, she lifted them close and ignored her fatigue. She pushed aside her discomfort and the dripping black at the corners of her vision.

She pressed their first kisses against their tiny foreheads.

“Elladan and Elrohir,” she whispered. And pressed their second kisses in the same spot again, taking in their softness and breathing in their sweet baby-scent. She wanted to remember this moment forever. “My sons.”

\---

Celebrían often wondered if her sons remembered her kisses the way she remembered her nana’s kisses.

How often she loved to kiss their chubby little cheeks! How often did she shower with adoration their cute button noses! How she loved to hear their squeals when she pressed her lips to their ticklish little bellies!

It was different giving the kisses away. But she loved it just as much.

The sound of childish laughter filled the afternoon all around her, and in bliss she leaned back to soak in the sunshine and the autumn cool of the valley dyed all orange and red and gold with the Fading. Everything was so peaceful… so perfect…

Until she heard the crying.

Like any mother, she was up as soon as the wail sliced through her paradise. They were only across the courtyard, her two babies, but they were just out of sight and her heart was fluttering hard in the back of her throat with worry as her shoes clicked over stone and…

And Elrohir was on the ground sobbing, tears and snot on his reddened face. Big puffy eyes looked up at her pathetically.

He had scraped his knee. Poor thing.

With a sigh, she scooped him upwards and set him upon one of the ornate benches, kneeling before his sniffling form as she crooned. Elladan was at her side looking worried, clutching at her skirts with fidgeting hands.

“Aiya, don’t cry, ion-nín,” she murmured as she stroked the tears from Elrohir’s cheeks. “Let me see your knee, my darling.”

“Hurts,” the child whined.

Carefully did her fingers explore the scrape, using the edge of her dress to wipe away the sparse amount of blood and dirt to reveal a tiny scrape beneath. For, indeed, that was all it was. Just a scuff from the rough stone upon soft skin. Already, Elrohir’s cries were nearly quieted as he watched her wide-eyed.

“Let nana kiss your scratch better, darling.”

“Kiss it better?”

Celebrían nodded. “Like magic,” she replied, pressing her lips in a breathy caress across the angry red mark twice as once her own mother had done for her. “See. Does it feel better now?”

Her youngest son wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffled again. But he also nodded, looking satisfied now that he was not bleeding all down his leg. More fright than pain, Celebrían realized. And such an easy affliction to fix.

“Good.” She added a kiss to his forehead and lifted him from the bench, setting him once again upon his spindly legs. “Now go and play. But be careful this time, ion-nín!”

Like nothing had happened, they were off romping again, laughing in the afternoon sunshine.

Little kisses. That was all it took.

If only the world stayed so simple forever.

\---

When her daughter was conceived unexpectedly, Celebrían looked forward to the birth with great excitement. To having a girl-child in a house full of men. To having a companion, an heiress to teach her sewing and weaving arts, to dress up in pretty gowns and spoil with gentle baths and evenings of hair-brushing and braiding.

But, as with her sons, the beauty of her newborn daughter in her arms for the first time had caught her unawares.

Arwen was perfect. A perfect baby, quiet and contemplative as she yawned up at her mother and blinked those huge blue eyes. Again, Celebrían knew—perhaps as only a mother would—that they would fade to her husband’s gray.

To Lúthien’s gray.

Such a beauty her little lady would be. And Celebrían could not help but press butterfly kisses to that precious face.

Somehow, she knew… knew that Arwen needed all of the kisses she could gather and give…

Somehow, she just _knew…_

\---

Knew that, many years later, she would give no more kisses.

No more could she stand to feel the kisses of her grown sons upon her cheeks—

_Once she had loved them and cherished each one, for grown boys so rarely desired the attentions of their mother and so rarely allowed their persona of adult gravitas to fall so that she might give the gesture back in return—_

And no more could she give her daughter kisses upon the brow—

_As she often did if only to wish the young girl luck and send with her beloved little one eternal love and guidance. If only to let her youngest child know that she would always be there—_

No more could she even bear to be touched by her husband.

She could not bear to receive his kisses. Not upon her hands. Not upon her brow. Not upon her cheeks.

Not upon her lips.

Touch made her hollow heart quiver in terror, left her hovering as a shadow of a ghost holding on to life by the thinnest of spider’s threads. Each brush of fingers brought remembrance of searing pain. Each brush of lips left her remembering only the horror and the violation.

She wished she could tell Elrond it was okay, that she would get better. She wished she could see his eyes light up in hope. She wished she could feel the warmth that once suffused her being when his kisses rained upon her skin.

But wishing did not change reality.

Wishing would not make the kisses warm.

Wishing would not heal her open, rotting wound.

\---

Time helped.

In the Undying Lands she had all the time in the world. Here, seasons never changed. Here, there was no evil shadow. Here, the days were peaceful and the nights were tranquil.

Here, there was no need to be afraid. She could allow the divine Light to seep back into her flesh and warm again her bones with easy slowness. To burn away the nightmares and memories hidden in the cobwebs strung from the darkest corners of her mind.

Here, she came to be _almost_ at peace.

Almost.

But something had been missing. It took her many years to see it. To _feel_ it.

The absence of kisses.

Her nana and ada were across the Sea. Her husband and sons and daughter were across the Sea. Her _heart and soul and life_ were _across the Sea._

And she missed them. Missed their kisses. Missed their voices. Missed their love.

More than anything.

And she knew that she could not be healed. Not yet.

Not yet.

\---

Not until she saw him again. Elrond.

All of her body screamed to be near him, to take hold of him and never let go again. Peace these shores may have offered, but they did not offer the love and companionship she remembered.

They did not offer the beautiful feeling of warmth that slid through her aching body when she slung her arms about his neck and embraced him tight.

They did not offer the shocking wonder of feeling his arms—his actual arms, corporeal and tangible and _real_ —squeezing around her tautly in return.

They did not offer the all-consuming feeling of _rightness_ when their lips came together again and again and again. Frantic and breathless and full of awe.

Until they came apart and stood together on the docks, sharing their breaths. Each staring into the other’s eyes. And Celebrían could do not but reach upwards and cup that beloved face in her hands as she wept tears too sweet to be sad.

“I’m here,” he murmured, lost in her.

And she kissed him again. Equally lost. Equally found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> nana = mama (shortened naneth (mother))  
> ada = daddy or papa (shortened adar (father))  
> Aiya = exclamation, something like Oh!  
> ion-nín = my son


	313. Hand of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil contemplating the loss of innocence at the hands of fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifth of six unpublished things.
> 
> This one is part of the Cheat Arc, of course, and so I'm not going to list off all the chapters. There are way too many. But it is most closely related to Catatonic (Chapter 101) and Overflow (Chapter 131) if I had to pick.
> 
> Warnings: Rape. Not graphic rape, but it's definitely there. Violence and bloodshed, mostly non-explicit. Second Kinslaying in a flashback. Implied mpreg.

It was a romantic notion that not many ascribed to, the idea of a fated One. 

Thranduil had believed it wholeheartedly when he was young and full of naïve hope. With barely a century to his name, he had wistfully dreamed of meeting his One, the person he was _created_ to spend the rest of forever with. Two halves of a perfect whole. Two pieces that created a complete image.

Two souls that would seamlessly weave together into one. In wholeness. In togetherness. In happiness.

Foolishness.

_How could they not fit together perfectly?_ That he would ask himself. _How could they not be meant to be?_

_How could such a meeting—such a partnership, such a connection—not bring forth the greatest of happiness?_

Of course, he had imagined meeting a lovely young maiden in the twilight of the forest gardens. A nice, sweet girl with bell-like laughter and rosy cheeks; a girl of his own people, the gray-elves, who would bear him children and spend forever at his side in the great hallowed halls of Menegroth. Or, perhaps, it would be a man. He would not have been repulsed at the idea of a handsome warrior with a strong bow-arm, someone brave but with a kind side buried underneath a stern façade at which he could flirt and blush. As he aged, he came to find that the latter fantasy appealed even more than the former.

But they were just sweet little daydreams that he kept privately locked up in his head. Never would he have spoken of them aloud—he was too prideful and too stubborn and admittedly too arrogant to reveal such a vulnerable part of himself—but it had been a part of him nonetheless.

Foolishness indeed.

Dreams were lovely things. Delusions created to retain bare-boned scraps of joy in a world consumed by war. Young and full of naïve hope had he been without a doubt. The war had boiled on longer than he had been alive, had wrecked distant lands outside the borders of Doriath beyond all repair and ravaged all that was green and good into barren wastelands of bones and twisted metal and sorrow. But it had never reached deep within their borders, to the city with walls carved and painted by the finest hands and furnished with tapestries woven by the most talented fingers. Jewels and finery and parties and wine dominated the world of the court of Thingol, not blood and death and dirty, ugly realism.

All romanticism and beauty and pristine ignorance. All everything the world was not.

\---

Until the day came when _they_ invaded. 

The sons of Fëanor, the golodh Kinslayer’s devil-spawn children from the West, filled with violent lust for blood and greed to reclaim their pretty glowing rocks. Until that day, those flame-haired monsters from across the Great Sea had been but a fleeting and ghostly nightmare, merely a bedtime story whispered insidiously to scare mischievous children into staying in bed at night. But that was all they had been. Nightmares to counter the daydreams.

That was all they had been. All they had been until fate decided otherwise. And it had changed _everything._ Perhaps, he would later think, it was _meant to._

But at the time Thranduil thought none of that. He had thought of nothing but fear, but the terror that forced his throbbing heart to climb up the back of his throat until he wanted to be sick. He had thought of nothing but fleeing and hiding, running away from the advancing flash of swords down the corridor, chasing the unarmed inhabitants of a city that had never seen war knock upon its gates.

He had thought of nothing but keeping his family alive when he heard the piercing shriek of his mother. Of her _death._ It had drawn him forth like nothing else, pulling him from the safety of his locked chambers without a second thought—without even bothering to grab a dagger or a bow to protect himself. And when the door had opened… he had _seen him._

His One. Covered in blood. Standing over the prone body of his mother. Sword aloft in a vicious, cruel arc.

His _One._

It was like a flash—all at once a shattering revelation that left his legs quivering beneath his weight. Thranduil had not known _how_ he knew, just that he _knew_ and could not deny it. All it took was that one glance for his heart to break.

Handsome face splashed with crimson, splattered across the high cheekbones lined with snarls and down the front of a tunic embroidered with a damning seven-pointed star.

Son of Fëanor.

Green eyes, he remembered vividly from that frozen moment of epiphany. Very green eyes with pupils blown wide-open like empty windows gaping into the vastness of the Void beyond. They seemed to dominate the too-pale face, clashing sharply with the too-bright blood on blanched white skin and the too-red hair slicked to a sweaty forehead. Red and green and white.

And pain.

Because he had been a foolish and naïve child then. Happiness should have come with this moment, the moment he met the One he was destined to spend forever with. Nothing could get in the way of that bliss, he had believed. No matter what it took, if he was with his One they could overcome _any_ obstacle that stood in their way of togetherness—of happiness.

But not this. Not this.

Not the empty insanity that stared back at him. Not the sword that flashed in the light of torches, red and dripping with his mother’s blood. Not the green, green, _green_ eyes that were filled with lust beyond want for spilled blood.

Not the way a gloved hand wrapped around his upper arm and dragged him closer without gentleness or care.

Not the way lips crashed down over his screaming mouth and sucked out his spirit.

Not the way he _couldn’t pull away from that grasp no matter how hard he tried to squirm away—_

He was dragged, kicking and screaming amongst the chaos of the dying and the dead and the murdered and the murderers, into his own room from whence he had come out of hiding at his mother’s agonized screams. And the door shut behind them.

There was fear and horror. Dread that crawled over his skin, chilling.

But none of it compared to the disillusioned despair.

Cruel was the hand of fate, to have dealt him these cards through the alignment of the heavens and the gifts of the Music. He had a One—some _never_ found their fated mate, and it was always so celebrated, so joyous—but this was no blessing. There was no happiness. There were no moonlight kisses to be snuck. No giggling together and blushing at half-censored lewd jokes. No courting or flirting beneath the boughs of familiar trees and under the shade of vibrant gardens. No engagement and marriage and no endless days of bliss winding off into the horizon of eternity.

There was blood and pain and hopelessness.

There was red and green and white.

And then there was only black. Only black. His fate.

\---

Sometimes dreams were lovely little things. They brought forth what little joy could be found among a world dying as it was choked in the maws of the northern shadows and the greed of the West and the lies that closed in from every corner. But dreams had to end. And Thranduil’s dream had ended that day.

Just once, though, he wished he could have had his little dream.

Even looking back upon it—millennia later, from his position of power upon his throne when the shadows once again closed in around him with salivating fangs ready to tear him open and eat him alive—he wished he could have had _just this one dream._

He wished his fate could have been different. That his naivety could have, for once, proven to be true. That that giggling maiden or stern-faced warrior lingering in the back of his mind was more than a crafted illusion. That everything would have turned out for the best in the end because surely Eru, who wrote the grand ballad that shaped the world, would want to weave a happy ending for all who held goodness and rightness to their breasts and not torment His Children ceaselessly without cause.

Maybe, then, he would have had something to smile about when destiny-turned-reality and the cold light of the stars wove their strings about his fragile life and wrapped him in webs of discord. When they found Thranduil once again damned and alone and wanting.

All he had wanted was to find his One. And he had. But, looking back, he wished desperately—forlornly and bleakly and foolishly—that he had not. Not like that. Never like that.

He would have missed Valthoron. And he would have missed Legolas. Or, if he had married a sweet maiden or a beautiful warrior and lived out his days in peace, he might have had them both anyway. And maybe they, too, would have been unburdened by the cruelties and sin of the past that could not be changed.

Maybe, then, there would be more than the vortex of black sucking him down.

Maybe… _Maybe…_

Yet, as he sat upon his throne and stared blankly into the distance, Thranduil always had to wonder…

_Had it all been laid out in the stars? Was it all meant to be? When the Music gave him Amrod, had it truly been a warped mistake, a note of discord in the great harmonies that led to this torment?_

_Was there ever really any hope? Or, perhaps, he had been destined to suffer from the very start…_

_Perhaps he had been beneath the cruel hand of fate from the very beginning._

But one could never know the truth of such mysteries. Only wonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Golodh = Noldo


	314. Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The waiting is finally ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last of the old unpublished things. After this, stuff will be new.
> 
> Sappy romance. This is most closely tied with Waiting (Chapter 254) but is connected to all the Maglor x Vardamírë stories. Therefore, this has got one of my lovely OFCs in it.
> 
> No real warnings here except for the general depressing-ness that is Maglor at times. It gets happy, though.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Makalaurë = Maglor  
> Laurë = shortened Makalaurë  
> Mírë = shortened Vardamírë

There were days when he believed with every fiber of his being that he would never see _her_ face again. Her most beloved face that constantly weighed heavily upon his heart.

Long, long years passed at a crawl, filled with the sound of the ocean pounding an endless rhythm upon the shores, hissing up the sprawling white of the sand to nip at the toes of his boots. And Makalaurë had long since grown accustomed to the song of the water, its slow and deep breathing washing salt and mist across his face, tangling damp fingers through his hair and whipping it back from his eyes.

In some ways, he almost felt it had become a part of his body. Or, perhaps, he had become a part of _it._ The oxygen—sweet and pure beneath the cold light of the stars blinking down from the vastness of the sky above the churning waters—seemed to be swallowed into those depths, dragged away into the endless blackness below. And he stood, breathless and frozen, a fixed statue of flesh and bone, pearl and shadow, pale and dark entwined and left upon the beach to stand forever in the cold.

He waited. And he held his breath.

Held his breath as whispers came and went through the threads of time and space. The call of the sea pulled and pushed upon his mind, drew his feet upon the shores to the north where the tides were chilly and dark. And Makalaurë followed to whatever end, for what end had he in sight but to follow that song until the end of days?

Yet, perhaps, the Valar were more merciful than he had expected—than he had ever dared hope.

Well did he remember the feeling, the overpowering ice surrounding his heart and mind as he stepped across the damp sand in the ethereal evening light. And it was there that he saw her.

_Her._

Her slender form draped in deep blue and silver, the hem of her gown soaked with the writhing waves washing up onto the pale sands, slipping around her bare ankles. Her white skin laced through with silver beneath the light of Isil, so fragile and so pure. Her hair spun of moonbeams, drawn as a curtain back from her face by those same hands of mist, salt and water.

She was exactly as he remembered.

Blue eyes gazing out from a ring of pale lashes, infinite in mystery and yet so terribly, achingly familiar that the back of his throat drew tight. Her nose was small and upturned in that cute fashion that had always made his heart flutter, and her lips were drawn into the gentle smile that made his bones melt into jelly.

A mirage, he thought at first, an evanescent manifestation of nostalgia and tragic loss. Silently, he drew closer. Until they stood but an arm's length apart from one another.

"Mírë?"

Barely a single ringing note in his voice rising over the howl of the open water breaking upon the shore. And yet she heard, her hand rising in answer to his sighed call. Her fingers brushing against his cold cheek in a fluttering caress. "I think the stars are shining down upon us, Laurë."

The laugh that bubbled up in his throat sounded more like a sob. Her touch felt _real._ But she could not be. _She could not be._

"I think they might be," he replied brokenly, wistfully, to this creature woven of starlight.

They pulled one another into an embrace, her arms about his neck and his curled tight and desperate about her willowy waist. Makalaurë could barely summon thought as their forms tangled, as her brow was pressed against his, as he took in every fleck and shade of her dazzling eyes in the moonlight. Just standing here, feeling her warmth...

"I missed you," she whispered.

He did not even dare speak back. Not a second time. Surely, this moment—this strange warmth and this perfect silent togetherness—would shatter back into chaotic reality. Her form would fall apart beneath his eyes, a figment of imagination conjured from wisps of mist upon the pearly sands. Surely, he could not be so lucky as to feel her once more against him, sinking into him and consuming his spirit.

Surely, this was a dream. But a sweet one. A cruel one.

_But please, Ulmo, let her be true. Let her be real._

Against his cheeks, he felt her hands cup and hold gently but firmly, fingertips tracing little patterns over the scar that cut across his left temple and over the tiny wrinkles that lined the corners of his eyes and the deep-set lines burrowed into the skin around his lips. "Laurë?"

"I love you." He could not help the whisper, and beheld her face as one stares into the eyes of Varda Elentári, reverent and awed beyond all poetic words.

_If he never saw her again, let him hold this image forever in his thoughts._

If he blinked now, he was _certain_ that she would vanish beneath his hands. The tangle of her curls around his fingers would dissolve into heavy, salty air and the curve of her waist beneath his scarred palm would slip away into emptiness. But he did not care.

It was enough. His eyes closed. _It was enough for forever._

"Makalaurë, look at me."

And, when his lashes parted, she was still there. Still solid. Still warm.

Still breathing. He could feel the air hot against his lips, and the knot in the back of his throat unraveled and left him gasping. The tight ache of his lungs ceased, soothing heat filling his chest when the air swirled in and filled and filled.

It was like breathing out a thousand years of icy water, coughing the chill and thick soup of despair and foamy regrets from his ragged spirit. The tightness that he had forgotten, agonizing and stretching and screaming, was suddenly all at once gone. Light and floating, it all drained away and nearly left him dizzy and giddy.

He was looking at her, and she was _real._

"I missed you, too."

It had been many years since he had smiled. So many that he had lost count of the centuries weaving in and out of each other, filled with the deep song of the ocean beating upon the shores, with only the touch of the waves upon his feet and the wind upon his flesh to keep him company in regret.

But her laughter drew a helpless grin up upon his lips. Brought him back from the drowning waves. And the air had never tasted so sweet and so clear as it did when her voice rang as bells across the land and resonated through the fabric of the world. It was too real to be a mirage. Too tangible and perfect to be a dream.

The waiting and wandering was done. Finally.

They were breathing.

_Breathing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Isil = the vessel of the moon


	315. Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm's guide to how to achieve (and not achieve) happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 31, 2016.
> 
> More romance. This is my first attempt and starting back up my writing engine after having taken a long break, so we'll see how this stuff goes.
> 
> Basically, I would put this somewhere between Mellow (Chapter 2) and Skill (Chapter 92). Just a little introspective monologue with a bit of kissing and cuteness.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Tyelkormo = Celegorm

Happiness.

The most coveted and elusive of emotions. That moment when bliss stretches on into eternity and all the harshness of the world disappears into a fine mist, a phantom of trouble and sorrow. The color yellow was often associated with this feeling, and the sunshine and the heat and the wide open blue sky of midday in the summer were its avatar. It was the feeling of muscles relaxing into languid softness, of the skin tingling with electrical energy as before a storm, of triumph and glory and humble contentedness all mixed together into something more perfect than the taste of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in the afternoon.

It was something that men spent their whole lives chasing but never captured because it always slipped through greedy, grabby fingers. Like a doe in the spring, it could not merely be harnessed and bent to dominant will. It had to be wooed and coaxed into approach, not taken by force nor coerced by threat nor bribed with riches.

At least, that was what Tyelkormo had come to know.

Once, he thought freedom from responsibility was the key to his happiness. And, while there was a certain relief to be had in escaping from princely duties and going off to hunt and gallivant through the Woods of Oromë with abandon, he had come to know since that his bliss in those young years was hollow. In his breast he had not been content. Rather, he had been a bitter and rebellious youth playing at happiness if only to defy his father and set himself apart from his brothers. All he recalled from that time was the forgetfulness of the wide open sky, the cold and accusing bite of the stars, and the resentment bubbling like a pool of lava in his gut.

Then, after the Darkening and the Oath and Dagor-nuin-Giliath, he had thought carrying out his father’s revenge would soothe his burning spirit. The daunting shadow of the Curse, the driving force of words whispered under bloodstained swords in the inky blackness of the dead Trees, they weighed heavily upon his mind as they did to all his brothers. It was agony, constant and never ceasing. All he had wanted was to make it go away in whatever way he could. Through war if necessary. Through murder if necessary. Yet no triumph ever came from exploits of war or of death, and ever did his heart grow darker with despair.

But then there had been _her._ Lúthien. Daughter of Thingol and Melian. Princess of Doriath. The most beautiful of the Children of Ilúvatar that had ever been or ever would be. A beacon of divine light burning through the noxious blackness. More than anything, he had desired to _have her for his own._ His wife. His lover. His blood boiled in her presence and his heart stuttered at the sound of her voice. Maybe that was the path to happiness, he’d thought. A beautiful wife who worshipped him and the promise of the power of Nargothrond at his back in the face of the Black Enemy. 

Yet he discovered that love could not be taken so forcefully, nor would the farce of affection bring him anything remotely resembling happiness. He wanted her to love him truly and instead she despised him utterly.

Spurned and desperate and sliced through with agony, what _then_ would bring him happiness? When he was cast out of Nargothrond, left to the far eastern stretches of open land with nothing but his brothers and his horse and his bow? When Lúthien had vanished as a mirage of bliss, having chosen another in his place? 

Far away from home with no hope of accomplishing the reclamation of his birthright, damned to the darkness of the Void for his failure, Tyelkormo had unraveled at the seams like a worn old coat.

Then there had been Dior Eluchíl. And _Eru!_ but he had thought it would ease the burden and quell the hatred and cool the white-hot madness if he could just bury his sword in that monstrous abomination’s gut. Then it would be better. Then it would be saner. Then he wouldn’t feel so raw and so empty. Then he wouldn’t feel the floodgate of his mind trembling beneath the weight of his sorrow and terror.

It was not to be. In his final moments, crying in a pool of his own lifeblood, he realized that it had all been in vain.

Now, looking back, the whole thing had been a naïve and selfish attempt at gaining something that _resembled_ happiness. A broken mockery. A shadow of bliss. An echo of the future he’d dreamt of in the green days of the Summer of Valinor. He’d been looking in all the wrong places, doing all the wrong things.

Looking back, he’d been the biggest fool.

Because happiness wasn’t in the bloodshed of the First Age. It wasn’t in vengeance and destruction. It wasn’t in power or in skill.

It was in the cool mountain air as he sat on his porch and looked down over the valleys and hills below with half-hooded eyes. It was in the sunlight warm on his face as he tilted it skyward and sighed deeply of the clean air. It was in the embrace of slender arms around his neck and the press of a soft cheek to his broad shoulder blade. It was in the sound of her voice against his ear in whispered song, like nightingales in the twilight. It was in the gentle slope of her swelling middle beneath his hands when he turned to embrace her and pull her close.

It was in the love in her eyes which carried the newborn light of the stars and the golden gleam of midday. And in the touch of her soft lips on his sharpened cheekbones. And in the sound of his name in the warm air between their mouths.

This, he knew, was true happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eru = God
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Dagor-nuin-Giliath = Battle Under the Stars


	316. Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin does not see what everyone else sees in this flighty Sindarin princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 1, 2016.
> 
> And we're back to angsting again! Most closely related to Obvious (Chapter 122) and explains what's going through Curufin's head when he's being all miffed and glare-faced. He just cares way too much about his family and yet can't seemed to get in out in any form other than royally pissed off.
> 
> Warnings: Unrequited love. Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Sex mentioned but nothing explicit. Mentions at least two OFCs.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

It was said that she was the most beautiful of the Children of Ilúvatar that ever had been or ever would be. Lúthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian.

Personally, Curufinwë thought her rather ugly.

He could see why his brother was so enamored with her, of course. There was something to be said for physical perfection. Beyond the Ainur, who had no set shape and could give themselves as disgustingly ugly or as strikingly beautiful a raiment as they pleased, Lúthien, Princess of Doriath, was definitely the closest to perfection. Her face was so perfectly formed, so frighteningly symmetrical as to nearly be alien, with the most gracefully curved dark brows settled over large, twilight-speckled gray eyes ringed in midnight lashes. Her heart-shaped face carried defined but soft cheekbones, delicately painted with a rose petal tint, and her lips were full and flushed beneath her straight, small nose. Her whole body was just so lovely in terms of proportions, no part of her too long or too short or too wide or too narrow, that it was difficult not to glance a second time. Her throat was long and slender, and her wrists and ankles were tiny and looked fragile. She was curved and rounded in all the right places, but not overly much so as to seem larger than she ought to be around the hips or the chest. And when she moved, she moved like the most talented, highly-trained dancers or warriors amongst the Noldor, with such poise in her back and such a natural cant to her hips and such a gentle step upon the ground at to always be floating. 

This all, coupled with such perfection was her voice—a voice that carried more than just a hint of the otherworldly magic of her Maiarin bloodline, so sweet and so lyrical without even trying—made her something beyond mortal understanding. When she sang and danced, it was like unto heaven, comparable with the glory of the starlit sky on a clear night in the early summer.

Yes, Curufinwë could appreciate her physical beauty. He could understand why men and women alike found this maiden so entrancing. To the point where they lost all sense.

Nevertheless, he still found her ugly.

There was a certain amount of beauty to be found in physical perfection, but Curufinwë had always been of the opinion that the greatest beauty could not be found in such a mortal cage, such a materialistic construction. For he had seen and met many physically beautiful men and women and had seen many physically astounding works of art in the forge or in the pen or by paint or by clay. There was no shortage of physical beauty in Aman, where the streets of Valimar were paved in gold and the roofs decorated in silver, nor in Tirion, where all was white and shone like a diamond’s rainbow glimmer in the mingling light of the Trees, nor in Alqualondë where halls were sculpted of mother-of-pearl and gleamed with a satiny luster in the morning waxing. Aman was an entire _world_ of physical perfection. Yet, for all its great beauty, it had also been a rather ugly place in the mind of the fifth son.

For, while there was something to be said about the relation between outward perfection and beauty, there was also something to be said about the relation between inner strength and beauty.

Inner strength could mean much. From person to person that differed. But Curufinwë, who was well aware that he was far from the most internally beautiful of people for all that his face was quite handsome, found that the most beautiful people were the ones who gave kindness without asking and thought of others above themselves. Truly kind people. Truly thoughtful people.

They were people like his sister-in-law, Vardamírë, daughter of a Ñoldorin baker and a Telerin fisherman’s daughter, who loved more seeing the delighted faces of those who ate her cooking than she loved the taste of its richness and sweetness upon her tongue. Or like Elenwë of the Vanyar, wife of Turukáno the cold-hearted bastard cousin, who could make even the harshest and most distant of spirits smile and laugh and yet sought no thank you or reimbursement for her acts. Artafindë, his stupid, honorable-beyond-all-reason, thick-headed cousin, who took pleasure in the little things and who placed his people above himself in all matters, who would swear an oath of friendship to Men and keep his word though none could force him and though death may very well claim him, was gloriously beautiful in spirit. Only the vain would care if the face matched the deeds of goodness in this world of sin and hatred.

Swallowing sharply, his thoughts turned to Lindalórë, who forgave him for being the unimportant fifth son of a prince despite her parents’ disapproval, who loved him despite his viciously sharp and flash-fire temper, who did not kick him out of their bedroom when he snored loud enough to wake the death, and who always seemed more concerned with making certain he was happy than with being happy in her own right.

Eru, but he missed her.

Compared with them—Vardamírë and Elenwë and Artafindë and Lindalórë—mere physical beauty in body and in mouth were empty. The light of the Two Trees was dull and hollow. The lights of the Silmarilli were a pitiful reflection, petty trinkets. And Lúthien, daughter of Melian, Princess of Doriath, most beautiful of all Eruhíni, was naught but a spoiled, self-centered little girl-child.

All that he knew of her, he disliked. From the way she had disobeyed her father who only loved and cared about her to the way she had run away from home and headlong into a dangerous quest heedless of the heartbreak she left in her way. She was so fixated on her supposed great bliss with this mortal man that she seemed to forget all sense of duty or responsibility or simple compassion, choosing to believe all those who loved her were suddenly against her, obstacles to be overcome rather than people who wanted only what was best for her and contained the least suffering.

But what _really_ made Curufinwë think she was _ugly_ rather merely than _petty_ was how she treated his brother.

Tyelkormo. If Curufinwë thought slapping the idiot would help, he would have done so. But he knew better than that. The stubborn fixation of the Sons of the House of Fëanáro might as well have been legendary. For, once their mind was set on a course, not even the bidding of the Valar would be enough to dissuade them. The Oath was proof enough of that. Against such fortitude, for better or for worse, what chance did have mere words of reason?

Now, for all that his brother was sometimes a vicious lunatic—and there was no denying the truth in that—Curufinwë knew that part of his brother could be very gentle and very devoted. It was plain for all to see, but especially to the eyes of the fifth son, that Tyelkormo was painfully, horribly, helplessly _engulfed_ by his love for Lúthien. For her physical beauty or the power of her father’s throne or the sound of her voice or all of those things at once, Curufinwë could not be certain. 

But he _did_ know that Tyelkormo _wanted her_. More than anything. That Tyelkormo was _in love with her._ Inescapably.

And all she saw was a tool to use. For all that Tyelkormo might be lying to her about knowledge of her quest and about his intentions towards her and her father’s throne, she was lying just as wickedly in return. For Curufinwë, watching his brother comfort her in her sorrow at the thought of losing her lover forever, had seen how she looked at Tyelkormo, how she accepted his touches and his kisses and his lovemaking, and thought of _someone else._

Like his brother wasn’t important. Like his brother wasn’t even a person. As though the body with which she mated was a mere _thing_ , a toy of comfort in her darkest need. Something to be abandoned as soon as she saw the glimmer of hope for her _true_ lover’s survival on the horizon.

Sickening. She was nauseating. If he hadn’t known Tyelkormo would never forgive him, he would have cut her down where she stood to save them all the trouble and heartbreak. Alas, it was far too late for that now.

Looking upon her—upon her _perfect_ face and her _perfect_ body, listening to her _perfect_ voice leave those _perfect_ lips—Curufinwë could see no beauty. For all that she was the most beautiful of the Children of Ilúvatar to ever walk upon the earth in a mortal shell, she was as flawed and gross and dark on the inside as everyone else. To the fifth brother, there was no beauty to be found in her spirit.

To Curufinwë, that made all the difference.

Because beauty wasn’t about being perfect in body and in voice. Beauty was about compassion and love and gentleness and laughter. And all this woman and her selfishness brought were terror and tears. There was nothing beautiful about it.

_No_ , he thought as he looked upon her again. _There is no great beauty here._

_Only misery_ , he thought. _And pain._

And, in his heart, he hated her all the more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eru = God  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril


	317. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep is a strange concept to beings that require no rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 2, 2016.
> 
> This is sort of just pure fluff, but also a little bit of an exploration into the perception of the Ainur. The only story this is related to directly is Enchant (Chapter 94), which has a darker take on Thingol and Melian than this piece.
> 
> No warnings other than a mention of sex.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Thingol = Elwë  
> Melian = Melyanna

The Maiar didn’t sleep. At least, not in the way of the Children.

They had a strange sort of rest that somewhat resembled meditation, a deep and pensive sort of thought that allowed their chosen physical form to regain lost energy but which did not result in the loss of consciousness and awareness of the world as it did with birds and beasts. In that sense, the Maiar were always awake and always aware. They “slept” but still saw all that happened around them, and, if spoken to in that state of rest, they would still be capable of responding with words and a situational knowledge of what was happening around them. They did not lose their perception of themselves and others in reality.

On the other hand, the Children of Ilúvatar _did_ sleep.

Without encountering one, this was not common knowledge for the Maiar. Melyanna certainly hadn’t had any idea.

After standing in reverie with her chosen mate for what felt like a mere moment but could have been an age, Melyanna pulled back from her deep connection with Elwë only to watch the elf’s legs buckle beneath his body, sending him into the soft bed of grass like a limp, dead thing. His eyes had laid open, staring blankly up at the boughs of trees and the sheen of stars visible through their veil, and his graceful limbs had fallen into odd disarray, uncontrolled and oddly canted.

For a few panicked moments, Melyanna thought she had killed him. How was she to know that the Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar actually needed _sleep_ to function?

So, after scrambling down onto her knees, feeling the flesh of her physical raiment bruise at the hardness of her landing beside his splayed form, she had come upon his face and feared that his mortal cage was no longer breathing. Only to find that his heart thudded steadily within his chest, which rose and fell in a deep, smooth rhythm with each languid breath. Relief had nearly sent her toppling, for at that moment her legs had been overcome with a sensation much like the transition from physical to spiritual form, losing all their strength and solidity, instead flowing into liquid. At least she was already on the ground, or she might have fallen atop him in a swoon.

It was then that Melyanna learned that the Eldar actually slept in the manner of animals, losing all conscious awareness of the world around them for a short time while their bodies were reinvigorated for a few hours. For some reason, her young being hadn’t imagined this, thinking that Ilúvatar would create the Children more like unto the Ainur than to the earthly creations come from the Valar such as the deer and the birds. It had seemed so strange to her in that moment as she leaned over his form, finally giving in to the urge to lay her head upon his breast and listen to his heartbeat.

Over time, however, Melyanna had come to appreciate his sleep.

While she needed only a few hours of rest to keep her physical form functioning for long stretches of time, Elwë needed sleep much more often. A few hours might energize his body such that he could be awake for ten or so times the length of time that he slept, but that was variable and depended, she found, on the activities he carried out with his body. Fascinatingly, when he made dance with the sword in the company of his wardens and guardians, he would require more sleep to be awake the same span of time or would remain awake for a shorter span of time while maintaining the current amount of sleep. Lovemaking, too, she found, exhausted his body in a way she did not quite understand, leaving all of him very limp and sated, more interested in nuzzling his face into her neck and sleeping than in arising for whatever duties or courtly meetings he was supposed to be attending.

After a while, she became used to this orderly, almost methodical, schedule of somnolence and consciousness. And, while she loved her mate and adored his attentions and enjoyed watching his beauty in adoration when he spoke and moved and did battle, she was equally appreciative of the silent moments when he slept in their bed and did not move.

Then, she would curl up in a soft nest of blankets and pillows, stroking her fingers through his silvered hair or across darkly etched brows, watching the furrow of stress slowly relax into something tender and soft. In sleep, Elwë’s face was not so stern and forbidding as it was during awareness, and instead he resembled that hesitant and curious being who had been ensnared by her song and dance in the twilight beneath the stars, eyes wide and lips full and face so very young. When he slept, it was as though all the long years and strains of his duties to his people were washed away, and it was just the two of them again in all the world. She could hold him in the cradle of her arms and imagine that all the woes that governed and shadowed their bliss were faded away into pools of light.

Sometimes, she would even curl up against him, listening to the soft snuffle of his sleep-hazed voice as he felt her warmth. Then she would fall into her own form of rest, pretending that she slept also in his arms, safe and warm. They would lay as lovers together, still and breathing deeply of each the other’s scent. And there would be peace.

For all the strangeness of this mortal affliction, she was fond of its tranquility.

And then, when the time for his sleep had come and gone, Elwë would shift restlessly, and his wide-open eyes would blink, lashes fluttering around his star-bright blue eyes. With sleepy sounds or soft moans, he would stretch the muscles of his mortal cage, flexing them all in turn until his calves strained and his biceps bulged, his fingers and toes splayed wide apart and his chest arched beneath the press of her palm. With a pleased, almost pleasured, sound, he would turn and look towards her with only the faint white light of crystal-clad lamps to guide his gaze through the darkness.

That moment, perhaps, was her favorite of all of them. When he came into awareness and the first thing he beheld was her face. In his eyes, she could see his wonder at her visage. His fingers would rise to brush against her cheeks or trail down the curves of her unclothed body in reverence. And he would lean up upon his elbows and crane his head close in order to kiss her upon the nose and then upon the mouth.

“The stars shine within thine eyes, meldanya,” he would say. “Melin tyë.”

And she would helplessly bask in the warmth of his love. In the few moments when his thoughts were still clouded by warmth and comfort which kept at bay all the darkness of the world, she would feel his arms come around her physical body and mold them together. And, together, they tangled into one being more than two. And there was no hate and no anger and no bitterness.

There was only her and him and the sleep in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy beings (angels) (pl)  
> Maiar = lesser ainur (pl)  
> meldanya = my love (melda + nya)  
> melin tyë = I love you (mel- + -n + tyë)


	318. Irresistible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth about the fall of Mairon the Admirable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 3, 2016.
> 
> Has Sauron in it but actually doesn't have as much of the usual stuff that goes in the warnings. it's almost sentimental, actually.
> 
> Warnings: Literally only _mentions_ war and death, but surprisingly nothing gory. Mostly introspective.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Morgoth = Melkor

It was often assumed that, from the beginning, Sauron had been a faithful servant of Morgoth. That, in the days before time and physical being, when the Ainur began their great chorus, he had broken off from his brethren and followed the theme of Melkor rather than staying true to the theme of Eru Ilúvatar.

This assumption was false.

Of course, no one ever asked. In the end, perhaps it didn’t matter whether he had from the beginning sided with darkness or had later fallen from grace. But if he were asked, Sauron—who would still and likely always call himself Mairon in his own mind—would have said, quite honestly so, that he had stuck with his original master and mentor, Aulë. When he sang in the angelic choir that created the universe, Mairon had sung of fire, of the deep blood running in the earth, of pressure and heat and the beauty that could be created from destructive forces when nature balanced them ever so perfectly. He had not sung of torment and agony, of delight in the suffering of others, of greed or lust for victory and dominion of his own will over all others.

Once, Mairon had been humble. Once, he had been, while not always friendly, at the very least steadfast and true to his word. Many of the lesser maiar of Aulë had been his apprentices at one time or another, having learned many of their greatest secrets of crafting metals and stones from the very being they now named Sauron—the Abhorred.

How then, one might wonder, had he come to be as he was now? Sitting and brooding upon his dark throne in the tower of Barad-dûr beneath swirling, black clouds of acidic water and ash, a god among the lesser men of the East and South, Enemy to all the free peoples of Middle-earth—if that was not his nature at the beginning of time, then why had this come to pass?

If Mairon had bothered to contemplate the answer to that question, he would have said that he was damned from the start. Fated to be seduced.

Not by power. Not in the beginning. Power, he learned later, was a means to an end. Power was a tool to be wielded, and thus something to be desired, but it was not that which he hungered for in his deepest of hearts.

Really, Mairon had just wanted freedom and purpose.

He felt no fear when he was approached by the Dark Lord, who, at the time, had still been known by his true name Melkor. Though the vala had been in a raiment rather of destructive glory than beauty—run through with veins of fire and so cold to the touch as to instantly freeze flesh down to bone—Mairon had not fled beneath the crushing weight of the power of the mightiest of Ainur. 

Rather, he had been filled with curiosity and, perhaps, a strange sort of wistful hope. Long since had his days of fruitful labors in the first Mansions of Aulë in Almaren grown dull and listless, and Mairon’s inspiration was run dry and his spirit ached with a need he could not quite have explained in words. He dreamed then of something beyond Almaren, of other places and other things yet to be shaped. His thoughts dwelt with the formation of metal in that time, the thought of working parts fitting perfectly together and powered by lightning, functioning independently of the labor of physical beings having another source of energy. Such things as were then beyond his ken but lingered fondly ever after in his spirit. The longing within him had grown into a painful beast that could not be assuaged.

That was when Melkor had come to him with pretty words.

During his duration as Lieutenant of Morgoth, Mairon had learned the ways and workings of his Master well. And, looking back, he knew that most of the maiar seduced to the darkness who had not already been akin to Melkor’s slaves were seduced by greed or by jealousy or by fear. For those easily swayed by lust, the Dark Lord would offer some of them the mate or thing that they desired most or which often someone else possessed. For those not driven by lust, he threatened to whisper dark secrets into the night and turn all against their subject should they turn him away, coercing them into service. These were the most pathetic servants, those who would listen to any foolish words in their desperation for what they _wanted_ or _feared._

Mairon had been different. For Melkor could offer him nothing of physical value that he could not make should he desire, and Mairon had had all the material wealth and possessions he wanted already. He had no desire for any others of his kin, had no desperate need of confidents or friends, and had no dark, hidden secrets to share. What could Melkor have said? That he was ill-tempered? All of Almaren knew that already!

But, somehow, Melkor had divined what Mairon _did_ desire. That one thing.

In his horrifying raiment, his skin sallow and gray-green, his hair limp and slick, his powerful body towering above the lesser ainu like a shadow of dread, Melkor had come upon him in might and had somehow known that Mairon sought none of those things motivated by fear or by desire for materialistic things. Somehow, he had guessed at Mairon’s one and only weakness.

 _“Join me,”_ the Dark Lord had crooned, _“And I will give thee power. Not power in strength of arms, but the power of free will. As my right hand, thou couldst become great and create marvels that thou canst now only daydream of in thy laxity and boredom in the Mansions of thy Master.”_

A bitterly cold hand had touched his chin, tilting his head upwards, and Mairon had met the glowing fiery wrath and rage of devil eyes head-on with his own gaze, the blue of the sky beneath the mingled light of the Lamps in the Spring of Arda, speckled with stars. _“I desire not to chain thee, beautiful Mairon, not like thy Master. I desire only to have thee at my side when the time comes to shape this world anew and make it in our own design.”_

Somehow, he had known. Somehow, he had dangled before Mairon’s eyes the most terrifyingly irresistible of lures. And, helplessly, the maia could not escape that tantalizing draw.

At the time, he had flat-out refused, but had not missed the satisfied gleam in that evil gaze. Melkor, for all that he was a fearful and craven being, had more wisdom than any other ainu in those early days of Eä. He had known Mairon would come crawling back to him like a thrall, eventually given over to the darkness by his own folly.

For, above all else, Mairon found joy in creating. If he had to destroy a thousand kingdoms before building them up in the image of his mind, so be it. If he had to burn the whole world and start anew, he would do so. But, in the end, destruction reaped at his hands—in the very beginning—had been a means to an end. The path to his salvation.

Looking back, he found it all so naïve. For he had learned the value in dominion over the minds of others, and the craving for power had become almost stronger than his original purpose now, countless thousands of years later.

But Mairon would never call himself Sauron so long as his eyes turned to the barren, black wasteland of Mordor and beheld the splendor it could become when all Men and Elves bowed to his will and worked beneath his orders to build the world he devised. When he could build cities in dark iron alloys and construct true industry, make marvels and wonders that the bland imaginations of the Valar and the Eruhíni had never even contemplated. 

He stood and brooded in the top of his tower, spending his long years piecing together strategy for more efficient and effective war. But, in the back of his mind, he could see his barren land as a reflection of Almaren, dark rather than light, advanced beyond all else seen in this world. In such a fantasy, he fulfilled the promise that Melkor had broken, and was free to make as he would with no restriction, to reach past what his Masters had always told him was impossible and _make it possible._

That was his purpose. That was his Song. From the time before time in the Halls of Ilúvatar, it had been his one true calling.

And, if evil would make that possible, he would fall a thousand and one times over again. In the end, he was betraying his brethren and his purity and his innocence. But Mairon knew, in the darkest places of his heart, that had he made another choice he would have been forsaking the most intrinsic part of himself.

That was the truth of his fall. If asked, he would have said that he had never stood a chance at all. He had been damned from the start. To join the darkness. To be seduced to evil. To desire power. To crave creation.

That power had been truly, undeniably irresistible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy ones (angles) (pl)  
> ainu = holy one (s)  
> Eru = God  
> Eruhíni = Children of God (pl)  
> maiar = lesser ainur (pl)  
> Valar = greater Ainur (pl)  
> vala = greater ainu (s)


	319. Imagination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Melkor and the foundation of evil in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 4, 2016.
> 
> Very strange thing. I've been thinking about evil characters too much lately. And then I reread the Ainulindalë. This is the result. I suppose this is related to anything Morgoth-centric, but I would consider it to almost be a companion to Irresistible (Chapter 318) in a weird sort of way.
> 
> No real warnings for this, though it does have some religious implications and questions indoctrination and ethics. Anything marked with an asterisk (*) is a direct quote from the Ainulindalë and thus I take no credit for it, but merely use it as a literary device.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor

In the beginning of time, it seems that imagination brought into being the first evil in the world.

\---

_And Ilúvatar spoke to [the Ainur], propounding to them themes of music; and they sang before him, and he was glad.*_

For Melkor, He who arises in Might, was the mightiest of his brethren. And, in his heart, his first dreams were to make true the images of beauty and splendor half-formed in his naïve mind. These themes came from the lips of his Father, and he loved them dearly. Little understanding did even he—the greatest and wisest of his brothers and sisters—have of the inner working of their Father, but he knew from his time singing at the feet of his parent and regent of heat and flame and cold and light glowing blindingly from the dark, though he did not fully comprehend what any of these things were.

He _did_ know that they were wonderful and awful in their splendor. And it came slowly into his mind that he might make them even more so if he could just change their theme ever so slightly, bringing it even more beauty to his own ears.

_For desire grew hot within him to bring into Being things of his own, and it seemed to him that Ilúvatar took no thought for the Void, and he was impatient of its emptiness.*_

Was it truly so terrible that, as Melkor grew to understand more of his own Song and the Songs of others, he began to imagine things beyond those themes that his Father imparted unto him? Was it truly so terrible that, as he began to understand that the empty blackness of the Void could be filled with light, he desired to behold the glorious images come to life in Song?

_But being alone [in the Void] he had begun to conceive thoughts of his own unlike those of his brethren*_

Was it truly so terrible that he, a being created with the sole purpose of creation, loved most the thought of bringing into Being those things that filled his spirit with giddy, bubbling brilliance? Things that had come from his own deepest being, the most secret and beloved parts of himself?

All he wanted was a chance. To explain. To question. To share that which he imagined in his own thoughts.

And, he later thought in darker times with resentment, had his Father smiled upon him in that hour and brought him forth as a father does his young son, listening to his individual thoughts and in turn gently directing him yet allowing him but a little bit of freedom, but a little bit of joy in his naivety, Melkor would have loved his Father more than he loved even the thought of Creation. Had his spirit remembered the warmth unto a tender hand on his cheek and an indulgent kiss on his brow rather than the ache of emptiness at his center and the knowledge that his imaginings were forbidden…

Things could have different. So very different.

But they were as they were.

Until the Great Music—the Ainulindalë—Melkor held close to his breast these forbidden thoughts and feelings, knowing he should only sing the Song he was directed unto by his Father, knowing that he should not overstep his bounds and dare to taste freedom. But, in the hour of that Great Music, he felt a strange feeling of burning, painful heat rising through his being, white-hot and agonizing. Later, he would recognize frustration and rage and desperation and bitter loneliness, but the Ainur had no words for those things.

And he disobeyed his Father.

_Some of these thoughts he now wove into his music, and straightaway discord arose about him.*_

And he was not sorry. He was not remorseful. He was not guilty.

If anything, he was in ecstasy. The greatest ecstasy that he would ever experience. And, even when his Father grew displeased, he did not wilt beneath that disapproval. And, even when his theme interrupted those of his brothers and sisters, he could not bring himself to cease.

Not until the final theme, until his triumph and glory were swept away, did he feel it.

_“And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.”*_

The first inkling of a nauseating sinking in his breast. The first metallic taste of heat and tightness pulling and tearing at the edges of his being.

_And Melkor was filled with shame, of which came secret anger.*_

The first glimmer of red-hot hatred in his heart.

Like a scolded child. All that he loved and wrought from his innermost heart and mind were stolen away from him in punishment for his defiance. And all that he had believed he had devised, those dreams in his mind of the brilliance of liquid fire and the incomprehensible foundations of stone and the mighty rumble of thunder upon the open sky, they were no longer his.

_“And thou, Melkor, wilt discover all the secret thoughts of thy mind, and wilt perceive that they are but a part of the whole and tributary to its glory.”*_

As if he were nothing but a toy. A toy that had never had any freedom from the very start. He was naught but a slave, created as an instrument of divine will. He had no power unto himself, for all his supposed understanding and supposed wisdom. Lowered and humiliated. Denied his greatest joy and brought to his greatest despair. He was nothing.

Because he dared to believe he could have his own thoughts. And because he dared to be different than his brothers and sisters who danced like puppets on their strings to the will of a Greater Power.

Because he dared to imagine rather than follow blindly.

But, if there was anything left of Melkor that had not been taken from him by those cruel words of derision from his beloved Father, it was his iron will. For He who arises in Might was birthed with stubbornness and a driving need to Create. And Melkor could not deny his true self. Pushing back the pain breaking and shattering the dearest thoughts of his being, he turned his mind to what he saw in the vision of the world of Being, to what he had created and to the glory of the Eruhíni, and thought to make good in this strange thing that had been Sung into existence.

_And of [those who bent their will and desire towards Eä] Melkor was the chief, even as he was in the beginning the greatest of the Ainur who took part in the Music. And he feigned, even to himself at first, that he desired to go thither and order all things for the good of the Children of Ilúvatar.*_

He would descend into Eä. He would enforce his will. He would create the beauty that he had devised in his heart. And none would stop him.

Not even his Father.

_But Melkor too was there from the first, and he meddled in all that was done, turning it if he might to his own desires and purposes; and he kindled great fires. When therefore Earth was yet young and full of flame Melkor coveted it._

_And he said to the other Valar: “This shall be my own kingdom; and I name it unto myself!”*_

\---

So, was it truly imagination that wrought the first evil in the world?

Or, perhaps, it was the denial of such that spurred that first hazardous droplet of hate. As had been intended in the mind of the One from the very start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainulindalë = Music of the Ainur  
> Ainur = holy beings (angles) (pl)  
> Eruhíni = Children of God (pl)  
> Eä = World of Being (lit. Be!)  
> Valar = greater Ainur (pl)


	320. Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod is such a wonderful person, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 5, 2016.
> 
> Way longer than intended, which is why I'm getting it out so late. Jeez, more than 3,000 words. And here, when I first started I was worried it would be too short!
> 
> Basically introspection on Finrod. Kind of inspired by a conversation I was having with one of my reviewers in the past couple of days. Related most closely to the Nargothrond Arc, but generally it's just related to anything that has Finrod.
> 
> Warnings: Death. Mentions of gore and killing and war. Some mildly explicit descriptions. Mention of incestuous and adulterous affair. Lots of people (especially Finrod) generally being miserable. Depression. Insanity. The works.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro

Forgiveness was hard. It required a certain sort of strength of mind, a certain ability to understand and accept and let go, that most lacked for pride or for arrogance or for simple egocentricity. But when it happened, it was akin to the brightest of lights breaking through the dark clouds and kindling life anew in burned and wrecked soil. It was beautiful.

Vengeful hatred was easy. It required only the harnessing the devastation of loss, the unfairness of cruelty and the burden of anger at helplessness and self-incrimination. It was fire and passion and lava in the pit of the belly churning into nausea. And, like fire, it burned out of control so very quickly, consuming and consuming until there was nothing left but a shadow.

And every time a blow was dealt—every time a life was lost or an insult was made or a sin was committed—one had to choose their path. Forgiveness. Or vengeful wrath.

Those choices were the ones that made all the difference in the end.

\---

More often than not, Artafindë had chosen vengeful wrath.

Most would find this surprising. After all, he was sung into lore as a good and gracious King, brave and loyal and true to the very end. Honorable and just. Strong in the face of adversity. Protector of the pure at heart.

Clearly, whoever wrote the songs knew nothing about him.

\---

Clearly, they were not standing at his side when his father turned and fled back to Tirion upon Túna in cowardice. They did not hear him raise his voice in rage upon his sire, demanding an answer as to _why? Why were they being abandoned? Did he not love them? Were they not more important than threats of damnation? Did he value his own salvation over his beloved children?_

Rage was poured into Artafindë’s heart on that day until he thought his chest would explode from its violence. Likewise, righteous anger burned in the spirits of his brothers and his sister, all five standing in opposition of their father’s choice to abandon kinship and brotherhood at the first sign of struggle and suffering. They were strong, and they would not break.

But the betrayal never went away. Anger cooled into bitterness and resentment. And it had stewed there for centuries. And he did not forget. And he did not forgive.

And when Fëanáro, too, forsook the oaths of kinship and brotherhood, abandoning them all to death or humiliation as they crawled on hands and knees back to the feet of the Valar, Artafindë thought his skin would combust. That was the first time he thought he might have felt hatred, and not only for his fey and terrifying half-uncle.

But also for his cousins. His brothers in all but blood. 

For Curufinwë, with whom he had played in the grass at the country estates all through his childhood. Who had asked Artafindë to stand at his side at his wedding upon the beaches by the sea and who would have stood at Artafindë’s shoulder in return when finally he was wed to his beloved Amarië. 

And for Turkafinwë, who was like the older brother he never had, who had chased him and Curufinwë across the lawn and tickled them until they cried and taught them to shoot a bow and ride a horse and tie their boots. Who had been a shoulder for him to cry on when he had to be strong for his younger siblings, always the eldest, always putting on a show.

He had thought they loved him as he loved them. Only then was it clear that he had been wrong.

And his hatred for them only grew through the long years of the Helcaraxë. Through cold that burned and licked at his very bones, that whipped his skin raw and stung his eyes until he cried and left him shivering so hard he wondered if he would ever be warm enough to cease. Through the families that froze as they huddled together in their shelters of snow and ice. Through the people lost falling into the water and disappearing into blackness between the sharp, grinding crags. Through the horror of watching red splatters shoot upwards and stain the snow and taint the water below as bodies were crushed and torn apart.

Through losing Elenwë, Amarië’s cousin. Through seeing Laurefindil fall apart at the seams in grief for failing to protect his sister. Through seeing Turukáno nearly lose his mind in despair at the loss of his beloved wife. Through holding little Itarillë as she cried upon his shoulder with great heaving sobs. Through Findekáno’s forlorn visage that once had smiled, now too tired and heavy with burden. Through his uncle’s eyes that had grown to match this bitter wasteland, all love and passion draining away, leaving nothing but chilling calculation behind.

Through the suffering and tears of his brothers and his sister, for whom he had to be strong and never cry.

Through his own longing to go home. He would have done anything in those days—those long days dragging on into weeks and months and _years_ of suffering—to just go home. To be held by his father. To be kissed by his mother. To embrace his lover. To feel the light of the Trees on his face and see the stars overhead.

To be _warm._

When they finally crossed through all their suffering and all their tears, they met again those traitors who had left them for dead upon the shores of Araman. They found Fëanáro dead and Nelyafinwë lost and Kanafinwë broken and all the rest angry and filled with unholy fire.

And Artafindë looked upon Curufinwë and Turkafinwë, and in his heart he wanted to spit upon them and curse their names. He wanted to drag them north and make them march across the Grinding Ice, make them suffer as he and his kin had suffered and despair as he and his loved ones had despaired. And he did not forgive them. Not then. Not even after Nelyafinwë was saved and abdicated the throne. Not even with the Fëanárioni humbled and lowered.

He had secretly taken pleasure, knowing that they had gotten what they deserved. That Fëanáro, who had abandoned his kin, died before his oath was fulfilled. That Nelyafinwë, who had broken Findekáno’s faith beyond repair, had been tormented and chained by his wrist to Thangorodrim. That the brothers had languished in limbo, not knowing if their eldest lived or died, not having any options but to sit and wait in agony and silence.

Would the annals of history have looked so favorably upon Artafindë if they had known that, in his mind, he thought _“And thus they receive their just desserts. Such is the fate of traitors of kin unto kin”?_

He could not even think of forgiveness. Not then. Not yet.

In his mind, he thought _“Not ever”._

But forever was a long time. And, over the course of long years, even the memory of the torment of Helcaraxë faded, at least for him. He did not forget and he did not forgive, but he no longer wanted to take his sword to his cousins either. Still, he would not have welcomed them into his home at all were it not for the Dagor Bragollach.

Fire and death. He had nearly been killed. And had been saved by Barahir Bregor’s son. He almost wished later that he had died rather than giving himself unto an oath.

And Curufinwë and Turkafinwë came to him seeking refuge with their people. And, though he longed terribly in his heart to turn them away from his gates and keep them from staining his beloved city, Nargothrond, his pride and reputation would not allow him to send them back into the unknown danger abroad. He allowed them within his kingdom, and the people said that he was kind and forgiving, a compassionate being worthy of regard.

None of them had known of the resentment, old and aged like fine wine, hiding in his heart. At first, he could not even _look_ at _them_ for his anger was just a knife’s edge back from hatred.

Eventually, he came to understand, though. That they were broken just as he. Perhaps more than he. For the first time, Artafindë had come to understand forgiveness rather than giving in to wrath and hatred despite all that had been done unto him and his loved ones. 

Because he could see how Curufinwë’s fire was dulling each day with longing and hear how his cousin wept in his chambers when he thought no one would be near enough to hear it. Because he watched the light in Turkafinwë’s gaze shatter like a mirror, cracks running all over what had once been a whole being as his cousin fell into true insanity. Because, in the end, he felt the strain of his distance from Amarië weighing heavily upon his heart and felt the burden of his responsibility towards his people and the memories of his failures and the deaths of his brothers and uncle and so many others drilling holes in his sanity. How much longer would he last before he, too, laid listless in depression like Curufinwë or laughed high and wild, living only to slay foes and spill blood like Turkafinwë?

Forgiving them had been hard. But it was made easier by the understanding. And, when he and Curufinwë grew closer than two cousins—especially two cousins either married in truth or in all but name—should ever be, setting aside his hatred for the sake of companionship gave him comfort. And strength.

That strength would be tested. His will to forgive would be battered and beaten beneath hammered blows of betrayal and heartbreak and suffering before the end.

Because his beloved cousins betrayed him a second time. And they were not sorry.

They scoffed when he told them of his plan to uphold his vow to Beren Barahir’s son. Called him foolish and insane. They didn’t understand that he needed to keep his word. And he had seen oaths broken before, and he would not be the one who forsook such a sacred agreement. Not like his father had. Not like his half-uncle and cousins had.

And he held back his resentment and anger. He tried to forgive. Tried so very hard.

Up until they ousted him from his throne and threw him from his beloved city like a vagrant with only ten loyal men and a man to his name. They had conspired to see him dead, in order to take over the might that he wielded so that they might put it to work against the forces in the North. Trapped in his oath, Artafindë set out on a suicide quest he would never return from. And, in his breast, the second betrayal was almost harder to swallow than the first. It hurt even more, left him scraped raw and oozing blood of the spirit, his whole body seemingly weighed down by his sorrow and his loss.

In the darkness of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, locked away from the stars in the fortress that he had once constructed to keep vigil in the north, Artafindë gave up on forgiveness. He gave up on love and understanding and comfort. He wished to be back in the cold of Helcaraxë where the wind howled so loud as to cover the screams of the dying and the weeping of the miserable and the moaning of those stricken with grief. So he did not have to listen to his companions as they were torn apart and eaten alive one by one. So he did not have to bear the guilt in his breast.

It was so much easier to place the blame on _them._ The usurpers. The traitors. So much easier to think, as his eyes stared into empty blackness and dipped into true madness, that Artaresto had been right in cautioning him to put an end to the meddling of the Fëanárioni before things spiraled out of control.

But now it was too late. Now he would die. Alone and in the dark. Forsaken.

And, when they came to take Beren away, he could bear it no more.

Later, he would think that it was, perhaps, the strength of his rage and thirst for vengeance on those who had tormented his friends which allowed him to break free. That, perhaps, it was the haze of red that came over his eyes which held at bay the agony of his wounds as he wrestled the werewolf to the ground and used his own teeth to end its life. That, perhaps, it was that destructive fire which powered his body until the very end, until Beren sat over him and wept as he lost all the blood from his veins and felt his vision blur.

He died trying to comfort Beren. Because that was the right thing to do, was that not right? But, in his heart, he cursed his cousins’ names and bid them find an even more heinous fate.

Such is the blackness of hatred.

\---

Long years in the Halls of the Waiting passed. Those gray years did much to quell his anger and resentment—at his father and at his half-uncle and at his cousins and at Beren and at himself—and once more Artafindë found his heart turning towards forgiveness. His troubles were over and his suffering was done. Now he would return home to his parents and his lover having accomplished great deeds and having survived great horrors. Perhaps it was time to let go of all the brimstone and fear and pain that left him curdled in his belly with hatred.

But rebirth was not what he imagined.

The whispers and the staring. The revulsion barely hidden in beloved eyes. His father could hardly bear to look at him for his ugliness, and his mother was nearly sick at the very sight of him and had not recognized him as her son. For Artafindë came back from war scarred, his once-glorious face now marred forever by the claws of the werewolf he had slain. Amarië did not care—and for that, she was a saint and an angel, divine and beautiful—but it came to pass that Artafindë found that his foray into the realm of vindictiveness was not yet ended.

Who to blame? Himself? His cousins? His parents? The shallowness of people?

It was so much easier to glare and bite his lip until it bled, his jaw clenched in rage, than it was to forgive these naïve, cowardly creatures who had never experienced his grief or his agony, who had never seen the Grinding Ice or the Dagor Bragollach. Who had never watched their comrades die screaming and terrified. Who had never been betrayed to such an extent that it left their very being in tatters, wretched and ill. 

What right had these innocents to judge him in their ignorance and pettiness?

Still, even after the Halls, even after death, even after coming home to golden fields and green hills and the comfort of Tirion and Valimar and Taniquetil towering overhead—even then!—he could not bear to forgive all. He was too weak. Too broken. Too stricken with the hot blood of his Noldorin lineage.

He and Amarië went to live away from people, near to the sea. Eventually, Aikanáro came with them, as listless and broken as Artafindë felt. And together the three of them were removed from the world of Valinor. Everything in time dissolved into a sort of bittersweet contentment.

And the pain of the betrayal of his people, too, dulled with time.

Eventually, he learned not to care what anyone thought. He learned to ignore the stares when he ventured into the market. He learned to dismiss his parents’ horror when he came to the palace. He learned that, so long as he had Amarië at his side, it did not matter if his face was pretty or if people understood his experiences. It was not precisely forgiveness, but neither was it unforgiving hatred.

Eventually, Curufinwë and Turkafinwë came home. Curufinwë was changed, darker than he had been before, and more weary. He and Lindalórë were slowly piecing their lives back together—and dear Eru, but his cousin had to get used to having a second son!—and between them there was nothing of passion or comfort. Their time as lovers was long past and no longer needed. And if they were not so close as they had been before, they were at least distant friends whose differences could not quite be reconciled. While Turkafinwë was changed entirely. Closer to wholesome, very much in love, giddy with the spring of his spirit. It would have been easy to resent that bliss in the face of his own suffering, but Artafindë knew that Turkafinwë meant no harm by showing off his new wife and wallowing in his newfound ecstasy. He, Artafindë could forgive fully, knowing that his cousin had long since been out of his mind when the darkest of deeds have been done. While that did not make what had been done right, Artafindë could not find it within himself to hate someone who had done such heinous things while falling apart at the seams, lost almost entirely to his own shattered mind.

Thus, Artafindë found himself at last home. The journey had been long and hard, but the ending was fair in his estimation—or at least so fair as could be expected. And his name was sung into lore and legend for thousands of years to come.

And it always made Artafindë laugh for its absurdity. Him, kind and wise and just in all things? Bah! What did they know anyway?

\---

Thus, he knew intimately both forgiveness and vengeful wrath, had tasted each of these wines and savored their flavors upon his tongue. In his heart, he knew he had spent the most time sampling what was easy, and only now—as he aged and began to comprehend his own experiences and the experiences of those around him, as he developed a deeper understanding of all that he was and all that they were—was he coming to find preferable the taste of forgiveness.

And he vowed, silently and to himself, that he would try to be a better person. He would try to take the route that was right, rather than the one that was easy.

Maybe then he would be as virtuous as all those silly tales sang. And then he could be proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Valar = greater Ainur (pl)  
> Fëanárioni = Sons of Fëanáro (pl)  
> Eru = God
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Dagor Bragollach = Battle of the Sudden Flame  
> Tol-in-Gaurhoth = Isle of the Werewolves


	321. Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Glorfindel and the Balrog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 6, 2016.
> 
> Another thing that ended up way longer than it was supposed to be. This one just sort of happened because someone requested more Erestor and Glorfindel. Not really sure this is what they had in mind, though...
> 
> Related to Subtle (Chapter 4), Notice (Chapter 64) and Found (Chapter 150).
> 
> Fall of Gondolin fic. There death and killing and war, etc., but pretty non-explicit. Little mentions of blood and injury. Some kissing. Death!fic. Sucky battle description. I even had the hair-pulling part.
> 
> Just as a side note, I imagine Balrogs being LotR sized rather than something on a more elven or human scale even though they were written in the latter way in the actual Fall of Gondolin. Just to give readers an accurate description of my own thoughts on the matter.

The city was lost.

From high up in the pass, Glorfindel looked back down into the valley below and saw as a red star out of the blackest night the remains of his home in the distance beneath a shroud of mist and smoke. Its white walls were broken and stained, the Tower of the King that stood so proudly at its zenith now conspicuously absent. When once this time in early morning—when the dawn shone over the mountains and dyed the city rose and gold—was the most beautiful from whence to view the city, now it yielded nothing but despair.

In that city were thousands dead. Women and children, innocents who had never wielded a weapon. Warriors who had now given their lives in the defense of the gates and the few survivors now striving to flee. The King who, in his agony at realizing his folly, had thrown down his crown and left them in his shame.

Glorfindel felt his heart thud in his chest, twisting sharply at the thought of his sister’s husband. For all his arrogance and pride, Turgon had suffered much and loved his people dearly, and he should have had a better end. At least now he was finally gone to be with his wife.

Now all the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower could hope to do was protect what remained of his family. Idril his niece and her son Eärendil and her husband Tuor. He owed his King that much in his allegiance. He owed his brother—if only by marriage—that one last favor.

And he tried not to think of Erestor. He did not know where his lover was or if he had managed to escape somewhere ahead with the refugees or behind with the stragglers of the warriors. Or if he had not escaped at all. But Glorfindel tried not to think about that. Erestor _had_ to have escaped and was somewhere up ahead or behind, lost in a sea of wrecked and broken spirits.

He _had_ to be. And Glorfindel had to find him.

It was only those thoughts which kept the elven lord’s knees from buckling with exhaustion and his eyes from closing at his overwhelming fatigue. He knew he had been wounded, though not as badly as many. His armor had been partially melted from dragon-fire, the metal growing so hot that it caught his clothes aflame and burned his skin raw, and Glorfindel had abandoned it early. Now he was clad in his lighter leather gear and a tunic of his House colors, patches of which were torn or sliced open to reveal scrapes and lacerations beneath. There was a cut on his brow that kept bleeding and mixed with the sweat that dripped down his temple, and he was quite certain he had managed to twist one of his wrists if not actually fracture it. He did not even bother to catalog his burns for there were so many, and he ignored the singed tail of his hair.

Instead, he ordered the remaining warriors—a small company of men belonging to his House and Tuor’s House and Egalmoth’s House for the most part—to make sure the refugees continued moving. Though they had crossed the valley with few losses and no civilian casualties, they still needed to pass through the mountains. And Glorfindel knew the pass well, Cirith Thoronath. Knew it was narrow and would leave them defenseless, walled in by sheer cliffs on the one side and exposed to a precipice of hundreds of feet on the other. He wanted them all through that pass before the enemy had a chance to espy them and waylay them, for he knew they would lose many if they were trapped there.

He had not known at the time that they were already too late.

He simply drove himself harder and tried to ignore the heaviness of his own limbs dragging him down. They had no time for rest. No time.

It was as he came up behind the refugees and beheld the pass beyond that Erestor found him. The relief that followed was so great that the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower shamefully needed to brace himself against stone to prevent himself from toppling as his legs turned to water. He beheld the dark eyes filled with terror, took in the smudges of ash across white flesh and the scrapes adoring that sharp chin, dappled with a little dried blood and dirt. But still, there was nothing more glorious that Erestor in that moment, all torn clothes and mussed hair and blanched lips. Upon him, his lover came as a shadow out of the night, but a welcome one to his weary soul, and he sighed when arms came around him and clung.

“Thou fool,” Erestor scolded him from where his face curled into Glorfindel’s throat, veiled by the fall of golden hair down broad shoulders. “I thought… When I heard that Ecthelion had fallen, I thought…”

Erestor was shaking against him, and Glorfindel resisted the powerful instinct to wrap his arms around that smaller frame and pull it tight against his chest. He wanted so badly to just sink to the ground and huddle against the stone with Erestor in his lap, wanted to croon and stroke at his mate’s shaking shoulders until the tears that burned hot against his collarbone were spent. But they had no time. No time.

Over his lover’s shoulder, he could see that Egalmoth and Tuor were already directing refugees into the pass. The atan was at the side of his wife and son, Idril’s torn and black-stained white dress fluttering in the wind like a banner of his House, and the three of them went first in leadership. Egalmoth stayed at the rear, directing the injured and weary escapees forth. The Lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch turned and caught his eye, and then that gray gaze—darkened with dread and so very heavy with sorrow—sunk to where Erestor clung against him. 

_“We have no time to dally,”_ those eyes silently scolded, and Glorfindel knew his fellow Lord was right. The vanya pulled back from his lover, tilting that face upwards and using his sleeve to wipe away the silvered wetness of tears.

“Cry not,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to Erestor’s lips. “I am mostly in one piece. Now let us make haste. Once we are through the pass, we should be safe.”

Erestor nodded weakly, but Glorfindel could see that, with the passing of his terror and dread, some of his lover’s fiery spirit was returning. Dark eyes hardened once more, growing sharp with cunning. Though Erestor was not officially a warrior, Glorfindel knew well that his lover had seen battle before, and the dark-haired elf who functioned mostly in the capacity of librarian now held aloft a blade and lifted his chin as if in defiance. “I shall stay at the back with thou.”

There was no sense in arguing. No time to convince Erestor to go forth with the injured and the women and the other civilians. No time.

No time at all, for in that moment he heard the sound of steps coming up on their flank, echoing like the battering of a thousand fists upon stone up through the pass, and the shouts of his warriors and the screams of orcs and the clash of blades and twang of bows followed. Whipping his head around, back towards the burning city, he looked to the back of their company and saw that they were under attack. And not even half the refugees were up in the pass as of yet.

They were out of time.

Shock flashed through the ranks. Glorfindel was barely aware of Erestor at his side as he shouted for his men to hold back the hoard and sprinted towards battle without a second thought for his own agony and weariness. Egalmoth would get the rest of the refugees through the pass, and Glorfindel would hold the armies of hell at bay just a little while longer.

And he descended into battle, and all thought of time ceased. There was only the next foe, the flashes of blades in the reflection of red fire and the burnished orange of the rising sun, the reek of filth and blood and spilled bodily fluids. And, ever at his side, guarding his back, he felt Erestor’s presence, a spirit of flame filled to the brim with ashy hatred, cutting down enemies more viciously even than Glorfindel, screaming a litany of curses like arrows as he threw down his blows.

The vanya took pause only for a moment, having no knowledge of how much time might have passed. They were being pushed back into the pass now, but Egalmoth must have gotten everyone moving through, for they did not encounter any refugees straight away. Warriors began filing through the narrow passage as the space on either side dwindled down into nothing. Though this left less room for the orcs to attack, it also left them with little room to maneuver. Only a handful of them could stand shoulder-to-shoulder now from one side of sheer rock to the other with an abyss below. And Glorfindel, like any good Lord, remained at the rear with the last of his men, unwilling to go forth before those under his care.

Finally, they caught up with the women and children. The Lord of the House of the Golden Flower snarled under his breath, angry that they were losing ground so fast. The civilians were not moving fast enough, and the warriors were quickly losing the last of their energy, too exhausted to keep fighting for much longer especially in such close combat and injured as all of them were. There simply was _no time!_

Erestor was at his shoulder on one side, all dark fury and motion, and he felt Egalmoth’s presence appear at the other shoulder. The other Lord was disheveled and filthy, his pale blue tunic just as ruined as Glorfindel’s own green. Out of breath slightly, the noldo braced himself on the rock wall and leaned towards Glorfindel enough to be heard over the din of battle. “We are waylaid at the front from above,” he hissed out with a pained voice. “I fear we shall be cut off here.”

And Glorfindel felt his heart sink. Failure beat at the back of his mind like a funeral drum. They were all of them dead men now. Not only the warriors, but the women and the children, too. They would all be slaughtered or be thrown to their deaths from the heights.

He could not save Idril and Eärendil. He could not save Erestor. He had failed his family and his King and his mate.

Despair nearly drowned fully him then. But Glorfindel, though he was no noldo, was a stubborn creature kindled and grown under the holy light of the Two Trees. Even if this battle was hopeless, he would not surrender to his fate without a fight. He would give every breath, every drop of blood, every bone in his body and every strand of hair, in order to give the innocents just a few more moments of time. That could be the difference between life and death.

He had no aspirations for his own survival. For Glorfindel could feel the foreboding in his chest. He knew that he would not leave this pass among the living.

And, as if to herald his doom, he felt unholy fire searing at the exposed skin of his back and side. The screams of his men slashed through his ears, and the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower beheld coming up from below a creature of smoke and fire arising as if from the pits of Angband. It towered above them in all its monstrous might, wielding a whip of flame that snapped with the deafening ring of thunder. Heedless of the orcs it killed by throwing them from the heights or smashing them against the cliff face, it rose up and up clad in wreaths of shadow until it reached the line of defense held by the remaining warriors of their company, and it smote down the men at the farthest rear.

Horrified blue eyes watched as bodies were slashed open by the tongues of flame or crushed beneath the demon’s foot and killed. Valiant though all his comrades were were, mere elves were never meant to match the strength and fortitude of a maia, even such a decayed, corrupted one as a Balrog. It was all they could do now to flee.

But they could not flee fast enough. 

Glorfindel felt his throat close as panic filled the air around him, its bitter taste stifling in the back of his throat. He feared that, in their rush to escape, survivors would be lost over the cliff’s edge, accidently thrown to their deaths by their own comrades. What they needed now was time to file through the pass, orderly and quickly, more so now that they needed to worry about being attacked from above as well.

_They needed more time!_

And yet they had none. 

At his side, Erestor trembled against him, dark eyes blown wide with shock at the sight of the demon coming upon them. And Glorfindel could but put his body between that of his beloved and this vision of doom.

They were going to die here.

Glorfindel did not think he would mind dying. Except that his death heralded also the death of his beloved. And the thought of Erestor being rent apart by whips or crushed beneath massive feet or cast down to the rocks below left him feel sick and weak, his spirit fluttering madly with the surge of his terror. More than anything in that moment did he want to protect the ones he loved and cared about most.

And there was but one way to do that now.

It came into his mind to do battle—one warrior to another—with the Balrog in order to buy the others time. Even knowing that it might not be enough in the end. Even knowing that he would likely perish on this very ground. His bones ached. His skin blistered. Every inch of his body seemed to hurt and yet trembled with adrenaline and primal fear. Maybe at the beginning of battle, he could have held off this beast and had a hope of victory, but he was spent utterly now, both by physical exhaustion and grief of the spirit. It was here, he knew, that he would be sent to his death.

But, perhaps, his death would give them the time they needed. His life in exchange for the survival of his family and his mate.

He looked to Egalmoth then, silent. And the noldo met his gaze knowingly.

Glorfindel wrapped his arms around Erestor and pressed a kiss to the lips that he so adored, so petal-soft. He had but a moment to run his fingers one last time through silken dark hair, catching in tangles and knots, and over a cheek swollen now with a bruise and flushed with exertion. His thumb caught the corner of a dark brow and stroked reverently as he took in concerned dark eyes. This close, the blackness was revealed to be the darkest of grays, run through with little droplets of silver. Like stars.

 _“Melinyetyë,”_ he mouthed silently in the space between their lips.

And then he passed his lover unto Egalmoth’s waiting arms. “Keep him safe,” was all he said. Then he turned his back on them and faced the oncoming demon. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to even lift his sword, but he did it. The blade burned with sunlight.

“Glorfindel?” Erestor’s voice was close still. Too close.

“Go!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Hurry!”

And he trusted that Egalmoth would carry out his wish. Even when he heard Erestor’s voice break above the chaos of battle-noise. “Glorfindel, what dost thou think thou art doing?”

He turned his head and caught one last glimpse of Erestor being pulled away by his fellow Lord. Caught one last glance at the dark eyes that so bewitched his spirit. Could see those lips parted on a shout of indignation at his foolishness. Felt the longing so strongly to go back to his lover, to flee from a fight he had no hope of winning and _live._

But all he had left to give—to his family and to Erestor and to the memory of Turgon and to his loyal men and to all the remaining people of Gondolin—was his life.

And gladly would it be given.

And when he turned away and Erestor’s voice was lost to his ears, he did not look back.

He tasted smoke and ash. The monstrous creature of evil came upon him, striking at him with that whip of flame. And, somehow, Glorfindel’s legs found the strength to move his body out of the course of those fiery lashes. Somehow, they found the strength to surge his body forth like an arrow of green and gold and white as he struck at his enemy.

Somehow, he found the strength to do battle again. And for how long he fought, he could not have said.

Only that he felt the slash of that whip upon his body, felt it rend his clothing open and leave scalding wheals on his shoulders and back, slashing around to snap against his ribs and stomach so hard that he thought he might vomit from the pain. Only that, when he dodged beneath the outstretched arm, he braced his hand upon that being to stab his sword deep into its gut, and the very flesh of the maia burned his skin to blackness.

All around him, he could hear nothing but the ringing in his ears, though he knew there must be other sound. He could see nothing but the glow of fire through the fuzzy blackness at the edges of his gaze. He could feel nothing at all but the air blowing across his moving form and the pain, pain, _pain_ that was everywhere.

Until he felt himself taken to the ground, the demon towering over him. On his back he laid with his head but inches from the edge of the precipice, some of his hair dangling into the abyss below. His enemy stepped upon his sword arm, cracking the bone, and the blade was lost to the depths of Cirith Thoronath.

If he screamed, he did not hear it. Barely did he register the pain. Already, he reached with his other hand for the knife at his hip, pulling out the small blade and slicing at the foot upon his arm. His foe shrieked in agony, overbalancing as its leg came out from beneath it at the sudden pain. The demon slipped on the stone, and Glorfindel watched as if from above his body whilst that massive form of evil and shadow collapsed and toppled over the edge and down. Watched as it reached out with clawing hands to grasp at the cliff desperately, raking deep furrows into the rock as it plummeted to its untimely death.

Felt as its claws tangled in his hair. The sudden snap of his head being pulled back was a shock. He was dragged roughly backwards. And then he felt open air rather than ground beneath him.

He looked up and beheld the sky. And it was blue and cloudless.

And he glanced down to see that dark form crash against the rocks below, going limp.

And he knew that he had defeated his foe. He did not know if the refugees had been cut off at the front. He did not know if they were even still alive. He did not know if Idril and Eärendil were even still alive. He did not know if _Erestor_ was even still alive.

But he knew they had a chance.

And that was worth the giving of his life. He closed his eyes and braced for impact.

And all went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Cirith Thoronath = Eagle's Cleft
> 
> Quenya:  
> atan = Man (as in of the race of Men) (s)  
> noldo = deep elf (s)  
> vanya = fair elf (s)  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> Melinyetyë = I love you (mel- (to love) + nyë (I) + tyë (you informal))


	322. Thankful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angrod, before, during and after his stay in the luxurious, five-star hellhole Angband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 7, 2016.
> 
> This is part of the Defiant Arc and related to all therein. Thus, it should be entirely unsurprising to knowledgeable readers that almost every gross and horrible thing in the warnings appears here. The violence and gore are not explicit, but some of the sex is semi-explicit and quite non-con or dub-non. Thou hast been warned! 
> 
> That being said, this is sort of a hurt/comfort fic. It deals with recovery from physical, mental and sexual abuse, but is relatively sweet in the end.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

There was not much to be thankful for in the wilds of Beleriand.

 _At least it is a step above Helcaraxë,_ he could not help but think at first, overseeing wide lands dappled with dark, needled trees and hills. There was a sort of ashy grayness that lay as a haze across the vast expanse, as though all vibrancy were sucked out of the world and left behind but muted earthen colors and shadows. Even when the light shone upon this place, it still seemed to wilted and dead.

They called it Dorthonion. In Angaráto’s estimation, there was nothing here. Literally nothing. A few rivers, many ugly, twisted old trees and barren wasteland covered in rocks and dirt. It was housed by the wicked black peaks of the Ered Gorgoroth to the south and the Echoriath to the east, but in the north there was little else except rolling hills and prairie.

Beyond, they could see into the open plains of Ard-galen which at the moment were more brown than green with the swift coming of winter. Chill set in, blowing the breath of the Grinding Ice down from the north, or so it felt like.

The third son of Arafinwë shuddered with bitter memory. _What a thankless land._

Though he was now joint lord of this kingdom, Angaráto did not expect to find much joy in the task of its governance. They would have put forth little effort or thought towards this place at all save for the fact that it could easily be kept as a guard post, a watch over the broad plains to the north, the fortress of their Enemy barely visible in the distance. 

There sat Thangorodrim with its three smoke-belching peaks, rising as a wicked shadow of the Iron Crown from the depths of smoke and dust.

Ever did they watch for signs of their Enemy moving from his slumber.

And, eventually, Angaráto grew a little fond of his new home. Just a little.

He found that he liked how the trees—as unlovely as they could sometimes be—remained a deep evergreen all through the winter even when the snows came down hard and all the grass and delicate foliage browned with death. There was some enjoyment to be had in traversing during the night beneath a full moon, passing through dappled shadows beneath the pointed peaks, catching glimpses of the stars through thick branches. And he loved seeing the sun slowly rise in the east, the horizon edged underneath with the black outline of the forest so that it seemed like light shone as a halo from the top of each tree.

Spring was also nice. It was not as mucky as Hithlum, from what he’d heard. Melted snow only yielded mud when there was dirt underfoot, but mostly Dorthonion was rocky soil and stone. The melted water then, rather than kindling a mess, resulted in the first growth of green things in the mulch, stubborn little tufts of highland grass and lovely purple flowers that seemed to scoff in the face of the forbidding world around them, swaying gracefully in the wind. For but a few weeks, the hills would be verdant and stretch out across Ard-galen, and there would be flowers in thousands of colors painted across the landscape as if in defiance of the filth of the Enemy in the north. And the smell of sweetness would linger on the air.

Mostly, though Angaráto thought he felt freedom here that he had never really felt—never really _dreamt of_ —before. His duties were not princely in nature. In fact, he rarely had need of the lessons in etiquette and courtly dancing and rhetoric here in the broad open expanses. Here, he had time to make swordplay with his comrades, to make jokes and speak as friend to friend rather than lord to servant, to enjoy hunts and not have to worry about losing face for getting dirty and being mussed.

It reminded him painfully of Eldalótë. Of how she laughed at the odd rules that the royal family was subjected to, allowing him to complain without scolding because she was lowborn and thought little of reputation and politics. Of how she didn’t care if he got dirt on his hands and under his nails, because her greatest love was in gardening and often she was just there beside him, dirt beneath her nails and smudged across her nose and chin.

He thought she would have loved it here. And she would have found a way to defeat the hardiness of the soil. And she would have grown the most glorious garden.

Even though the longing was a sharp twang in his chest, Angaráto felt fondness, too. He thought that maybe he could be content here, in this land of pine trees and spring flowers and silver winters, for the long years spent on their campaign against the Enemy. That there was something good come out of the folly of this quest.

 _Perhaps,_ he thought with reluctance at his own sentiment, _there is something here to be thankful for after all._

His fleeting happiness would not last.

\---

There was nothing to be thankful for in Angband.

It was hell. It was so cold as to turn skin blue except in the torture chambers. There, the fires belched scalding smoke and heated to wicked redness the brands of the Enemy. He had felt their bite before—knew that the image of the iron crown adorned his shoulder blade on the right side and would have clawed it off with his nails had he not feared infection would set in from the filth—but there were worse things here in the lair of Morgoth than cruel brands. Worse things than mere physical torture and a fast death.

After all, he was one of the favored of the Dark Lord.

Being favored meant he was not subjected to the worst physical torments. They did not put him to work in the mines or the forges like they did many of the warriors they had captured, and so he did not waste away in hard labor beneath whips and chains, locked away out of the sunlight. They also did not subject him to the torture chambers beyond branding him to humiliate and shame. The instruments of pain and defilement and mutilation were not for his perfect body, for the Dark Lord did not want him marred in that manner.

Being favored meant that they tortured him in more insidious ways. That they gave his punishments to helpless innocents that he longed to protect but could do nothing to help. That they made him watch as they raped and tormented and dismembered his people. That they told him it was _his fault._ If only he would behave… If only he would break and surrender… maybe then they could have a kinder fate…

Being favored meant that he saw the Dark Lord personally.

That he was subject to kneeling for hours at the foot of the dark throne, caught in the spangled light of the Silmarilli which—so the Dark Lord told him—made his hair as molten gold and his skin unto pearls and his eyes burn with the deep fires of the earth, untamed but for his mastery. But that light scalded his skin, made him slick with sweat and ill with horror, because that hollowed light should reject him. A kinslayer. A prince brought low, unable to protect his people from the horrors of this hell but for sending them on to the Halls of the Waiting, praying that they would find rest and healing away from their mortal cages.

For all that the Dark Lord told him he was beautiful, he felt pathetic and disgusting and ugly.

And when the Dark Lord took him to bed, all rough handling of too broad hands bruising and swift penetration without enough slickness to quell the burning friction, Angaráto wanted nothing more than to weep and die. He was sullied beyond repair.

Afterwards—after he had been forced into pleasure and his Master and Enemy had taken pleasure in his trembling body in return, he could hear that earth-shaking voice whisper unto his ear. _“Art thou not thankful for my mercy, my thrall? Tell me.”_

 _No!_ he wanted to scream. _Never!_

But he knew this game well. Instead, he languidly stretched his battered form, showing off all his bruises and scratches and bite marks, baring the brand upon his shoulder as if in pride. And he replied, _“I am most thankful for thy mercy, my Master. Let me thank thee properly…”_

And, though it made him sick to his very core, he would touch that body willingly, put his lips on it without hesitation or resistance. He was already tainted beyond what could be salvaged, and any chance to bring himself deeper into the Dark Lord’s favor—if only for the fleeting chance to turn those eyes away from any other thrall, to whisper plots that favored the thralls into those ears and have them heed his wisdom—was worth the scars it left on his soul.

But later, when he was taken away, he would encounter the Lieutenant. He would feel those knowing eyes of molten rock glowing out at him from the darkness, and he would snarl towards the dark maia in rage and mortification. But all Sauron ever did was smile in return. The maia would not touch him for fear of the Dark Lord’s wrath.

If he could have, Angaráto knew the torture-master would have rent him apart strip of flesh by strip of flesh, would have ravaged him utterly and taken great pleasure in the doing. He could see the lust for his blood and suffering in those eyes.

 _“Art thou thankful, truly, little slave?”_ the maia mocked softly in the darkness.

And Angaráto would bare is teeth at his foe. _“Go to hell, servant of evil!”_

And Sauron would laugh.

\---

He was supposed to be thankful that he had survived when so many had perished in the pits of Morgoth. When the armies of the Valar finally came and tore the fortress of Angband asunder, he was still alive, still a pet at the feet of his Master. Out of all the thralls rescued from that horror, he had been the least harmed in body.

His father, who had seen him shortly after his rescue, had been relieved. 

Angaráto must not have looked as terrible as he felt, lying in a cot on the ground, wrapped up in blankets, his cuts and bruises tended and bandaged. He had not been subject to true physical harm. Some thralls had lost fingers or limbs or had other parts removed. Some had been blinded or burned beyond recognition. Some were stooped, their spines too weak to hold their bodies upright. Some were comatose and listless and gray. Some had been tortured so severely that it was hard to believe they still breathed.

Angaráto was not surprised, but he did not say so. Sauron was an expert torturer. He could stretch out suffering for eons or strike death upon a slave in moments at his own fancy. That he played with his toys so cruelly was hardly a shock to one who knew him well.

While all around him elves rejoiced, Angaráto and the other thralls despaired inside. They were supposed to be thankful for their rescue, to have survived the hell that was Angband and come out on the other side. But the prince knew that his fellows would rather have died than be seen as they were by those they loved. As he would rather have died.

Now came the long uphill journey. Learning to function with missing limbs. Learning to walk blind. Learning not to hoard food. Learning to deal with the scars and disfigurements. Learning to ignore the stares. Learning to brush aside the pity.

Learning how to not take orders. Learning to be free.

Learning to trust.

It would have been so much easier if he had just died. So much _easier._

So much easier than seeing his father’s eyes fill with tears at the sight of him fresh from the prison cells, filthy and battered. So much easier than being tended by healer who knew now the intimacy of his physical abuse and looked at him with such sad eyes. So much easier than seeing _her_ for the first time—so wholesome and beautiful, his sweet blossom!—and trying to smile even though the thought of tainting her with his touch was noxious. 

So much easier if he had just died now that his task was fulfilled…

But he had not. His body never perished and he was never reborn from the Halls of the Waiting. His healing would not be in the Gardens of Lórien, but in his own tiny home that he shared with his wife on the outskirts of Tirion across the sea. 

He passed across the waters and back into Valinórë and her holy beauty, and the very air seemed like fire on his skin. Everything was so pure and good and innocent. And he was anything but. Murderer of his kin. Thrall of Angband. Whore of the Dark Lord. He did not want to set foot on the shore for fear that he would turn the white sands black with his touch, and became frustrated because _no one understood_ why he was so weary and diffident. His father was confused and frightened by the violence of his reaction. His wife was hurt thinking he did not want to return home and stricken with helplessness at his pain and his fear.

Eventually they had gotten him out of the boat. His feet had not turned the sands black.

Eldalótë took him home to their cottage and their garden with the tulips under the window. It was exactly as he remembered it in his daydreams.

Only now he stained the flowers red with his fingers. His touch left phantom bruises upon her fair skin. And he broke the night’s silent reverie with his screams.

And he was not thankful.

It remained hard for many years. 

He had nightmares of raging infernos and laughter in the darkness. He felt phantom pains in his healed body and spirit. He would awake in the darkness on moonless nights and shoot upright with a shout, thinking that he was back in Angband and that the War of Wrath had all been a dream. He could still hear the Dark Lord’s voice whispering against his skin and Sauron’s mocking reprisal echoing in his ears when all was silent.

But Eldalótë never faltered. Not when his father had turned away, unable to swallow the horror of what Angaráto had experienced. Not when his mother had cried and asked the Valar why all her children were ruined.

Not when Angaráto refused her hugs and her kisses. Not when he moved himself out of their bedroom and slept in the sitting room.

Not when he finally told her the truth of all he had seen and done.

There had been tears and pity in her eyes. She had reached out as if to embrace him but paused, uncertain of his comfort level with her touch, uncertain where she might lay hand that would not remind him of other hands doing more painful things to his flesh. She told him that all was well, that he had done his duty as prince and protected his people best that he could, and she did not blame him for causing the torment of others or for murdering them in mercy or for betraying their marriage vows unwillingly or willingly.

She knew all. And she understood as much as she could without having experienced those horrors herself.

Eventually, she coaxed him into allowing her hugs—gentle little embraces where her fingertips brushed against his nape and shoulders, never too hard or too unexpected. Eventually, she convinced him to allow her to lie at his side and press her body up against his, and he learned not to feel _his_ huge, hard body instead of her soft curves.

Eventually, he learned to allow her kisses again. And the chaste pecks did not make him think of long, hard, breath-stealing, suffocating kisses where his lips were fucked open by a large tongue that nearly slithered down his throat. Eventually, he even tried deeper kisses, the more intimate ones that he recalled from the green days of bliss, teasing his tongue into her mouth and softly exploring her palate and her teeth, savoring her taste.

Eventually, he even felt the burn of arousal in his blood, felt his body reacting to her nearness and closeness, and did not feel shame and illness at his passion. Though they had not moved on to lovemaking in truth, not yet, he had tentatively begun to relearn her body and allow her, with her hands and her lips and her tongue, to relearn his form in return. Very soft and slow and gentle.

And she never pushed. Years and years of patience and they still could not attempt to join as man and wife without him retching and heaving in remembered agony and shame. But she understood that he needed time.

Though he had not been thankful for surviving, for being brought back to the living, or for being taken home to this world of innocence and misunderstanding, he still had her. Her and her gentle touches. Her and her warm embraces. Her and her rich auburn curls and her soft red lips and her brilliant green eyes. Her hands cool with soil on his face as they toiled in the garden. Her smile brighter than the last fruit of Laurelin as it shone upon his wrecked spirit.

And for those things he was thankful. For they made all the difference in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added some etymology of places that I thought were relevant to further understanding the work.
> 
> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = plural of Silmaril  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> Valinórë = Undying Lands
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Dorthonion = Land of the Pine Trees  
> Ered Gorgoroth = Mountains of Terror  
> Echoriath = Encircling Mountains  
> Ard-galen = green region


	323. Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes there is a difficult choice between telling the ugly truth and protecting the ones you love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 8, 2016.
> 
> So this is the result of someone mentioning Dior in a review. Not really sure how this turned out, but going to post it anyway. It's related most closely to Reap (Chapter 61), Obvious (Chapter 122) and Final (Chapter 308) amongst many others.
> 
> One little side note. If you aren't familiar with the elven clans at the Awakening, there are three: the Minyar (the first), the Tatyar (the second) and the Nelyar (the third), which was the largest. The Vanyar are descended from the Minyar, the Noldor are descended from the Tatyar, and the Teleri and the Sindar are descended from the Nelyar. If you already knew this, sorry to waste the ten to twenty seconds it took you to review the topic. :)
> 
> Warnings: I fucked with canon. Sorry not sorry. Lies of omission. Brief mention of murder and the Kinslaying. Tiny mention of sex.

Each day that he grew—from infant to child and from child to adult—Dior looked more and more like his father.

Most mothers would have considered this a blessing, would have glowed with pride. Most mothers would have seen the echoes of their spouse in their child and smiled fondly in delight. Most mothers would have taken every chance they could grasp to stroke their hand over their young son’s precious face, to brush back his hair, and tell him “Thou lookest so very like to thy ada, ion-nín.”

But Lúthien was not most mothers.

Because each day that Dior grew, he looked more and more like his _true_ father. Not Beren.

_Him._

Some days, she could barely stomach the heavy weight of her realization. From the start she had known it was a possibility. Both men had been taken into her “bed” at the correct time for each to have a chance at siring her unborn babe. But Beren had warmed her more often, and she had assumed (and hoped and prayed) that the child would be her husband’s.

It had been clear from the moment of Dior’s birth that that was not the case. Though she had said nothing to anyone then or ever after, Lúthien had known the truth just by looking into her son’s eyes. This was no half-elf, no son of Men. This child was fully-elven, and his face shone with holy light not seen in the eyes of any elf among her people save only her father, Thingol. In those eyes, she saw the fey light of the Exiles from across the sea.

Of course, Beren did not realize that this light was strange, likely assuming it to be a staple of all elvendom. Though he would have claimed otherwise, Lúthien was fairly certain that most elves looked exactly the same to her mortal spouse, that if she had placed two dark-haired elves next to one another—one of her people and one from across the sea—he would have been unable to tell them apart by the slight differences in their features and eyes and build. The Firstborn were simply too alien, too beautiful, and too strange; they were like a whole different species unto the Aftercomers. 

No, Beren did not see any recognizable features in their son other than elven-ness, and so he did not see what she saw.

He did not see that the sharpness of Dior’s cheekbones were unlike those of the men descended from the Nelyar. He did not notice that none of the elves of Thingol’s court sported a cleft chin but that it was quite prevalent in the Noldor. He did not see how the too-bright eyes seemed to be fueled by inner flame rivaling Anor above, whereas the Sindarin people were all cool and smooth like the nighttime and the darkness.

Beren merely assumed that Dior had the look of his grandfather. Never mind that, besides their towering height and silvered coloring, Dior and Thingol really did not look much alike or act much alike. Lúthien did not see much of her father at all in her son. 

Certainly not in his looks. For he had the appearance of a sharpened blade, the look of his true father’s people. Taller and broader in body than the willowy hunters of her kin. Brows furrowed into a constant state of distaste or annoyance. Thin lips pursed into a narrow line with indents at the corners. Jaw set stubbornly into a stern jut with each glare.

And the depths of his eyes were silver. They were not the gentle silver of the cold, twinkling stars but rather the brilliant heat of Telperion as her mother had whispered to her in stories of the beauty of the distant Undying Lands. Vibrant and filled with color but at the same time blinding and burning.

Not in his temperament, either. For, though Lúthien adored her only child, Dior was certainly quick to rise in anger and outrage, quite different from her father’s constant and steadfast calm. Those eyes would flash so bright it hurt to look upon them, and that sharp voice would echo in her ears, reminding her so terribly much of _him_ in his fury. 

Still, for all that he was sometimes ill-tempered and pig-headed, Dior could be so very affectionate and caring. Lúthien adored his hugs, so full and warm, his whole body curling around her slighter frame and squeezing her tightly. She loved his smiles, resplendent in their glory as they shone down upon her, echoed by the lightening of his gaze and the softening of the downward curve of his sharp brows.

He was beautiful, her son. And she loved him dearly.

(And, in her deepest of thoughts, she wondered if she had known his father at all. Was there the capacity for this creature of gentleness and love within _him_ as well?)

But in her heart she felt guilt and strain still. For she had never told anyone of Dior’s true parentage. To her breast did she hold fast her secret, the affair she had had with Celegorm Fëanorion in the twilight hours when her hope and plummeted to despair and the offered arms and kisses had been such a welcome comfort. And hidden did she keep the consequences of her rash, unthinking actions.

She did not tell Beren. She did not want to break his heart.

And she did not tell Dior. For he was happy as he was. He loved Beren—his father in all but the most biological of senses—and she did not want to take away that love.

She did not want to break their trust. 

She did not want to mar the short years she had with her mortal spouse by estranging him over a moment of weakness years and years in the past. She did not want to send him beyond the edges of the world sorrow and agony thinking her love for him flawed. Until the very last moments, until he was stooped and gray and died with a smile upon his lips as he slept in his bed at the side of his wife, Lúthien wanted nothing but bliss for Beren.

She did not want either to feel the terrible heat of her son’s anger, nor the terrible pain that would be his confusion and horror. For what child would ever want to hear that the father they knew and loved had not been the man from whose seed they were sowed? Furthermore, what child would ever want to hear that his true father was a ruthless, murderous, conniving Kinslayer most well-known for his cruelty and wickedly bad temper?

No. Lúthien did not want to thrust this burden— _her_ burden—upon those she loved. It was best that she kept it a secret. Such was a kindness. For Beren and for Dior and even for Celegorm.

And for herself.

Better bliss in ignorance than misery in knowledge.

\---

Of course, such secrets never remain secret forever. 

It should not have surprised Lúthien that, upon the meeting of Celegorm and Dior in the halls of Menegroth, both men quickly realized that something was terribly wrong. In the midst of killing each other, they had each seen themselves in the other, a reflection of body and spirit as if upon a mirror. Both had come into the Halls of the Waiting knowing that the truth had been kept from them by the only person who could have known all.

Celegorm was not angry. She told him that she had not done it maliciously. She had only wanted to protect her family. She had only wanted her husband and son to be happy. She was sorry that their happiness had come at the cost of _his._

But Celegorm had shaken his regal head and dismissed her apologies, and for once his temper had not arisen as a mighty storm upon the horizon of his eyes. It was for the better, he had admitted, that she had kept this secret from him. From _everyone._ For, he further told her, it would have driven him beyond the brink of madness to know that a child of his blood yet lived and called Beren Erchamion father. It would have only made his bloodlust worse. It would only have ended in an attempt to slay her husband and take away her son in punishment. And then they would all plunge into misery.

That she had spared them all that torment was, indeed, a kindness.

(He did not say that, perhaps, he would not have been so willing to carry out the Second Kinslaying had he known. And Lúthien wept in her heart that her secret may have cost thousands of lives of innocents and warriors alike on that red day. But he never spoke of it and never blamed her.)

And she knew that Beren would have forgiven her. Somewhere beyond the edges of the world, he must now have known the truth for what it was. Though she imagined he would have been hurt and upset initially, she also knew he would have loved her such that he accepted the truth of her infidelity and of their child’s parentage, and he would have loved the boy all the same just as had she in spite of the truth. And now, in his death, he would not have blamed her for her moment of weakness in her darkest hour. 

Rather, he would have wrapped his arms around her and told her that he understood that she had been in pain and in fear and sought comfort. That it was indeed a kindness that she had given him the ultimate bliss even at the cost of keeping secrets. That she had made him the happiest man in all of Eä until the very last moment. And he would have wished her all the happiness in the world now that he was gone. He would tell her not to be sad or to feel guilty, but to live on and find new happiness.

And then there was Dior.

Her son—her beautiful, fiery boy—had come just before his father into the Halls of the Waiting. And he had been a spirit of white-hot fury and hatred in that moment, like lightning upon the sky, all blinding, wild, terrible beauty. And he had raged both towards his true father and towards his mother.

How dare she keep such a thing from him as his true birthright? he had snarled. How dare she _lie_ to him about who and what he was? How _dare_ she do this not only to him—her son—but also to her husband who had loved her dearly?

Dior in that moment had been the spitting image of his father in the young Years of the Trees. All untamed, uncontrolled passion and free, untethered rage and wickedness of the tongue. His words had been aimed to maim her spirit with shame and guilt, and they had stung her heart bitterly as she had always known they would. Because Dior was his father’s son.

_“A kindness,”_ he spat in mocking sarcasm, in bitterness and disgust. _“Was it all formed of lies? The love? The devotion? Is our family built upon naught but infidelity and dark secrets?”_

In time, perhaps, he would understand her. And in time, perhaps, he might forgive her for her selfishness and love.

Perhaps, one day, he would understand that she had only ever meant to keep him from harm. That her thoughts had ever been with his joy and contentment. Mayhap, then, he would be able to look upon her without his eyes darkening as a storm swirling over the sea. Mayhap, then, he might once more give her his love and the warmth of his hugs and the sight of his smile.

_“Give him time,”_ Celegorm had said to her. _“If he is anything like me, he will need it. We are stubborn creatures, we Fëanorioni, and we need time to quell our own pride. I was just as much a foolish, blind and egocentric lout as a child.”_

And his comment brought light to her darkened thoughts. And hope unto her breast.

_“Thou art still an egocentric lout,”_ she told him, laughing. 

And he smiled in return. _“But a wiser one. One day, he will understand that what thou didst do, thou didst do out of kindness and love. And he will forgive.”_

His voice had been so sure and so strong. So full of old memories and ancient insight.

And she had faith that he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> ada = papa or daddy  
> ion-nín = my son  
> Fëanorioni = Sons of Fëanor


	324. Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel, unsurprisingly, was a rebellious teenager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 9, 2016.
> 
> This fic is sort of part of my Lalwendë-based arc more so than it is a thing related to any of my previous Aredhel-centric stories barring Rhythm (Chapter 123). I would call this something more along the lines of an explanation of culture in Valinor. Of course, people may very well dislike my interpretation, but I've always thought that Tolkien's universe is very patriarchal and not very accepting of people who step outside of their set roles in society. Thus, an examination of young Aredhel's character, tying in with how she idolizes and even emulates Lalwen but also is still a young, inexperienced girl who isn't fully aware of the consequences of her actions, struggling between being herself and conforming to her role in society.
> 
> I will also admit that this had something to do with Aredhel's lack of appearance when all the Noldorin princes had their little get together that ended with the Oath. "But Galadriel, the only woman of the Noldor to stand that day tall and valiant among the contending princes, was eager to be gone." --Of the Flight of the Noldor.
> 
> That being said, this has blatant sexism in it. Patriarchal society. Indoctrination. Conformity. Slut shaming. Disowning. Distaste for children born out of wedlock. Valinor is not a perfect and happy place.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Lalwen = Lalwendë

When Írissë was a young girl, her body just teetering upon the border between child and woman, she came home one evening covered in dirt and a bit of blood. She had been thrown from her horse twice, but the hunting expedition with her older male cousins Turkafinwë and Curufinwë had been successful, and they had offered to teach her how to butcher her kill afterwards. Her dress, which had been an old, pale green thing a little short around the ankles, was stained beyond repair and torn in several places.

Her mother had taken one look at her and a sour expression overcame the smile of greeting plastered on that face. Blue eyes narrowed in distaste as they traveled up and down her body.

“Perhaps thou shouldst be done with thy hunting trips,” her mother commented passively, though Írissë heard the steel underneath, deceptively veiled in suggestion. “It really is not appropriate for a girl thy age to be seen thusly, nor to be gallivanting about with two men unsupervised all day.”

In return, Írissë had given her mother a stubborn, sullen look, her arms crossed childishly over a barely-developed chest. “It’s just a bit of dirt, Emya.”

“Nevertheless, perhaps thou couldst find some… cleaner… more ladylike past times, Yendë,” her mother said.

The next day, her mother hand insisted she wear a new white dress with delicate lace, and she was forced to begin learning the cross-stitch.

It was horrid and boring. Her legs were tucked beneath her body as she worked, and after a mere hour of sitting so still and trying to concentrate on stabbing the tiny needle through the correct place in the fabric draped across her lap, she felt her foot begin to jiggle impatiently. As she shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the stiffness of her limbs, her hand slipped and the needle jabbed into the pad of her finger. Surprisingly, finger wounds bled quite a bit.

“Canst thou not hold still for even a few hours?” her mother asked, tone chastising. “And look! Thou hast gotten blood on thy dress, Írissë!”

The princess huffed. Her dress had been the most conveniently available pseudo-bandage for her frantically bleeding wound, and thus she had used the edge of a sleeve to quell the flow. It was hardly her fault that her mother had insisted upon white on this very day. Rolling her eyes, Írissë ignored the scolding and turned to examining the pinprick wound. At least the bleeding was slowing now, though it had indeed soaked deep into her dress. And, of course, her mother seemed to care more about her stupid dress than about the fact that she was _bleeding_ on it.

She stared at the stain. Blood was very bright on white. She guessed dirt would look thrice as dark against the white folds, and green thrice as vivid, and black thrice as dark. In her adolescent mind, she resentfully wondered how upset her mother would be if she wore only white dresses and stained each and every one of them. And there was something pleasurable about knowing that it would be obvious to her mother that she was _not_ going to just _stop_ going out hunting and trapping with her cousins just because _her mother_ didn’t want a filthy, un-princess-like wretch for a daughter.

Rebelliously, after that day, Írissë wore only white.

And the stains had indeed shown quite well. The young girl grew fully into her body, and she still shirked her womanly duties in favor of hunting and camping and hiking in unladylike boots. _Anything_ but stitching or mending or weaving or painting. _Anything_ but sitting still for hours and hours.

Her mother never outright forbade her, but she could see in her mother’s eyes the disapproval and annoyance at the blatant snubbing. She still couldn’t figure out why her mother cared so much. It wasn’t as if Anairë did the laundering.

 _“Look at thy daughter, Nolofinwë,”_ her mother would say to her father when she came home a mess. As if she were something of which to be ashamed. _“Art thou not concerned? She spends so much time with those sons of Fëanáro…”_

Her father’s eyes would look at her then as if for the first time. Pale blue, they stared at her for a moment and then looked back to her mother. _“Írissë is young yet. Let her be, Anairë.”_

And her mother would huff in displeasure and let it go. At least, Írissë thought, her father was on her side in all of this.

\---

Until, one day, she came home mussed and grass-stained and found her mother in the sitting room with guests. Aunt Nerdanel and Aunt Eärwen were there, and Aunt Findis and Elenwë’s mother, and some other ladies that Írissë neither knew nor cared about. They were all flawlessly clean, of course, not a hair out of place, their wrists and fingers and necklines jewel-crusted, not a wrinkle to be seen in their flowing gowns. All eyes turned towards her entrance, to her twig-infested hair and her immodestly exposed shoulders and the dirt-stained hem of her dress and the muddy boots beneath.

“My word, what hast thou been doing, Yendë?” Anairë exclaimed. “Thou art covered in dirt! Go clean up at once! When thou dost look proper, come down and greet our guests.”

Then Írissë understood. Her mother was _embarrassed_ by her.

And the young girl’s cheeks heated in humiliation and fury. “Am I not good enough as I am to sit with thee, Amillë? Or do I appear too lowborn and ill-mannered and unladylike to appear before thy friends? Perhaps I should go back outside and roll in the mud like a commoner! Then thou wouldst not have to have thy friends see my disgrace!”

“Írissë!” She could hear the genuine anger in her mother’s voice. “Go to thy room and clean thyself. We will speak of thy behavior, Yendë.”

“I think not,” the young princess retorted, lifting her chin. She turned on her heel and marched right back out of the house. Damn what her mother wanted!

Írissë did not return until sundown.

Her parents were waiting for her in her chambers. Her father’s eyes were filled with cold rage, and his frown was stern and set. But her mother’s eyes were harsh, their anger fierce and jagged. “How couldst thou, Írissë? Hast thou no sense, girl? Acting like a spoiled child in front of thy aunts and the other court ladies! Running off to Eru only knows where without telling a soul!”

“I care not what they think of me!” she retorted. “I would not change myself to please them or to please _thee!_ I will not be locked up in this house like a pet! Thou canst not make me!”

And she knew that she should not have challenged her mother. For, though Anairë was impeccably clean and knew more the arts of the needle and the loom than of the bow and the knife, she was a formidable foe, a match for a Prince of the Noldor in spirit. “We shall see about that, Yendë,” her mother said. “See to it that thou dost cease thy expeditions with thy cousins. Thou art a fully grown woman now, and thy duties lie here, at home. I forbid thee to waste thy time any longer with thy mannish pursuits. It is time to grow up!”

And Anairë left her, slamming her door shut in the wake of all that vitriolic fury. Leaving behind only her father. He had yet to say a word, but she knew he was angry as well. Hesitantly, she looked towards him. “Atar, it is not fair! I have done nothing wrong but do what I love! Surely, she cannot forbid that!”

But his sympathy seemed to have dried up. His lips released a deep sigh. “I will not lift thy mother’s punishment, yendenya,” he told her, and her heart sank to her toes. “The time for playing and fancies has passed, and now thou needest to think of thy future and thy place in the world. Thou art an adult woman. Perhaps thou shouldst start acting as such.”

He left her as well, though he was gentler on the door. And Írissë then stood alone at the center of her room. Cold, dirty and mortified, tears welling in her eyes, she laid down on her bed and sobbed like a child, feeling betrayed and abandoned. In those moments, with her vision clouded by tears and her nose red and running, the realization came to her.

That she lived in the most luxurious birdcage in all of Eä. She had a comfortable bed and all the clothes she could want, beautiful and expensive jewelry and an endless supply of shoes, could eat the finest delicacies and had the money to purchase any trinket she desired.

Except that what she desired was not a physical trinket to be bought. She stood inside the bars of her invisible prison and looked out, almost despairing. 

But, as she hiccupped out her grief into her soft sheets, she decided that she would not yield. Such was not the way of Írissë, daughter of the House of Finwë.

And they could not stop her.

\---

She still snuck out, but now she had to be careful to keep her actions secret. During the days, she did her “womanly duties”, learning the proper etiquette, taking tea with her mother and her mother’s acquaintances, mending clothes and stitching pictures into scraps of fabric and being flawlessly polite. And she hated every moment of every day that she spent being a prim and proper young woman. She hated it all, knowing that she was being prepared like a pretty silver and white ornament for the halls of her grandfather’s court, something to be gawked at by men but not something to be heard or heeded by her betters.

But at night, she could still escape. No longer could her cousins function as accomplices, for she knew that her secret escapades would not remain secret for long if anyone within her family knew of them. Instead, she ventured out into the city wearing a white gown she nicked from one of the servant maidens and let her hair down with only simple braids as she saw in the commoner girls at the market. Without all her finery and her family at her back, she was just another pretty girl out for a night of merrymaking.

For many years, that was how she stayed sane. She went out in the night and danced with nameless men and chitchatted with nameless girls and wore a face and skin independent of Princess Írissë. She called herself Fániel, the White Daughter, and this second woman that she was, this other body that she donned, was _free_.

Such joys last not forever.

There came a night when, as she passed through the hallways on silent feet, a shadow making for the doorway to freedom from this ladylike hell, she heard a delicate cough that sent her blood running cold.

“And where art _thou_ going, Yendë?”

There was her mother donned in a nightgown and robe sitting like a queen upon one of her immaculately clean couches with her ankles delicately crossed one over the other. In that moment, Írissë felt her chest tighten in rage, for she could see perceived superiority in those distant blue eyes, as though her mother thought herself _above_ Írissë, an authority her daughter must respect and obey.

And, though the princess felt her heart throbbing in fear at being caught disobeying her parents, she also knew that she could not simply roll over and accept her fate. It was not who she was. She was never meant to be put into a cage.

“I am going _outside,”_ she said defiantly.

In a graceful movement, her mother rose to her feet. Though Írissë was several inches taller than the woman who had birthed her, Anairë carried her petite body as though she were a thousand feet tall. “Thou art not going anywhere, Yendë. Cease this ridiculousness. Go back upstairs and get in bed. Thou and thy father and I will speak about this in the morning.”

“I will not go to bed,” Írissë replied, her chin set, her Noldorin heritage stronger than iron. “Thou canst not keep me like a prisoner in this house forever, Amillë.”

But Anairë was no less a noldo than her daughter. No less stubborn and proud. Her mother’s eyes were carved adamantine jewels, and they darkened at the younger woman’s words. “Canst thou not see that this is for thy own good, Yendë? Canst thou not see what it looks like to the court and the people, seeing a princess running around unsupervised and unchecked amongst commoners? Dost thou _want_ to be perceived as damaged goods, girl?”

“Is that what thou dost think of me?” Írissë burst out, the pressure in her chest becoming nearly unbearable. Her voice was raised. “Dost thou think me some sort of _whore?”_

“No,” her mother replied firmly, “But if anyone ever knew about _this_ , that _certainly_ is what they would think. That thou art wandering off to go Eru only knows what with strange men in the night like a common harlot. And then where wouldst thou be? Tarnished! And outcast of court! Without a good reputation, thou art _nothing._ Dost thou not even _care?”_

“I do not.” _And she didn’t. Or so she told herself._

“So thou wouldst not care to become a pariah of society, to be cast out of the family in shame?” her mother asked her, eyes narrowing even as she dealt the harsh words. “Thou wouldst not care when thou art lower than the lowest laborer, penniless without a home? Then what wilt thou do, Yendë? Be like thy aunt, like Lalwendë, and run off to live in a humble cottage without the luxuries thou hast been accustomed to, going about cavorting with men and birthing bastard children? _Is that the life thou dost want for thyself?”_

“No! Of course not!” _And she didn’t. Truly, she didn’t._ “I just want… I just want to be _free!_ Why canst thou not just _understand?_ I just want to be able to dress as I want and spend time doing what I want with whomever I want. I just want to be able to hunt with my cousins and get dirt on my hands and go into the city and be _normal!”_

She was breathing hard, and she was crying, and she was confused. Her pride was sore. And her mother was staring at her blankly.

“Thou art acting like a spoiled child. But thou art a daughter of the House of Finwë,” Anairë finally said. “Thou art a woman, a lady expected to behave with the utmost propriety. Thou needest to do thy job, to learn womanly craft and find a husband who can give thee and thy future children a good home where thou dost want for nothing. Thou canst not have both this… this _freedom_ that thou dost desire _and_ the blessings of thy birthright.”

And, though Írissë knew her mother was right, she did not want to accept that her actions could have such dire consequences. That Anairë had invoked the name Lalwendë at all was shocking enough to silence the young girl, because _no one_ spoke about the disowned daughter of Finwë who had, instead of covering up her illegitimate children, publicly claimed them and walked away from everything she had ever known. And secretly Írissë had admired her aunt’s actions—that bravery and spirit in the face of adversity—but…

Young as she was, the very thought of that _frightened_ Írissë. The thought of being unable to come home at all. Of being alone in the world. Of her cousins ignoring her. Of her parents turning their backs on her. Of working to earn money for the food she ate and the clothes on her back.

“Go back upstairs, Yendë,” her mother ordered her. “Tomorrow, we will speak again.”

Defeated, shamed and terrified, Írissë returned to her room. 

She dropped her cloak on the floor of her plush cage, sat on her soft down bed, and she wept like a child. In her chest was a tangle of fear and humiliation and anger and resentment. And sleep did not come that night.

\---

After that day, her parents brought up marriage. The last thing that Írissë wanted was to get married, to be stuck with a man who expected her to be immaculately dressed and behaved, to sit around occupying herself with being seen and not heard. There was not a chance that she would find a husband at court who would allow her those vices which were forbidden to women, especially of her status. Hunting? Camping? She would be scoffed at by any man.

Yet, the fear of losing all that she knew and loved kept her from arguing and rebelling further. It was then that she felt as though she would never escape, and in her despair she sat despondently and accepted her fate.

Had the Darkening not come soon after, she did not doubt that her happiness would have ended in marriage. That she would have spent the rest of her days being just like her mother, the wife of a man too busy with politics to really pay much attention to his family. She would have been miserable, but eventually would have learned to cover it up with fake smiles and soft words.

She would have lost herself entirely.

But there came the day when the world went dark. There came the time when the Noldor, consumed by tumultuous rage and terror at the death of their beloved ruler, dared to follow the words of her mad half-uncle. There came the time when her people plotted against the Valar and planned to leave the Blessed Realm.

And she heard her parents speaking about it.

 _“I will not go,”_ her mother had said firmly. _“This mad quest, this_ war _that thy brother wishes to start, it is no place for women or for children. Thou art foolish for getting thyself involved at all, let alone expecting thy family to follow suit.”_

 _“Still, I will not revoke my oath to my brother, but I would that thou wouldst come with me,”_ her father requested gently. _“I would that our family remained whole through this horror and loss. It would please me, Anairë.”_

But her mother, as always, was unmovable. Anairë of the Noldor was a woman whose heart could not be swayed but by reason and logic once its course was set. And, though Írissë knew her parents loved one another, she did not think her mother’s love stronger than that unyielding determination.

 _“I will not go,”_ her mother said. _“And neither wilt thou take our daughter into this madness.”_

Once again, her mother was trying to make choices for her. And though she not had the terror of banishment from her family in her heart keeping her obedient and passive, she still knew anger in her breast. What right had Anairë to just _decide_ that Írissë was to remain a prisoner here forever? Did Írissë not get a say in her own fate?

_“I cannot change thy mind, then.”_

_“No.”_

But Írissë was not going to accept that. It came into her mind that, away from Valinórë—away from Tirion and Valimar and the courts of Kings—what did it matter if her reputation was in tatters? It came into her mind that, in the midst of war and bloodshed and victory and loss, there would be little care for the state of her clothes or her shoes.

It came into her mind that this… this was her chance to escape. For good. She would no longer be trapped on the inside looking out through the bars of her gilded cage.

This could be her chance to be _free._

She planned her escape carefully and kept it hidden from all. When the time came, the date of departure arriving in a rush of preparations and goodbyes, Írissë calmly said farewell to her father and brothers. She did not cry. She did not beg them to stay.

She went up to her room, donned her cloak, and went out the window.

And, though they never saw her until it was too late, she joined at the back of her father’s followers. She disguised herself as the white-clad woman Fániel, and she was welcomed into the fold of her people without knowledge of her identity. No one tried to stop her.

Even fear of her father’s reaction when he learned of her stowing away could not stop her from smiling as she watched the light of Tirion upon Túna disappear in the distance.

Because she was outside now. She had fled her cage. And she was never going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Emya = mama  
> Yendë = daughter  
> Eru = God  
> Atar = father  
> Yendenya = my daughter (yendë + nya)  
> Valar = great holy beings (pl)


	325. Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of dreams and hope and bitter disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 10, 2016.
> 
> I'm just going to preface this with the fact that it breaks my heart that Gwindor risks his life breaking free from Angband only to return home and be literally shunned by everyone in Nargothrond. It's rather disturbing to me that Orodreth and the rest of the elves trusted Túrin--who _lied_ to them about his real name--over someone who once was their comrade. This is the result.
> 
> Warnings: Slavery. Mentions of torture and death, but nothing explicit. Shallow people. Unrequited love. General depressing-ness.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Finduilas = Faelivrin

When he had first been taken captive, Gwindor feared he would never see light again.

All thralls working in the lightless pits and mines of Angband longed once more to see the sun or the moon or the stars. They dreamt of the warmth on their face or the hopeful twinkling overhead. They longed for the smell of grass in the spring and the taste of fresh water in their parched throats. They ached to feel softness on the soles of their feet and have the luxury of clothing upon their naked flesh.

But, more so than anything else, they longed to go _home._

And Gwindor had been the same.

The thought of never seeing Nargothrond again before he died—here, alone and shivering in the dark, his body and mind broken beyond all repair—was too terrible to contemplate. He wanted to walk through the familiar patrol routes on the surrounding plains, feeling the familiar roughness of bark on his palms and smelling the fragrance of fall in the air. He wanted to pass through the gates of the city and see again the familiar intricately carved walls and their gold-veined, rich gem-laden inlays decorated in a thousand different colors. He wanted to be greeted with the joy of his comrades, to share once more moments of brotherhood as they drank and made merry together, and to see again the woman he had intended to marry.

Ai, Faelivrin! He wanted to kiss her again. He imagined running his fingers through her golden-wheat hair. He desired to stare into her brilliant blue eyes, tinted with just a hint of evergreen. He wanted desperately to tell her that he loved her more than anything.

He wanted her to know that he loved her so dearly that he would live for her when so many of his fellows simply laid down and died. No matter how his body was ruined and his hair turned white, no matter how his eyesight was failing and his skin was grown sallow and sagged off his bones, he wanted to see her again.

He _needed_ to see her again. At least once.

It was that longing—for his home and for his life and for his love—which drove him to attempt escape.

In Angband, the punishment for attempted—and failed—escape was severe. It was immediate death if one was _lucky._ It was a long, drawn-out, torturous and hellish dead if they were not. Being caught during flight, shot down by rusted arrows or cleaved apart by black, bloodstained swords… that was a good and quick way to go. Being caught and taken back into the dungeons of Angband… that guaranteed a slow death full of suffering. Gwindor had seen thralls steal swords off their guards and slit their own throats rather than face such a fate.

Despite the dire consequences of being caught, Gwindor knew he would rather be slaughtered—either in his flight or in the dungeons of Angband—rather than live out the rest of his miserable existence mining for iron ores in the pitch darkness of the tunnels, a whip upon his back and shackles upon his ankles. He was a courageous spirit, and he would rather _try_ and _fail_ than suffer the shame of never having tried at all.

And so he made his escape. Through the tunnels, through the blackness so dark that only those who knew it intimately could hope to follow. But the orcs rarely learned the tunnels so well as their charges. He slipped away and none saw him go until it was too late to see whence he had gone in the dark.

And then he was _outside_.

He emerged from the blackness into blinding brightness as the sun set in the West. He turned, looked out across the barren wasteland, and upwards into falling light. And he stared in wonder. 

For black clouds and haze floated overhead, but even so shafts of Arien’s glorious rays broke through the lingering shadow and reached the earth as she set. And she gave her burnished luster to all she touched. Through those clouds she peeked, a blinding golden star, and he felt her warmth on his face.

For the first time since he had been taken, he felt _light_ on his _face._ He raised his hand as if to touch the dancing beams of heat, and his too-white flesh was shaded with the watercolor of the setting sun, the deep creases and calluses marked in shadow.

And he found himself reminded sharply of _her._ His beautiful, glorious Faelivrin and her golden hair and her blue eyes. She was as this light, reflected off the sweetest of spring waters. It was as though she reached down and brushed her hand across his very cheek and brushed his hair back from his face.

For the first time since he had been taken, Gwindor felt _hope._

\---

He, a disillusioned and embittered thrall of Angband, should have known it could never last.

\---

The problem with returning home, he discovered, was that you were never quite the same as when you had left. 

In the case of Gwindor Guilinion, he had changed so radically and had garnered such a hideous form that he was unrecognizable even as one of the Firstborn. Peripherally, he had known this, but he had thought his people _above_ such things. Túrin, his companion who insisted upon the name Agarwaen Úmarthion, had not judged him for his gross visage, knowing it to be the mark of long years of torment. Beleg Cúthalion also, before his death, had not judged him for his visage, only taking pity but still seeing something worth saving.

Yet his own people—people who had once been his friends and comrades—would not look into his eyes. It was as though they were frightened and horrified by every part of him, unable to comprehend or accept that this is what he had become. Something tainted. Something broken. Something _ruined._

And, though they said it not, they did not _trust_ him.

 _“A thrall of Angband—escape?”_ they thought incredulously. _“But how? How could one escape that impregnable fortress?”_

Cunning was his answer. Cunning and luck and the blood of a thousand slaves.

 _“But other places have seen this before and heard this before,”_ they would whisper when they thought he couldn’t hear. _“Words come from abroad of thralls returned from Angband as spies, servants of evil.”_

 _I would never do anything to harm my home and my loved ones._ He wanted to tell them—wanted to _scream_ at them—but he knew it would do him no good.

 _“Can he be trusted? Did he really escape? Or was he_ set free _and sent to give away the secrets of Nargothrond to the Enemy?”_

And it made him ache unbearably that they could think that he would do such a thing. That anyone who had once known him thought that he would _ever_ do such a thing.

Even Finduilas, his beautiful Faelivrin who once would have been his wife, was different. He could understand her not wanting to commit herself to him in his ruined form—though his heart was bitter for her eyes losing their love of him and turning elsewhere, and he wondered in jealousy and heartbreak if she had ever truly loved him at all—but he had thought she knew him best of anyone. That she would know that he would _never_ betray his people willingly. That she would tell them they were being foolish.

But she said nothing.

And it took him long to realize that he was on the outside looking in. That he would _always_ be on the outside looking in.

No longer was he Gwindor Guilinion of Nargothrond. He was just Gwindor, an old and wasted slave from the pits of Angband, something to pity and gawk at with horror. He was no longer a warrior or a soldier or a warden or a lord. He was no longer tall and straight-backed and fit and fair. He was no longer even really an elf, not in their eyes. He was just an outsider. A stranger.

He would never be one of them again.

And his stomach shriveled in disappointment and his heart throbbed in rage and his eyes stung with tears that would never be allowed to fall. Because all he had wanted in the pits of Angband was to return _home._ To feel _love._

But this place was no longer his home. And, though they did not cast him out, he knew that he was not truly and wholly welcome.

And though he struggled on despite his sorrow, Gwindor knew that he would die soon. In battle or of grief he could not say. But he would not die in happiness or with hope or with love. His dreams were gone and his hope was vanquished. All that he had wished for and prayed for in the hell of Angband had passed him by long before he had risked his life in his daring escape. He would not die fulfilled.

He perceived that, in the end, he would die alone and shivering.

He would die a thrall of Angband. A nameless, wasted husk of bone. No one would care. No one would even remember.

And all the warmth of the sun and all the softness of the grass and all the taste of unspoiled water could not change that horror.

He would be on the outside until the very end.

And he knew that, if he had a chance to ever go back, to ever speak again to those he left behind to die in the dark and cold mines beneath Angband, he would tell them not to try to escape. He would tell them that they would be happier dying alone and in the dark. They would be happier dying without knowing the truth and cruelty and pettiness of the world.

They would be happier dying without the bitter disappointment and the suffocating despair of being turned away.

They would be happier dying with hope in their breasts and visions of light behind their eyes. For those thralls in the dark and dank places of Angband would die dreaming of the arms of their loved ones embracing them and welcoming them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Ai = Oh! (exclamation)  
> Guilinion = Son of Guilin  
> Úmarthion = Son of Úmarth


	326. Stumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaining wisdom through experience. It's sort of like learning to walk. Probably painful when you fall on your ass, but, without the mistakes, you wouldn't learn a damn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 11, 2016.
> 
> Part of the Cleansed Arc with genderbent reborn!Maeglin and the Winter Arc wherein Elrohir meets Mithrellas at the beginning of the Fourth Age. Thus, it has some sappy romantic elements, but mostly is character introspection. Elrohir stops being a douchebag. He just needed a shove in the right direction.
> 
> I probably won't make him chose mortality. But I thought about it. Am I that mean? Hm...
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aragorn = Estel

_“To stumble and fall is part of growing, like a child learning to walk,”_ his father had once told him. _“We are not born with wisdom and experience, and we all make mistakes. It is how we learn our true path and become who we are.”_

As a child, of course, Elrohir had not understood this at all. He had thought it so silly. _”Of_ course _thou fallest when learning to walk, Ada. But what does that have to do with mistakes?”_

_”One day, when thou art grown, thou wilt understand.”_

Even as an adult, he realized, this truth had passed him by.

Always, he had thought his biggest mistake was _not being there_ when his mother needed him. That, because of the frivolity and irresponsibility of his and his brother’s youth— _because they had spent that morning splashing at each other in a stream and laughing at stupid tales and chasing each other through the soft grass instead of making good time, knowing that they would arrive at the appointed meeting place late_ —he had doomed his mother to suffer at the hands of her attackers to the point that she could no longer live with the pain. 

If they had just left early. If they had just arrived on time. If they had just been there to protect her. If and if and if…

He had thought it was _their fault_ that she left them behind, unable to bear the weight of her torment. That it was _their fault_ that she was too broken to stay, that she could not stand to have them hug her tightly or kiss her cheeks. That, if they had just been responsible adults, if they had just been on time, if they had just _done the right thing_ , then maybe she would never have been captured. Maybe they would have been there to save her.

He had felt guilt. _Such guilt!_ It had choked the life out of him with its whispering, ensnaring tendrils of doubt and of shame. It had driven him forth in rage and in pain, searching for a release. Anything to ease the burden.

He had blamed himself. As Elladan had blamed himself.

But he knew now that, while perhaps that mistake had been costly, it had not been intentional. It was circumstantial. All ifs. No choices made knowing the consequences.

It had been an accident.

But his mistakes afterwards had _not_ been.

No one had forced him to turn his back on his father and sister, both of whom were grieving just as much as he, both of whom had needed comfort and support instead of scowls and cold shoulders. No one had forced him to leave behind his home and live in the mountains, slaying orcs and brooding in the dark on thoughts of blood and ruthless death. No one had forced him to lose his sense of humor and his mischievous nature and his rolling laughter, instead becoming a wraith-like creature, a pale and ghostly vision of the beauty his spirit had once contained.

No one had forced him to become callus and rude and merciless. No one had forced him to become self-centered and thoughtless and harsh. No one had forced him to ignore his family and abandon his friendships, thinking them nothing but hindrances to his quest.

And when Arwen fell in love with a mortal, he had scoffed and called her foolish and had done nothing to help her, his empathy spent and rotted. And when his father had grown tired and wane in the coming darkness, he had still gone abroad and ignored his duties at home, too caught up in his own thoughts. And when all the world was falling apart, only grudgingly had he agreed to lend his aid in the face of war and shadow, and only because he was obsessed with the violence of his rage and thirst for vengeance that he had no care for himself or his own safety.

And when Elladan had seen through the veil of guilt and rage—when his brother had found salvation and happiness in the arms of dark, sweet Lómiel with her twilight-gray eyes and had abandoned the quest for vengeance and redemption that had dominated Elrohir’s life—the younger brother had been _furious_. Sickened. He had hated his brother. He had hated his brother’s lover. He had hated their love.

He had hated everything.

Now, he regretted. 

He had missed seeing his father and grandmother off to the Havens. Horribly, selfishly, he had brushed off the summons to come home, to farewell those departing from the Last Homely House and Lothlórien to go into the West. Though many of his friends and loved ones had stayed, his brother and grandfather and Glorfindel and Erestor amongst them, there were many who he had once considered friends—comrades in arms, fellow defenders of the valley—who had gone. Many he would likely never see again.

He had also missed seeing the birth of his first niece or nephew. Probably the second, too. Arwen had fallen pregnant soon after marrying Estel, and he had not even sent word asking if their first child was a boy or a girl. There had been rumors of Lómiel falling pregnant as well, spreading throughout the valley just before his departure.

In fact, he had departed mostly _because_ he had heard that she was pregnant. Because his brother was going to become a father.

Because he had felt betrayed. Because he couldn’t believe that Elladan was moving on, starting a family and cultivating his happiness. Because he couldn’t believe his brother just _fell in love_ with that raven-haired woman and _forgot_ all about the sin that they had committed.

Because he couldn’t accept that Elladan had left him behind.

He had run off to the remnants of the Golden Wood. There, he had planned to sneak away and disappear, and he had had no intention of ever coming back. It was not as if any of them would notice that he was gone, he had thought. It was not as if any of them would care.

Even had he, ever so briefly, considered making his Choice in haste. Considered choosing to become one of the Aftercomers if only to spite his brother’s bliss.

Eru, but he’d been such a fool.

 _I made so many mistakes._ And he was almost too ashamed to face them again—his brother and sister and their spouses, his lonely and heartbroken grandfather and his worried friends—knowing that _he_ had _abandoned them_ in their times of need. That he had not been there for the moments which were most important. This time not accidentally or coincidentally, but _with purpose._ It made him feel _sick_. In some ways more so than ever had the guilt for failing his mother.

 _“We all make mistakes.”_ And then he heard _her_ voice in his mind, the softest tolling of bells in his ears, the sound of the stars overhead given life. _“Some make bigger mistakes than others. But did thy father not once say that we all stumble and fall before we learn how to walk?.”_

 _“I think I did more than stumble,”_ he had wryly replied. _“I turned my back on everything that I ever loved. I became a man who selfishly abandons his family in their time of need. I became someone that I hate.”_

 _“And you can change that if thou dost desire,”_ she had countered, her cool hand brushing his cheek and tracing a furrowed eyebrow. _“Thou hast seen through the dark clouds of thy rage and thy pain. Thou hast seen the burden and suffering thou hast brought upon those thou lovest._

 _“But now thou canst take those experiences and make thyself anew,”_ she told him. _“A better person for it. All thou needest to do is try, Elrohir.”_

All he had to do was try. It sounded so easy but in truth was so difficult.

But he would try. Not only for her. Not only for his family. Not only for the nieces and nephews he wasn’t sure he had and for the siblings whose love he had shunned. Not only for the friends he still had left behind or the possibility still of long days of bliss and contentment in the waning darkness.

He would also try for himself.

He had long ago turned off the path of light and disappeared into darkness and despair. He had let it consume all that he was. And the doubt and the horror and the guilt had eaten away at the man he had been until his spirit was filled with aching holes. The terror and the fury and the lust for vengeance had filled in the gaps with fire and fog. Until he had been nothing but a being lost in the opaque blackness of his own hatred, a shadow of what he had once been.

Yet, he found his way back into the light. He had simply needed a helping hand, a star peeking through the dread and twisted arms of the dank forest overhead, a silver light to guide his way. That, _she_ had been for him, and he for her. And he would not squander this chance.

Now, he thought he understood Elladan better than ever. Perhaps Lómiel had been Elladan’s Mithrellas, his guiding light in the darkness.

And he would make it up to his brother and sister. To Estel and to Lómiel. To the nieces and nephews he had never even met. To everyone who he had thought to leave behind to mourn his passing into anonymity and unknown.

Against all the odds, he had found his feet again.

Elrohir had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Ada = daddy or papa


	327. Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Turgon and Glorfindel and Ecthelion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 12, 2016.
> 
> Long. Like, I started this intending to make snapshots and the damn thing grew out of control. This is probably the longest chapter I've written in this entire anthology. Though, with a prompt like Friendship, I could probably write about the whole damn Silmarillion.
> 
> Anyway, this ties in the Fall of Gondolin (Glorfindel and Erestor Arc) with Ecthelion's origins (Lalwendë Arc) and everything Turgon-related. Also related, I suppose, to Sword (because I'm that kind of nerd, yes). Anyway, my explanation for how Ecthelion and Glorfindel ended up being such prominent figures in Gondolin in the First Age.
> 
> Warnings: Death!fic. Mostly non-explicit gore. Terrible fight scenes. Valinorean culture problems. Illegitimate children and slut-shaming. Disowning. Family issues. Insanity. I probably missed some stuff, but those are all the big things, I think.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno (non-canonical nickname)  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil = Laurë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Lalwen = Lalwendë  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Aredhel = Írissë

When Ehtelion was a child, he had been shunned.

It really wasn’t too surprising. Illegitimate children were frowned upon even in the lower classes, and it was no secret that his mother was not married or that her sons had different fathers. Young as he had been, Ehtelion hadn’t really understood _why_ that was such a terrible thing—the mysterious of societal precedence and the taboo of sexuality had been beyond his tender years—but he knew that it was _bad._

It was the reason that the adults at the marketplace never smiled at them and gave them free sweets. It was the reason that eyes followed them wherever they went, accompanied by frowns or sneers. It was the reason that parents pulled their children away, whispering into their ears, painting those same ugly looks on the faces of their offspring.

It was the reason that Ehtelion did not have any friends.

After all, who would want the stigma of befriending the bastard son of a whore?

A handful of moments on one sunny afternoon in the marketplace, however, changed everything. Looking back upon those precious moments, Ehtelion knew that it had redirected his fate. It had changed his destiny. A boy with no friends, growing up as the shunned illegitimate child of a disowned noblewoman, would grow into a man whose name was sung into legend for Ages after his passing.

And it started like this…

\---

A hand on his sleeve. A rude voice in his ear.

“Thou dost look familiar. Who art thou?”

Two children, one dark-haired and one golden. A noldo and a vanya. One with eyes the color of Telperion’s light, the palest of silver-whites, and the other with orbs carved from sapphire, so big and so blue and so open. They were dressed like the children of nobility, all clad in soft fabric and fine embroidery, and Ehtelion had felt terribly out of place.

“My name is Ehtelion,” he had told them hesitantly.

“Ehtelion…” The dark-haired child tasted the name on his tongue and crinkled his nose. “Is thy father really named _Ehtelë?_ I did not think someone would name their son after fountains, but…”

“Turno!” the vanya exclaimed. “That’s rude!”

“It’s just a question!”

Ehtelion had not been offended. “Actually… that is my amilessë.”

That got him strange looks from the pair. “What an odd thing to be named.”

And Ehtelion found himself agreeing. Oft had he wondered at the origins of his own name, but he had never asked and did not think his mother would give him a straight answer even if he _had_ desired to know. For all he knew, maybe his father’s name really _was_ Ehtelë!

“Well, Ehtelion, thou dost remind me of someone…” The dark-haired boy said this, white-gray eyes narrowing in deep thought. At the time, Ehtelion had felt rather like a bug being examined in intimate detail, or perhaps like a peach at the fruit stall as it was turned hither and thither under observation of a potential buyer. Thoroughly disconcerted and uncomfortable, he had waited for the boy to be finished gawking.

Finally, the boy exclaimed as one who has had an epiphany. “Thou dost remind me of my grandfather!”

Ehtelion had felt like he had a knot in the back of his throat, preventing him from drawing breath. Because _that_ was something he had heard before.

 _“Thou dost look so like thy grandfather. A noldo in every angle and curve.”_ The memory of his mother’s hands stroking his cheeks, curling under his chin and lifting, of her fingers brushing back his dark hair and tucking it behind his ear, were like phantoms on his skin. _“Thou hast his demeanor, yonya, and his smile.”_

His resemblance to his maternal grandfather had always left his mother melancholy and distant. Mostly because, as she had once explained to him, her father had stricken her from the family and thrown her out. _Disowned_ , she called it.

Instantly, he had wished to look like anyone else. He would have rather looked like his nameless father! But, unfortunately, one did not get to choose such things.

So Ehtelion knew he looked like the King. But Turno hadn’t said _“Thou dost look like the King!”_ He had said _“Thou dost remind me of my grandfather.”_

If they shared a grandfather, that would make them cousins. Which meant this boy, Turno, could possibly be a legitimate son of the House of Finwë. And that left Ehtelion at a loss for what to say. What _did_ one say in such a situation? _Hello, I am thy bastard cousin. Nice to meet thee. Now that thou dost know my shame, we shall likely never meet again._

But that time had not been the time for revelations. Instead, this realization seemed to please Turno. “What a lovely coincidence!” the young prince had exclaimed. “Now that thou hast introduced thyself, I am Turukáno, and this is Laurefindil. Perhaps thou wouldst not mind showing us around the market?”

And Ehtelion had not the heart to turn them away. Even if it was just for one afternoon, he would know another member of his family by blood. Even if it was just for one afternoon, he would have friends. For, once they knew of his lowly status, they would never deign speak to him ever again.

“Okay,” he had agreed.

And they spent the rest of the day sneaking around the market. Ehtelion had shown them the best place to buy sweet fruits and the bakery that made the tastiest cakes. He had shown them the stall that had the best toys and the shop that had the most beautiful pieces of metalwork and carvings of precious stone and pearl.

At the end of the day, as Laurelin waned and Telperion waxed, he had waved the pair off, ignoring the stares of and knowing eyes of the patrons and shop-owners and market-goers. And he had assumed he would never see either of them again. But nonetheless, he had been happy to have friends for one afternoon.

He had been wrong to assume.

\---

They came back again the next day. And the next. And the next.

And, soon enough, they did other things besides explore the marketplace. He showed them the city and the quaint village-like outskirts. He showed them the woods outside his mother’s humble cottage. He played with them in the pond with the clear blue water and the lily pads and the soft silt. He had napped in the sunshine with them in his favorite glade, all huddled together in a pile, exhausted after a long day at play.

It took him a while to realize that he had _friends._ Of course, they did not yet seem aware of his illegitimacy, but nevertheless…

He even brought them home to meet his mother. And she had just smiled blithely and offered them freshly-baked apple pie. Only Ehtelion noticed how her eyes caught on Turukáno’s face with wistfulness and distant sorrow. And it was then that Ehtelion knew he was definitely right in his assumption that he and this dark-haired child were cousins.

When Turukáno and Laurefindil left in the evening, his mother sighed and stroked his head and kissed his brow.

 _“Turukáno looks very much like his father,”_ she had said.

Ehtelion did not ask what she meant by her words. He already knew.

\---

The first time Turukáno thought to bring his new friend home, Ehtelion was hesitant.

“I am not certain that thy family will approve of me,” he admitted. “I am not certain whether or not thou didst know, but I am not… I am not legitimate. I do not even know my father’s name, and he certainly is not married to my mother.”

For a few long moments, Ehtelion had feared that he would finally be turned away. But even as his heart began to sink, a leaden rock falling to the bottom of a dark pool of disappointment, he felt a hand on his elbow. He looked up, and his eyes met that pale gaze. And Turukáno offered him a half-smile.

“I already knew,” his unknowing cousin admitted. “I knew as soon as Laurefindil and I came to visit thee and thy mother. And I do not care.”

And Ehtelion could not help but cry then, sniffling like a young child. His nose turned bright red and his eyes became swollen and puffy, but he was smiling even as he scrubbed at the salty tracks across his cheeks. “I thank thee,” he whispered.

“Thou dost not need to,” Turukáno replied, graciously ignoring Ehtelion’s blatant loss of composure. “Now, come. Laurefindil and his sister Elenwë will be there. I’ve already told Atar and Amillë all about thee, and they will be disappointed if they do not get the chance to meet one of my dearest friends.”

And Ehtelion, for the first time, ventured out amongst his family by blood. 

He stepped into a townhouse that spoke of opulence and wealth, and he wondered if once his mother had lived in such a manner. The carpets were thick and soft beneath his feet, intricate patterns woven by the most skillful hands. And the foyer seemed bigger than his mother’s entire house! Everything was just so clean and polished, all marble and shell, all silver and gold and silk and velvet and all manner of gems. It was like stepping into another life.

Eagerly, Turukáno brought him up the stairs and into a sitting room. Ehtelion recognized Laurefindil immediately, and the vanya smiled broadly at him from where he sat. There was also an older boy who resembled Turukáno sharply but was on the cusp of adulthood—his older brother Findekáno—and a golden-haired girl with the brightest eyes, who could only have been Elenwë. Both of them greeted him politely, and Ehtelion detected no disdain in their voices.

But then there were Turukáno’s parents.

Lady Anairë was beautiful if a little on the short side. Compared to his mother, Ehtelion thought this woman could even be called petite. Her hair was pitch dark and her eyes were the palest of blue. Beside her sat a man who could only be Turukáno’s father and Ehtelion’s mother’s brother. Nolofinwë, the oldest son of Finwë Noldorán and Indis of the Vanyar. Turukáno looked very much like to him, but Nolofinwë had darker gray eyes and a very stern face indeed. Immediately, Ehtelion could see this man’s resemblance to his mother if only in outward appearance rather than mood and expression.

The moment Nolofinwë looked at him, Ehtelion saw the blood drain from the that stony face. Skin went whiter than a sheet and eyes widened fractionally. No doubt Nolofinwë could see what Turukáno had first seen in the strange young elf with the odd amilessë. But Nolofinwë would know about Lalwendë, would know about her disownment and banishment from the family, and the reasons why. Namely, her illegitimate children.

Him and his brother.

All it took for Nolofinwë to realize Ehtelion’s identity was one glance.

“Atar, Amillë, this is Ehtelion,” Turukáno introduced, seemingly unaware of how tense the air had become between his friend and his father, both of whom were still as statues and staring at one another without making a sound.

“Well met, my prince and lady,” the young elf greeted with all the politeness that he could muster, bowing deeply at the waist. And he pretended not to be aware of Nolofinwë’s awareness. Even though he was quite certain that the older elf knew that he knew. When he rose back to his full height, he refused to meet anyone’s gaze. “I would thank thee for graciously welcoming me into thy home. I will do my best to behave properly.”

“Now, that is no fun at all!” Turukáno exclaimed. And then he was pulling Ehtelion away. “Let us go outside. The sunshine is much nicer than all this stuffy finery and lace. Perfect for reading books.”

“Reading books?” he heard Laurefindil interject. “Let us play a game instead!”

“Oh…” A female voice butted in. “How about that one… thou knowest it right, the chasing game. Laurë can be chaser first..."

And he soon forgot all about his uncle’s blanched features and all about the awkward silence and all about the thick tension. Ehtelion was among friends. 

And he did not see the figure standing at the window two stories above, staring down at the four children running about and playing among the grass and the golden flowers, alight in the waning radiance of Laurelin.

\---

“Atya told me.”

It was the moment Ehtelion had been dreading. From where he sat in the shade, he looked up to see Turukáno standing above him, frowning and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “What did he tell thee?”

“That we are cousins.” Turukáno plopped down in the grass beside him. “Why didst thou not say anything? Didst thou think I would be too ashamed to name thee friend?”

 _Honestly…_ “Yes. My brother and I are a physical manifestation of the shame our mother brought upon thy House. Why wouldst thou _not_ be ashamed to be seen in my presence? By all rights, thou shouldst walk away now and never look back. Thy future reputation would be better for it, Turno.”

The princeling huffed, and Ehtelion was entirely unprepared for how his friend and cousin flopped over to rest atop his stomach. Bony elbows dug in just below his ribs. “I am not certain whether or not I should be insulted.”

“I meant no offense,” Ehtelion said, wincing, “But it would not be the first time.”

And Turukáno’s frown deepened. “I said I did not care about thy illegitimacy, and I still do not, Ehtelion. Cousins or not, we are friends. Anyone who bothered to take the time to know thee instead of shunning thee for something thou canst not help and are not at fault for, they would see that thou art a fine elf and a fine friend. Tis their loss.”

And, again, Ehtelion was moved nearly to tears. “Thou art a fine friend, too, Turukáno.”

For once, that dour face curved into a genuine smile. “At least someone thinks so. Now, let us go inside. I smell thy mother’s cooking.”

“Glutton,” Ehtelion accused. And they both laughed.

\---

“I think I am in love with thy sister.”

Ehtelion looked up to see Turukáno and Laurefindil staring at one another. 

The trio were now just passing into adulthood, and all had reached their full heights and nearly developed their full body mass, losing the gangly long-leggedness of adolescence in favor of stronger muscles and broader shoulders. Laurefindil’s face had lost some of its roundness, and his smile now was handsome and comely rather than cute and angelic. Turukáno had grown into his Noldorin heritage well, all straight lines and angles, his face looking less odd in its sternness without baby-fat on his cheeks.

Ehtelion, for his part, knew that he looked very much like Finwë, though perhaps more wild and less sorrowful. He was not the tallest of elves, but he had been told that he carried a sort of charisma that passed most by. _“If thou wert a king, people would follow thee loyally and without question,”_ Turukáno had once said, _“Just like they do Finwë.”_ Luckily, however, he did not oft encounter people familiar enough with the King to see the strong, undeniable resemblance.

Now, he watched as his two oldest friends stood stock still and measured up against one another, both with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

Finally, Laurefindil’s face softened. “I knew that already. Lucky for thee, I approve of thy suit, or I would chase thee off.”

Then Turukáno relaxed. “Then I have thy permission to court Lady Elenwë.”

Laurefindil laid a hand on Turukáno’s shoulder and smiled. “Of course.”

The courting was swift and the marriage followed shortly thereafter. It was a Vanyarin affair, all poetry and flowers and white dresses with lace, but Ehtelion didn’t think he had ever seen two people look happier than Turukáno and Elenwë on the day of their wedding. Both he and Laurefindil had stood with Turukáno, and Ehtelion had not even minded the uncomfortable courtly finery and frivolity so much. It was worth it.

He only hoped that, when he finally found the woman who would capture his heart, he would also have his dearest friends at his side when he said his vows.

\---

Unfortunately, life does not always go as planned.

For, no one could have expected the Darkening. So swiftly after the birth of Itarillë, Turukáno’s daughter who had her mother’s golden curls falling in ringlets about her chubby little face, there came the day that the light of the Two Trees went out. The day that chaos and madness consumed the people. Torches were lit, their red flames as beacons in darkness so black that one could see not even the stars. And all the Noldor gathered in Tirion to listen to their Crown Prince speak.

They all gathered and were told that Finwë was dead.

Ehtelion did not know what to think of that. All he knew was that, as he stood far back and watched the royal family squabble and debate what to do, he felt his mother’s grasp on his arm grow harsh and bruising, heard the little hitches of her breath as she began to silently weep, and could only lean towards her and let her rest against his side. Her despair was palpable.

Over her head, he exchanged a glance with his brother. Blue-eyed Aranwë was somber in face, dark circles stark beneath his eyes.

They waited and listened. By all rights, they should have been up there joining in on the debate. Ehtelion should have been up there, shoulder-to-shoulder with Turukáno and with Laurefindil and with all his cousins. His voice should have been heard. But he bit his tongue and remained with his brother and mother, and he trusted Turukáno to speak in his stead.

Not that it mattered what anyone said. Fëanáro was a potent drug. One to which none of them were immune. He riled them into vengeful rage and bloodthirsty rebellion with such ease that it was frightening, pulling the despairing from their grief and filling the dark places in their mind instead with the fire of purpose and desire for justice. Even Ehtelion, who had never had any particular fondness for the Crown Prince, felt his blood stirring at those sly words. Felt his body grow taut in restlessness, his muscles shuddering in wait.

They were going to war.

And Ehtelion would follow Turukáno and Laurefindil to wherever they would go. Into Exile. Into the wilds. Into battle.

Into war.

That was the meaning of trust and friendship. To watch one another’s backs. To be there no matter what. To make sacrifices for one another and protect one another and support one another.

And, though Ehtelion was nervous of leaving behind all that he knew, he was hardly going to abandon that unspoken oath he shared with his closest friends, his brothers in all but blood. Not even now, in the face of incomprehensible evil and the terrifying shadows of the unknown beyond Aman.

They were worth the sacrifices.

\---

But there were times when he wished he had stayed behind. When, in the back of his mind, he named himself naïve fool for listening to fey Fëanáro, for daring to believe in the words of that conniving, back-stabbing murderer.

Times like the bitter days of the crossing of Helcaraxë, when his skin was whipped raw by wind and cold and his tears froze into crystals upon his eyelashes and stuck them together and the dryness of the air was such that his nose began to drip blood. Times like the day when Elenwë fell through the ice, her scream cutting as a poisoned knife through the howling air, their eyes only seeing just her hand as it slipped down into the darkness, nails broken from clawing for dear life to no avail. And the smears of blood in her wake.

Times like the aftermath. When Turukáno wept like a child, on his knees, bawling and wailing and beating his fists on the ground. When Laurefindil huddled like a dead thing in his shelter of ice and snow, shivering and staring straight ahead, his normally expressive eyes so frighteningly blank and empty. When little Itarillë had lost her mother and her father and her uncle all in one swift blow, leaving her grasping desperately for help when her father refused to sleep and when her uncle wouldn’t eat.

But Ehtelion took them under his wing and gave the girl into the keeping of her grandfather and her father’s siblings. It was Ehtelion who brought Turukáno through all his tears and all his rages. It was Ehtelion who sat beside Laurefindil in his quietude and rubbed his hands across that broad back in comfort. It was Ehtelion who forced food and drink down their throats, who bade them sleep each night and forced them to rise each day.

Until they came back into their senses. And, though they were changed men, their friendship had only grown deeper. They had been there for him when Ehtelion had been nothing but a lowly, poor bastard child, friendless and alone. Now he would be there for them in the grief of their loss and in the dawn of their recovery.

That, he did not regret.

\---

After Helcaraxë, both Turukáno and Laurefindil had been different. Ehtelion had been different. 

Their joy and hope remembered from the days of youth, their playfulness and their lighthearted brotherhood, had been marred forever. Before the Grinding Ice, Turukáno had smiled but rarely and crookedly, his hard face only sometimes softening enough to allow an expression of tenderness. Now he smiled naught at all. Not even for Itarillë. And Laurefindil, who had once been the merry man of their bunch, had lost some of the golden light that had so personified his spirit. Instead, he seemed to be paler and colder, his eyes darker and his skin fairer and his voice sharpened with an edge of jagged ice. 

Ehtelion had grown to be, dare he think it, the older brother of their trio, strange as that was. It was he now who needed to joke to steal away tension and soothe to keep raw tempers from rising. He had always been fairly level-headed, but now he tried to be a support upon which his dearest friends could lean should they need to be weak if only for a few moments.

He was loyal to a fault. And he followed them to the very end.

He followed Turukáno all the way to Gondolin. To the beautiful pearl of a city lying at the center of the emerald sea of Tumladen. To the long years locked away in that beautiful prison. The years which were, perhaps, the ones which placed the most strain upon them all.

At first, it had been fine. He remembered when Turukáno had given him and Laurefindil lordships. How their new king had tried his very best to force out something vaguely resembling a smile as he presented each of them with a standard. _“Laurefindil, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower,”_ he had said, _“And Ehtelion, Lord of the House of the Fountain.”_

 _“After my father, right?”_ he had teased. It had won him a bark of laughter from Laurefindil and an almost-grin from Turukáno.

 _“After your father,”_ the King had agreed.

But, even so, the growing darkness seemed to weigh heavily upon Turukáno’s heart, more so than anyone else. Even here, holed away in paradise, they were not untouched by the evil of the North. Even here, they were not safe from its daunting terror rising as a nightmare from their thoughts, ever upon the edges of their minds. In those young days of the city, Turukáno had been wise but wary, and he had kept his people enclosed but had not necessarily forbade them to go abroad.

Then they lost Írissë. Suddenly, no one was allowed to leave the city. Suddenly, the King pulled away even from his two most trusted lords, lost in his thoughts. Suddenly, shadows passed through once-pale eyes, bringing them to the hue of storm clouds rising upon the foam-encrusted waves of the wild ocean waters.

Then Írissë came back with a son. And then she was killed. And, in a fit of rage, Turukáno had her mate thrown from the walls of the city to his death upon the rocks below. And Ehtelion could not help but wonder where the sanity of his King had gone. The Turukáno he had known would never have done as such to a loved one of his loved one, especially not in vengeance. The Turukáno he had known would have shown compassion—especially for the now-orphaned nephew who had lost both parents in one fell blow, in a single night—and would have spared his sister’s murderer.

Then the Dagor Bragollach. Then the death of Nolofinwë. Once, Turukáno would have wept bitterly for his father. But he did not shed a tear. As if Nolofinwë meant nothing to him at all. As if all beyond his walls were outside of his world. And Ehtelion grew worried.

This man was not the Turukáno he had known, the man he had come to love in friendship. And, when he caught Laurefindil’s saddened gaze, he knew the other could see it, too. The encroaching darkness.

But they remained at the side of their dearest friend. They would not abandon him now. Not when he needed them most.

Not when the Nirnaeth Arnoediad followed. Not after seeing the stricken, ghost-like look on that face after Turukáno had watched his brother’s helm cleaved and two and seen their Enemy beat that body into mincemeat and dance in the splattered blood and entrails and shards of bone. Their friend went to war King of Gondolin and returned High King of the Noldor. Maddened with visions of red haze, fearful of anything coming in or out of his walls, spending more and more time locked up in the highest room of his Tower in the city square, Turukáno became a creature of primal rage and ice-cold pride.

Not even when Tuor came bearing the news they had awaited for so long—ill news of the impending fall of their beloved home—was the heart of the King swayed to reason. Ehtelion had thought then, perhaps, Turukáno would come to his senses, would begin preparations to escape the Echoriath should they come into such dire straits. And yet, the King’s pride was too adamantine and his fear of the beyond too livid and haunting behind his pale gray eyes.

Nothing was done.

Nothing _could_ be done. Not even the words of Laurefindil and Ehtelion could change the King’s mind. Not even the pleading of his beloved daughter could sway his thoughts. Not even the future of his only grandchild, little Eärendil, could stir his heart to reason.

Still, they stayed.

To the very end. To the moment when the visions of scarlet came true and flame splashed like a wave of blood over the mountaintops from the north, spilling down into the valley and setting it aflame. To the day when there came dragons and Balrogs and orcs by the thousands spilling into their paradise, tainting it with filth and staining it with death.

Until they were all of them gathered in the city square, hopeless and cornered, dead men walking. Until, finally, Turukáno threw down his crown of rubies and mithril, and his voice was hoarse. “Great is the Fall of Gondolin,” he whispered, “And I have brought us all to our dooms with my pride. An instrument I have been in this ill fate. Why art thou still here? Why dost thou still defend a King who puts himself above his lords and his people?”

And there were so many things that Ehtelion had wanted to say. _Because thou didst see me, not a bastard nobody,_ he wanted to say. _Because thou wert friend to me when no one else would dare even share my gaze._

_Because we are brothers in all but blood. And I love thee._

But all he said was: “Because we are friends. Are we not?”

They had shared a look then. “We are.”

And, in the end, when news had come to them of the Secret Way, they had sent Laurefindil to flee with Itarillë and Tuor and Eärendil, to protect the escapees. The cousins had exchanged a silent glance with their eyes, a quick thing between the sparks littering the air and the black smoke rising from the burning city below and the beautiful, terrible flames licking at the gates to the Square. As they watched the last of Laurefindil’s company disappear just before the Enemy had burst forth in all its might and glory, bringing the final destruction and despair upon the might that was once Gondolin, they had both known they would not live out the hour.

Turukáno retreated to his Tower—a diversion, for he did so in plain sight, Glamdring held aloft and glowing as he screamed insults at the Enemy and mocked them with his raw voice—and Ehtelion stayed to defend the Square. And he fought.

He fought and fought and fought. And he knew not if anyone else was alive. But the Tower of the King yet stood.

And he fought some more.

He fought until he thought his body would give in and fail. He fought until sweat stung his eyes. He fought until his heart fluttered as the wings of a hummingbird in his chest. Even when he came face-to-face with Gothmog—with Fëanáro’s bane—he fought, though he hadn’t a hope of destroying the monster that could end a being of such power and flame as the Crown Prince, Finwë’s firstborn son.

He was burned and scorched. Whips of fire slashed apart his tunic and rent great molten dents in his armor. And he fought on.

His arm was bent wrong, his shoulder wrenched. The Balrog jerked him like a ragdoll, and Orcrist slipped through his numb fingers and into the water below. He had fought until all he had left was the point upon the top of his helm, and he aimed it for the beast’s heart.

It fell upon him in the death throes. And they went into the fountain.

And Ehtelion was so tired. His exhausted body tried to swim, but his arm was lamed and his armor was heavy and his muscles burned. He opened his mouth and it filled with water. He tried to scream, and the cold liquid was sucked into his lungs in a burning wave. He tried to cough, and it went into his nose and it burned his eyes and it stole all the air away until there was no sweet oxygen left.

He sunk deeper into the fountain.

 _My namesake. I understand now,_ he thought faintly.

And, as he felt blackness pulling at the edges of his vision, he looked up through the water and beheld the midday sun gleaming through the black haze, its light dancing in glittering waves upon the fountain’s surface. Rainbows sprang and arched through the spraying waters, droplets caught in Arien’s rays. And, beyond that, the Tower of the King crumpled and began to fall through a swirl of ash and rubble, toppling at last to earth.

He closed his eyes, knowing Turukáno would not be far behind.

_I shall see thee on the other side._

And he let go. Fulfilled.

\---

He perceived at first cold. Then gray. But no pain.

Then the smell of sunshine and the sight of blue eyes. Soft hands and a gentle smile. A fair, bell-like voice tolling in greeting. Followed by winter gray and the smell of evergreen. The clasp of broad, warrior’s hands on his forearms and the tap of a brow against his own. The sound of his name upon familiar lips.

And Ehtelion smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> noldo = deep-elf (s)  
> vanya = fair elf (s)  
> Ehtelë = fountain  
> amilessë = mother-name  
> yonya = my son (shortened yondonya = yondo + nya)  
> Atar = Father  
> Amille = Mother  
> Vanyar = Fair elves (pl)  
> Atya = daddy, papa


	328. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the Fire of the House of Fëanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 13, 2016.
> 
> I actually wrote something Fëanor-centric. Kind of odd. For all that I like him as a character, I guess I just don't write about him very often. Or, at least, don't write from his POV often.
> 
> Anyway, just something that I've been thinking about recently. Introspection. Thinking about love and motivations. For the chapter, warnings include mentions of war, death, Kinslaying, rape, social ostracism, insanity and vengeance. The most explicit stuff, though, is just some blood imagery.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Morgoth = Moringotto  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Amras = Telufinwë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë  
> Amrod = Pityafinwë

Love. The greatest strength and greatest weakness of the Children of Ilúvatar.

Legends were sung oft of the greatness of love, of its power to accomplish the impossible and bring hope in the face of overwhelming adversity. Undoubtedly, there was something to be said for the strength that love could lend in times of need. It was a force which could drive a man or woman beyond their limits in desperation, finding within themselves some hidden strength that they had never imagined they possessed. It could bring them to the greatest mercy. It could drive them to the greatest sacrifice. It could urge them into the greatest bravery.

Truly, love could be the greatest of blessings.

Rarely, though, were told the stories of love’s greatest downfalls.

For, were not many of the greatest evil acts also spawned from love’s embrace?

Fëanáro did not pretend to know the hearts of others—he barely knew his own heart, after all—but he knew enough. He knew that jealousy and lust were the shadows of love, cast upon the mind by the perceived happiness of others. He knew that hatred was love’s fall from grace, that moment when something beautiful fell into ruin and turned black and rotted.

The Halls of the Waiting offered much time for thought. And Fëanáro therefore spent much time thinking rather than doing. When he was alive, there was always something to be _done_ and no time to contemplate much the doing. But in death, he had all the time in the world. Literally.

And he thought. He looked back upon his own actions in the dark days after the death of the Summer of Valinórë, and he thought. He watched the lives of his children and grandchildren play out before his eyes in swirling tapestries of Vairë layered upon the vast corridors, and he thought.

He contemplated Fire. And he contemplated Love.

And he wondered if they were not too dissimilar.

For people said that it was his inner fire which brought him to madness. That it was his inner fire which drove him to the greatest of glories and the most terrible of sins. That it was this mysterious _fire_ which scorched him and burned him until he was something beyond the ken of his own kin, something incomprehensible and beyond his own mortal shell.

_Fire._

Long had he contemplated this word. Many things had he been named: vehement and senile and fey and sadistic and remorseless. A being of selfishness. Perhaps. A being of viciousness. Sometimes, undoubtedly so. A being of Fire. Yes.

But heartless, he was not.

If anything, Fëanáro loved too much. So much that it consumed him. So much that it lit him aflame. Until his passion grew to such massive proportions—as an out-of-control wildfire eating away the flammable fabric of his rational mind—that it teetered upon the edge of ruin. Until he lingered upon the breaking point between _love_ and _hatred_ so precariously that, sometimes, he thought they might be one and the same. 

He was _anything_ but heartless.

After all, what sort of heartless person disobeyed the Powers of the World, went into exile and started a five hundred year long war over the death of a single loved one?

Certainly, there had been the Silmarilli. They were a part of him, the greatest creation of his own two hands, and the thought of having them defiled at the hands of Moringotto was enough to make him ill to his core. But reclaiming the Silmarilli was less about hoarding their light and more about depriving his Enemy of satisfaction of his dark lusts. It was not merely about taking back what belonged to him. It was about humiliating his foe. It was about getting vengeance.

It was about taking something precious away from his Enemy. As had been done to him when his father had been murdered upon the doorstep of his home. And what did Moringotto value above all else?

The Silmarilli.

And he hadn’t cared how it was done. He breathed in hatred, the searing ashes and embers, into his lungs, and they burned so badly in his chest. Until he _needed_ to quench their burn. Until he _needed_ to avenge his pain. Until he _needed_ so badly that nothing else mattered.

Until all he knew was that hatred. The ruins of Love.

And he had not cared that he needed to stain his hands with blood to make it stop.

What were some Telerin mariners to him in comparison with the agony that pulsed in his breast? What were they in comparison with seeing his father’s body splayed at his feet, blood pooled and spread out until it lapped at his feet? What were they to him, these traitors who would withdraw their oaths of friendship in his time of need, these strange creatures and their merciless lack of empathy?

They were no loss. Their sacrifice upon the altar of his broken love was nothing. And staining his soul with the sin of their murder was nothing.

And Arafinwë—a coward more concerned with his own salvation than with fighting to right this terrible wrong that had been committed against them, a trembling and pitiful being without spine. And Nolofinwë—cold and withdrawn Nolofinwë, mind focused on stealing away the means by which Fëanáro would accomplish the deed of vengeance. They did not burn. They did not love. They were empty creatures.

They were no loss. And Fëanáro’s conscience was not weighted by their potential deaths or humiliations. They were unworthy. They were _cold._

Blood in the waters of Alqualondë. Flames upon the swan-ships at Losgar.

The only regret in all that time of black madness. Hearing Telufinwë’s screams echoing across the waters lit in red and orange. Until all went silent. 

It had been a necessary sacrifice—a danger. For Telufinwë had the _Fire_. The only of his sons who had ever stood up to him and spat in the face of his fey hatred, turning against him and betraying his purposes. Love in that breast for the traitors and cowards overpowering even the love for the father, too powerful to be ignored or contained. Fëanáro had seen more of himself in his youngest than he had in any of his other children, even Curufinwë, and he had sheered his last son away.

He had cried only that once. And the pain in his breast had grown stronger. And the need to see through his vengeance had grown fiercer.

To the point of utter madness. A foolish charge unto death in Dagor-nuin-Giliath. His last moments looking up, in agony of spirit and of body, seeing the faces of his sons looking down with their star-eyes to match the heartless, distant speckles of Telperion’s dew scattered in the black blanket overhead. Feeling the pain in his chest twist and churn. The knowledge that he would never drag the Silmarilli from his Enemy’s hands. That he would never achieve the vengeance for his father’s death and his son’s sacrifice and his own sin-stained soul.

He bade them fulfill his Oath. And he burned away. Into grayness and coldness.

And they loved him just as fiercely as he loved his own father. Even though he had not been the best of fathers. Just as his own father sometimes had not been the best of fathers. They were faultlessly loyal. Just as he had been to his father. And they would avenge him. Just as he had sought to avenge his own father.

Watching them from beyond the grave, he saw the same downfall in each of them. And he despaired for them each in turn.

In how Nelyafinwë rose up above the torments of Angband—the dousing of his own spirit to sputtering embers in the wake of destruction—for the sake of protecting his brothers and fulfilling his father’s last wish. In how Kanafinwë was moved to the most terrifying of rage at threat to his family, moved to use hands that were meant for graceful and gentle strums of a harp to strangle the life out of his enemies. In how Turkafinwë loved so powerfully that it shattered his mind, and how his love was burned and he breathed in the ashes and thirsted for blood and fell apart at the seams. 

In how Morifinwë’s shyness and bashfulness were abandoned, a young and tender boy lost beneath a veneer of hard temper and sneering mockery and bubbling resentment hiding an aching and ruptured spirit. In how Curufinwë came to the very deepest depths of sorrow at the loss of his son and wife, and in how he came to the ultimate heights of hatred at the treatment of his brothers, driven to homicidal rage. In how Pityafinwë lost himself entirely, unable to comprehend the actions he had committed out of madness and love, unable to accept what he had done or forgive himself for his unraveling.

They were all of them burning away.

And Fëanáro could only sit and watch as his blessing and curse picked his family apart and killed them off one by one. How Turkafinwë fell to insanity. How Kanafinwë was lost to sorrow. How Curufinwë was consumed by depression. How Nelyafinwë was driven by obsession and Morifinwë surrendered to death and Pityafinwë welcomed it with open arms.

They—all of them—loved too much. And were lit aflame. And burned.

For what else but love could have driven them to slaughter the innocents of Doriath despite how they all longed to cease dealing out death? For what else but love could have driven them to then raise the Havens to the ground, killing even the refugees of their own kin, when each was sick to their stomach at the thought of such ruthlessness?

For what else but the agony of loss could have resulted in Nelyafinwë’s final plunge into the molten breast of the earth? For what else could make Kanafinwë punish himself with eternal loneliness, wandering aimlessly until the end of time without any end to his pain?

What else but love and desperation—for one another’s sake—could have brought about the greatest of sins and tragedies of the First Age?

No. No one ever spoke of love’s role in the darkest of deeds whispered about in the night with dread and wariness. They wanted to pretend that it was pure evil which had led to the spilling of innocent blood of kin at the hands of kin. They wanted to believe that, from the beginning, there had been no good intent in the hearts of Fëanáro and his sons and his followers. They wanted to believe that the Fire with which those of his House were lit inside and out was unholy and sinful.

But it was Love. It had always been Love.

And it would be again. And again. And again.

Because Fëanáro’s heart sank down to his toes when he thought of the pain and suffering of his children, the greatest and most beloved of his creations who he could not protect or comfort. Because Fëanáro’s spirit was blackened with rage when he thought of how his wife and daughters were shunned and ostracized merely because they were loyal to the House of their marriage. Because Fëanáro had never achieved his vengeance, and the _need_ had only grown thrice and tenfold over again with each hurt inflicted upon those that he loved.

Because, even though Fëanáro understood that he had been driven to wickedness by his own loss, by the backlash of his own love, he knew that he was not a creature of change. His Fire was still as hot as it had ever been.

And he sat. And he watched. And he planned.

And he burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = Silmarils (pl)


	329. Closing In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron comes for Celebrimbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 14, 2016.
> 
> Second Age story related most closely to the Lust Arc. Basically, more Celebrimbor angsting and some House of Fëanor allusions... because I can.
> 
> Warnings: General angsting. Betrayal and heartbreak. Impending torture and death. Some sex, though nothing really explicit. No gore either. Just build-up. Less scary shit than usually appears in a Sauron-containing story.
> 
> One Ring inscription:  
> Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul = One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them  
> Ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul = One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Annatar

In the back of his mind, Celebrimbor wondered if _this_ was how his grandfather had felt when Morgoth had murdered Finwë upon the steps of Formenos and stolen the Silmarilli right out from under his nose.

Because it was a horrible, unceasing, revolting _ache._ It was a rotting wound, festering and bleeding and leaking all manner of foul pus. It was a black cloud that hovered over his thoughts and tainted all that might bring him joy or comfort. It was the skip in his heartbeat and the hitch of his lungs, constricted to the point of burning within the confines of his ribcage.

It was impossible to ignore. The anger. The betrayal. The _pain._

And the awareness.

All the way to the core of his bones, he could feel it. His skin prickled uncomfortably and chills skittered down his spine. The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end and his blood rushed hot and fierce in alarm.

 _For, upon putting one of the Three upon his finger, he had_ felt _the searing, white-hot presence in the back of his mind. A hot-poker to the brain. Molten lava spilling down over his thoughts. Mindlessly, he had collapsed to the floor and stared at the glowing, unholy light set in the sapphire upon his finger. And he had heard_ that voice _in his ear, lilting in the foul speech of the black lands of Mordor…_

_“Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul…”_

_And he had felt his stomach rebel. Hunched over upon the floor in his own room, Celebrimbor had_ known _that something had gone terribly wrong. The metal upon his finger heated to an agonizing degree, and his other hand grasped and fumbled for the circlet of mithril, closing upon it and pulling viciously enough to tear the inner edge across his knuckle._

_“Ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul…”_

_And a swollen ring of flesh, broiled and reddened and blistered, had been left in its wake. And Celebrimbor’s ears had been ringing and ringing and ringing…_

_“Bind them… bind them… bind them…”_

_And he had looked up at his bed and saw golden curls spilled across his pillow. His lover was facing away, curled up beneath their shared sheets and resting silently. Pale, elegant hands were bare and exposed, and he could see no rings upon any of the fingers._

_Yet, in his heart, he knew that Annatar had betrayed him._

There was a Ruling Ring.

At the time, it had not appeared as though Annatar were aware of the three latest creations, the bejeweled beauties that Celebrimbor had crafted in his own hand alone. They were meant as a surprise which he had intended on sharing with his lover the very next day, a way to show off his craftsmanship before his lover.

Instead of sharing, he had them hidden, sent away with his swiftest messengers in the night. In the shadowed darkness, his mind had been caught in a net of panic.

_That voice was still in his ears. Annatar’s voice. Whispering in the Black Speech._

_“And in the darkness bind them…”_

_Carefully, he enclosed the last three rings. Narya and Nenya and Vilya. Fire and Water and Air. Two, he would send unto Lindon to be with Gil-galad. And one he would send to his father’s aunt, Galadriel. Those two were the most powerful elves still in Middle-Earth barring perhaps himself, and if anyone could keep the rings safe and protected, it would be they._

_The groggy messengers both hearkened quickly to his side upon his summons. Both were dark-haired and their eyes still faintly dazed with sleep. Each accepted his own package with reverent hands, unknowingly holding great power within his grasp._

_“One of these goes to the High King,” Celebrimbor ordered, pointing to the first, “And the other to the Lady Galadriel.” He motioned to the second._

_“My Lord,” one acknowledged hesitantly. Both were looking a bit bewildered that they had been awakened in the middle of the night to deliver a couple of tiny, wrapped parcels to the most powerful people yet in Middle-Earth._

_“Bear them with care,” he ordered wearily, cutting off any questions. “And, when thy task is complete, do not return. If there is something here thou dost need, take it with thee.”_

_Perhaps they had thought of his words as banishment at the time, for their eyes had gone wide with shocked horror at the thought of being sent abroad with orders to never return home. They did not know that it was rather a blessing in disguise. A small act of mercy._

For even then, Celebrimbor had felt a stalking presence in the dark. And he had known that Eregion would last not long. His home would fall. And its people.

Those two messengers would survive. And the Three would be safely hidden.

With those thoughts in mind, Celebrimbor had returned to bed and played at ignorance. And his entire body had trembled in cold terror as he laid beside his lover in the darkness and blew out the candles. His mind would grant him no rest, thoughts spiraling and twisting in a thicket of horror and nausea, and he stared wide-eyed at the wall of his bedchambers, pretending that he might find sleep.

In the morning, Annatar had rolled over and spooned up behind him, kissing the nape of his neck, and Celebrimbor had nearly shuddered in disgust.

But he had held back his knowledge of his lover’s deceit, instead turning around and pressing his lips to those of his lying scumbag of a lover. Instead, he had smiled and laughed softly at the teasing caress of a mouth upon his cheeks and nose and down his throat and across his chest. Instead, he had pushed all rational thought from his mind and desperately ignored the aching, stabbing pain in his chest that accompanied the gentle, early-morning lovemaking with the first rays of the sun creeping across the floor and wavering across the sheets.

And he had known his days were numbered. His time was nearly spent.

The curse of his House was finally upon him.

By now, he knew Annatar—Sauron in truth—knew of his deception and of the crafting of the Three. For the Dark Lord of Mordor, the once-Lieutenant of Angband, was knocking at the doors to the city with an army numbering in the thousands. Easily ten times the manpower that Celebrimbor had within his gates.

He had managed to send many of his fellows abroad. To Lindon or to the dwarves. Anywhere but here. And, when that had failed, he had told the others to be gone. Better that he be alone in the city when Sauron came in search of that which had been hidden from his sight.

But his men had refused.

 _“We will stand with thee,”_ many had said, his faithful Mírdain. _“Thou art our Lord, and we will see our folly through to the end beneath thy banner.”_

Now they would perish. The arrogance of Celebrimbor had damned all that he loved. What he had started out with good intent had been turned to evil. And he despaired. Yet also he felt the bitterness and the resentment and the _hatred_ like a brand across his spirit. And he did not think he had ever burned hotter with rage and lust for blood than he did as he stood at the apex of his city and looked down upon the armies of hell spread across the plain.

Such fire. _Such pain!_

He knew it was futile to run now. He knew it was futile to even fight. But a kinder fate it would be for his men to die at the blades of the Enemy than to linger on in torment. They would be each be granted a swift and honorable death, defending their home to their last breaths. Celebrimbor was certain that he, unlike they, would not receive the mercy of a quick or honorable death. He would linger. And suffer.

His doom was closing in. 

And he looked out and saw a head of golden hair. A face of the purest alabaster. Eyes that shone with unholy, iridescent light in the darkness of early morning.

He saw lips that had once teased his own apart now curved in a sadistic smirk. Nothing like the tender smiles they exchanged with secret, intimate glances as they lay together beneath the starlight. Nothing like the broad grins they had shared over goblets of wine and teasing and flirting in the evening.

Just wickedness. All teeth. Sharp and white. Bared and hungry for blood.

And meeting that gaze was like dousing his body with oil and setting it aflame.

And Celebrimbor was certain that, to those eyes, his own were equally alight. Like stars, bursting and white in the blackness, staring coldly down from the illusion of the sky. Mocking and challenging, adamant in the face of incomprehensible ruthlessness and cruelty.

They stared at one another.

And Celebrimbor raised his head and lifted his chin in defiance of his fate.

His doom was upon him. But he would not go quietly. He would not surrender and roll over and die as a coward in agony, screaming and begging for his salvation until the end.

He would die as had his grandfather of old. Fighting for every breath. Resisting with each thought. Burning up until there was nothing left.

 _Let it come,_ he thought, narrowing his gaze and curling his lip.

_I am ready._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Silmarilli = Silmarils
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Mírdain = Jewel-smiths


	330. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the Valar do not fully comprehend what they Sung into Being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 15, 2016.
> 
> "Young" Varda characterization, specifically focusing on the beginning of the world, the Spring of Arda and the early Years of the Trees before the elves came to Aman. Basically, just thinking about what light means in Tolkien's universe and what it might mean to the vala who literally personifies it.
> 
> Warnings: Mostly just vague mentions of the torment that Melkor inflicted upon captured elves in the early days after the Awakening. Nothing gory or explicit or anything.
> 
> I would totally have used Valarin for all the naming herein, but there simply isn't enough to work from without making shit up off the top of my head. My soul weeps that Varda doesn't even have a Valarin name.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor

Light.

It was the personification of sweetness, sugar-bursts resting upon the tongue. Something infinitely gentle and soft, its warmth but a lick of heat dancing across the spirit. And yet, all at once, it was also resplendent and terrible, garish to behold. A whiteness blindingly rising from the emptiness of black.

It was light which Varda first perceived in her own Song. And she knew it to be precious.

When the world came into being, her form was of swirling nebulae, many-colored gems twinkling and churning in an interstellar glow. The silken locks of her hair were dappled in silver droplets, and her eyes were as white suns, and her skin carried the iridescent gleam of blue and green and violet. Her gown was of deep space, encompassing the mysteries of her thoughts unto the utmost end of the realm of Eä. She _became_ light.

And it was she who gave the realm light, and her power allowed all her brothers and sisters to _see._ What they had comprehended in motion and texture and taste and smell, they might now comprehend in vision and color. And they knew the green of the soft grass and the blue of the wide open sky and the red burn of fire and the rich brown of the earth. And they knew silver and gold.

At first, though, even Varda did not understand the importance of Light. Beyond its majesty and beauty and mystery, beyond its utter necessity, she could never have fully understood what it would come to mean in the later days. 

At first, it was but a lovely thing to behold, a creation that she coveted not and shared freely with all. And she took joy in the wonder and awe of her siblings as the rays danced through their raiment and glittered upon all that they crafted. How it lit so brightly the leaves of trees as to shine through their flesh and illuminate their veins. How it danced upon the moving surface of the waters and reflected in flashes and pirouettes deep into their depths. How it was caught in the crystals and treasures of the deep earth and sparkled and gleamed and refracted. How it glowed forth in heat with each flicker and waver of even the smallest, weakest of flames, a twining and vibrant spirit in its own right.

To her brethren, light was holiness. Light was purity and innocence. Light was goodness and righteousness—like their Father. To sully light was to sully that goodness and bring ruin upon all that was sacred and beautiful.

Of the greatest of lights, there came first into being Illuin and Ormal, crafted by the skilled hands of Aulë and lit from above by Varda herself. And those two Lamps fostered the Spring of Arda and bathed Almaren in their light. They fed the early plants and nurtured the young trees and warmed the first birds and beasts. And their light came to mean Life.

Their destruction was the first time Varda had seen _Death._ The first time she understood danger and terror and darkness. And impermanence and pain and sorrow.

Then there came the Two Trees in the lands of Aman in the far West. Silver and golden, they were, Telperion and Laurelin. And those lights, the memory of the lights that had fostered paradise and eternal spring, were _comfort_. To look upon them was to feel sadness in the breast, but also to feel renewed joy at the second coming of light. Recovery in the face of great loss. Safety from the darkness of evil intent.

Comfort, Varda then understood. And Varda looked abroad and saw only darkness and despair in the reign and design of Melkor who hated her light most of all. And she knew that darkness was death and heartbreak. And she sought to bring the Children as of yet not awakened comfort when they first opened their eyes in the Hither Lands. 

She created the stars to guide them, a beacon to shine upon their paths and slice through the dark.

She painted the sky with Telperion’s dew. And she perceived that the night sky would welcome first the Children into the realm of Eä. And it was speckled with silver and hints of red and gold and blue. Her dome overhead brought light even to the darkest of places.

When first they opened their eyes, the Eruhíni beheld the stars. And they loved starlight more than any other light Varda had Sung into the world.

Before they even knew of her existence, the Firstborn Children looked up to the sky and paid homage to the distant, cold white lights that cast their world in a film of silver. And she, the Queen of the Stars, could hear their infantile prayers pleading for safety and their simple but glorious songs filled with praise. Fearful of the darkness beyond their home, the Eruhíni looked to her stars for comfort, just as she had intended. Ever would the most ancient songs remembered by the Eldar lilt and trill in mimicry of the ripple of silver light reflecting off the waters of Cuiviénen, speaking with the deepest reverence of the wide open night sky and the white light driving back the encroaching evil.

Those who traveled away from their homes in search of game to eat and in search of herbs and salves to heal had faith that those lights would keep them in safety. Those who were lost in the darkness beyond could gaze up between the boughs of towering, dark trees to find the guiding pinpricks in the blanket of night that would lead them home. And those who were caught in the net of Melkor, trapped and tormented and locked away, could see the faint designs in the sky and feel the tiniest sliver of hope in their battered hearts.

And Varda heard their words. She heard their prayers and kept them close to her breast. She heard their praises and listened to their songs with wonder. She heard their laments and their terrors and their suffering and suffered with them. But also did she hear, sometimes, their deepest hopes and dreams, and they brought her great joy and humility.

And she came to understand that, to the Children, her light went beyond mere comfort. It went beyond safety and beyond beauty.

To the Children, light was all of those things and more. Light was their mother in whom they could confide and whisper all of their secrets with confidence and fearlessness. Light was their shepherd to guard them and to protect them and to lead them towards grace. Light gave them blinding joy when all else in their world was engineered to bring them past the brink of despair and into madness and hate and fear. Varda’s light existed in this realm of Being not as a mere fantasy of glory and color coming out of the blackness, nor as a mere nurturing energy driving the forces of the living world. Light rather existed as everything which held at bay the hungry maw of evil, jaws slathering and ready to devour all.

Light was joy and love and strength and hope and faith. And Varda was the keeper of these gifts.

Ever did she seek to rend the creeping shadow of their marred hearts and give unto their spirits light in their darkest hours. Ever did she watch them, and they taught her strength in the face of fear and joy in the face of sorrow and faith in the face of disappointment. They gave her the greatest of bliss and the most adamant of strength and kindled her unwavering hope that the marred world still contained yet some great beauty worth saving and protecting. In these inexplicably precious creatures, she learned the truth of her part in the Ainulindalë, gained understanding that, alone, would have been beyond her ken.

And, in her heart, she loved them as she would have loved Children of her own womb. For they were her Light as she was theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eä = (lit) Be! (the realm of Being)  
> Eruhíni = Children of God


	331. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the antithesis of Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 16, 2016.
> 
> A continuation of the Valar-centric pieces. This one is a companion piece to Light (Chapter 330) and Imagination (Chapter 319) examining the character and motivations "young" Nienna. I've always thought it sort of strange that she's so powerful as to be comparable to the rest of the Aratar. But, in some ways, it sort of makes a lot of sense.
> 
> Warnings: Actually not much to be said here. More mentions of torture, but nothing substantial enough to really earn a warning.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor

Without darkness there could be no light.

None knew this reality better than did Nienna.

Unlike many of her brethren, Nienna had not Sung into Being any physical matters of the world. She was not like Manwë, who Sung of the wind and the wide open sky, or Varda, who Sung of swirling lights and colored galaxies afar, or Ulmo, who Sung of raindrops upon water and the crash of waves upon solid rock. Her imaginings and thoughts were not so concrete or tactile, not things that could been seen or touched or tasted or smelled.

Rather, the Song of Nienna was abstract.

As a newborn being, she did not understand what it was that she Sang. She did not understand why her music brought her such _pain._ When all of her siblings reveled and gloried in their Songs, their voices filled with wonder and awe at all that they pondered in their thoughts, Nienna instead felt an unbearable tightness rising from her core like a beast hungry to devour her and dissolve her into the nothingness from whence she came. It was an ache, a choking and strangling hand that wrapped around her throat and shook until her voice wavered and roughened and tapered into shattered silence. It was so powerful, so horrible, and it made her feel as though she would burst apart into a thousand shards of thought and never reassemble.

It was, in a way, the truest form of torment. But then, in those early days, she had no name for what she felt. None could understand her words or comprehend her feelings. None had need to do so, for the Music seemed not to bring any others such agony in their ecstasy. Confused and alone, she remained lost.

Only later were words put to that which she felt. Only later did she realize that her Father had planned farther ahead in His mind than ever had any of them imagined.

Only when the Lamps were smote and the paradise of Almaren was destroyed could she first put words to the ache that she remembered. Only then did the Ainur _make_ a word for a feeling so utterly foreign to their young and innocent minds.

Grief.

But Nienna had known grief. She had Sung it into the world.

At first, the realization had seemed almost disgusting, like a taint upon her spirit. That she had created something which seemingly _hurt_ those she loved seemed a cruel truth and a bitter one to swallow. Was it not the job of evil to harm others, to bring about hardship and destruction and pain?

But grief was not of evil, she came to find. Grief was but a reaction to evil. Grief was but a slice of darkness cutting through the midday of joy.

Lamentation followed. 

That word so aptly described what Nienna had Sung at the opening of the cosmic ballad before time itself was woven. The grief punching holes in joy. The bitter reality of being betrayed. The disillusionment of losing paradise. The realization that harmony was an impossible dream. The disappointment that followed in the wake of the loss of their home.

But none of these things were of evil. Simply the darkness of the spirit.

And Nienna came to realize that, no matter how much it hurt, lamentation was simply part of life. It was a natural reaction to loss. That shriveled feeling of hurt in the chest, the stinging of the eyes and the ringing in the ears and the taut, sharp burn of the throat—they were all normal. To feel pain at loss of something beloved was to be expected.

To embrace that pain rather than shoving it away was to accept loss. And to accept loss and overcome its dark hold was to gain wisdom from experience.

She had seen this first in her own brethren in the wake of the destruction of Almaren. The despondency and the bitterness and the resentment that turned the joyful hearts into shadows of their former brilliance. The gross taste on the back of the tongue at harsh words. The salty flavor of tears on glistening cheeks. The husky, broken timbre of grief-stricken and shocked voices.

They had all lost their beloved home. And they had all mourned. And it had been more painful than anything they could have imagined, for their thoughts before were filled with merriment and contentment. Now, surrounded by darkness, all joy had seeped from their hearts, and they had been aimless, consumed by the ache. Their voices raised in song, but their songs would bring no smiles or laughter. Sorrow was come into the hearts of all, kindled by the wicked deeds of Melkor who had betrayed them and done them harm with intent.

But loss also had importance. Though they all knew that Almaren never again could be re-forged in perfection, that all the world’s symmetry was marred and all that they had dreamed about was now flawed beyond repair, they had learned to accept and see beauty in this new realm. They had moved on and built a new home. 

And they had created the Two Trees.

The lights of Telperion and Laurelin had not replaced that of Illuin and Ormal. But—for all that each light was smaller and the reach of its rays shorter—in many ways, they seemed all the more resplendent. More beloved. More appreciated. More meaningful. As if, by learning of loss, by experiencing darkness and despair, the Ainur had come all the more to love the second coming of silver and golden light. For all that they were no more splendid than the Lamps and for all that Aman was less beautiful than Almaren, their second home came to be more precious still than the first.

Aman was not a land of light and harmony and symmetry. Rather, it was a fond recollection of what was lost and something new to bring forth again comfort and homeliness all at once. It was simply, somehow, _more_ than had been Almaren.

Grief _was_ darkness, the antithesis to joy and light. But in that darkness also could be found something beautiful and cleansing. In the darkest of nights were the foundations of healing the wounds of the spirit.

And Nienna knew that her purpose was to help others see this truth. To teach them to endure through their despair and their mourning and the agony and come out stronger and wiser for their suffering. To show them that their lamentation was healthy and opened their hearts again to love after loss. That was her path.

For she had seen what might befall those who did not rise above their suffering. The resentment that bubbled and simmered into the first phantom of hatred. The anger at injustice which kindled thoughts of retribution rather than acceptance. The empty pit left behind when no closure came and the heart yearned to heal the open and seeping wounds but was poisoned from within and left to whither in helplessness.

This, she saw in Melkor. His hatred and his anger and his cruelty, she perceived, were in truth his sorrow and his bitterness and his hurt disguised. And she pitied him rather than hated him. And she wanted to help him rather than do him more harm.

Because, even though he had done harm to the other Ainur and even though he had done harm to the helpless and innocent Children, she imagined that harm must somehow have been done to him in turn to have kindled such rage and hatred. And, perhaps, mercy would show him the path out of the cycle of evil.

Perhaps, as had her brothers and sisters come out of the darkness of the loss of Almaren stronger and wiser, so, too, could he come out of his hatred and pain and find his path again.

Her brethren could scoff as they pleased at her mercy and her pity. They could step away from her presence in unease, secretly afraid of the pain that they all remembered as a shadow of lamentation upon their hearts. They could insist that, above all, it was light that was the salvation of the spirit, and that joy was the key to holding at bay all the evils of the world, and that hope and faith were the foundations of the strength that would forever defy Melkor’s theme.

But Nienna knew that endurance in sorrow, too, was strength. That acceptance and understanding in the face of insult and injury was true justice. That it was mercy which, in the end, defeated wills of iron which could not be conquered by force and began to heal.

That in darkness, too, was salvation.

After all, was it not from the deepest darkness that arose the most resplendent light?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)


	332. Involved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For was not Ulmo the most deeply instructed in the Music?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 17, 2016.
> 
> More Valar. I'm just in that sort of mood. But this is a POV I've never written from before. I guess I just find it curious that, of all the Valar, it seems Ulmo is the one most deeply entrenched in the goings-on of the Eldar and the most deeply invested in their salvation. Despite Manwë and the rest of the Valar deciding to basically prune the Exiles off their sanctuary--and, indeed, there really is no other explanation for the way they made passing into Valinor literally impossible other than as a method by which to ignore the suffering of the Exiles--Ulmo still shows up and has his fingers in all the pies. This is just an exploration of motives.
> 
> Warnings: Not much, once again, other than philosophical crap that people may potentially disagree with. Also, mentions of sex and childbirth. But not explicit. Just there.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Mandos = Námo  
> Morgoth = Melkor

_“We cannot involve ourselves in these affairs. There are some lessons that the Children must be allowed to learn on their own without interference or guidance.”_

Thus had said Manwë, King of Arda, his mouth set in a firm line. And his word was law.

 _“I agree. We should not be involved. Let them decide their own fate. Let them be foolish and disobedient Children.”_

From Námo this had come, and his dark eyes were cold and distant, filled with annoyance and insult at great slight.

But another sat upon his throne in Máhanaxar and silently watched. And, in his mind and heart, he found that he disagreed with this edict. Had one bothered to look, they would have seen eyes as dark and wild as the seas beneath a storm then narrow, and a mouth purse firmly into curling waves of disapproval.

_Leave them to their own fate… remain uninvolved… what nonsense!_

Sometimes, Ulmo found his brothers and sisters utterly infuriating.

It really was not always their fault. He knew that, for all their great wisdom in the workings of the world, many of his brethren were so terribly naïve to that which they had not personally Sung into Being. He knew that they oft thought they were doing what was best by following closely the guidelines of harmony and balance rather than the seemingly illogical callings of the heart.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he just wished they understood.

They were, for the most part, spirit given unto the Powers of the World. Intimately might one understand, for example, the shifting of the earth’s crusts and the flowing of the deep mantle-blood and the delicate balance of pressure and heat that created great earthly treasures or yielded utter devastation—and he did not doubt that Aulë in these things was a master—but for all that they might be master of their own matter which they had Sung into being, they seemed remarkably detached from that which they did not innately understand. They could not comprehend, just from knowing intimately their own themes, the true workings of Eä.

 _Not just the true workings of Eä_ , he thought to himself, _but the true workings of the Eruhíni and their intertwined fate._

One might have wondered, of course, how Ulmo himself was any different than his brethren in this regard. After all, was he not also a manifestation of physical matter? Was he not also hindered by detachment and misunderstanding? 

And the vala who Sung into Being everything from the deepest ocean to the most miniscule raindrop would have said that water was everywhere. Water was in _everything._

Water was in the deepest parts of the earth, blindingly hot and steaming through vents in the ocean floor and great volcanic eruptions. Water was in the endless basins of the ocean, constantly churning and clashing, sinking down to the blackest depths and rising up to the foaming waves. Water was in the very air, vapor brushing against all things invisibly, scattered so broadly and caressing so gently. 

Water was the dewdrops upon the leaves of each and every plant and the rivers from whence all living things drank. Water was inside those living things, moving through their bodies, giving them the sustenance they needed to live. Water was flowing in a constant cycle throughout the whole world, from the coldest pole of the planet to the deepest mantle in its core to the highest airs where it touched the blackness of space.

And Ulmo _was_ Water.

He was within and without all things. Without physical raiment, he flowed in all the hidden springs and streams of the world, slipping into the cracks of stone and leaking into caverns of the deep. He rose upon each cresting wave as it broke upon the shore and plummeted down each tumbling fall into the haze of mist below.

He was within all living beings as well. He was that which all the beasts drank and all the plants absorbed into their roots. He was within their blood and their brains and their very cells.

The Children were no different.

He was the water upon which they had first looked when their eyes had opened at the Awakening, staring in wonder at how he reflected the light of the stars. He was the first stream from whence they drank, and he flowed cool and satisfying down their throats. He was the falls which gifted unto their ears the first sound of music, singing an echo of the ancient themes beyond the ken of newborn ears. 

He was in the air that had first brushed their glowing skin and the first breath that had been sucked into their lungs and the teardrops that had first fled their stinging, young eyes. He was in the first fluids that had been exchanged by lips upon lips and by a man and a woman joining together in consummation of marriage.

He was within the first womb to carry a child. He had heard the first heartbeat created by the sacred joining of two fëar. He had witnessed the very first natural birth of a Child.

He may not have fully understood them, but he was with them. He was inside them. He was a _part_ of them, and he knew them intimately. From the moments of their birth, everything they did and everywhere they went and everything they felt, he was beside them and listening to them and learning with them. He _knew_ them as he knew all else that Water touched.

In the simplest and clearest of terms, he was _involved._ In _all things._

And, from this knowledge, he knew that _all things_ were likewise interconnected. As the Ainulindalë could not have formed its pinnacle of glorious harmony without all voices working together—be they in harmony or disarray—neither was any part of Eä alone and apart from any other because all the realm of Being functioned as _one._ One living, breathing, evolving organism of which all things—good and evil, darkness and light, the Ainur and the Children and even Melkor—were together in a single theme.

While Ulmo did not begrudge the Noldor their choice—indeed, he had ever supported the right of the Eruhíni to choose their own fates—it angered him that his brethren wished to so cruelly _detach_ themselves from the problems and woes of the very beings they were meant to guard. In this strange edict he sensed not the desire to help the Children grow into their own experiences and earn through trials of sorrow and pain their own wisdom, but rather a taint of something noxious and bitter.

He sensed resentment. He sensed that the desire to _teach the Noldor a lesson_ was not the desire of a parent to see their child grow and mature, but rather the desire of another spoiled child to prove their way was the best way.

His brethren wanted to prove that they were not holding the Eldar prisoner. His brethren wanted to show the Exiles—in the most cruel and heartless of ways—that the Valar rather _protected_ them from the ruthlessness of the world dominated by the filth and evil of Melkor. His brethren, with the utmost secret of malice in their hearts, wanted to punish the Noldor for rebellion.

They wanted, once more, for the world to function in perfect harmony. Forgetting that the theme of Melkor, too, resided in the Music which had birthed the Eruhíni from their Father’s thoughts. 

It was a lesson that Ulmo had believed his brothers and sisters had learned. Indeed some—as Varda with her wide open heart and Nienna with her big, sad eyes and Oromë, who had touched closely the lives of the Firstborn—had learned that the ways of the Quendi could not be so easily controlled or understood. That they needed not to be punished for being imperfect nor controlled to prevent them from falling outside the lines of idealistic dreams, but that they needed to be helped and guided by gentle hands and pure intentions.

Instead, the rebels were to be Exiled. Banished from their homes and abandoned. Left to fend for themselves. All too easily had the Valar fallen to the folly of revenge when they should have given their blessing to the fiery and disobedient Children in love and kindness. And they wanted all to promise that none would interfere with the Curse that now laid upon those poor, naïve souls, that none would get _involved._ Forgetting that, even in their detachment, they were still a variable of manipulation in the grand scheme of fate.

They, in their pride and ignorance, wanted Ulmo to leave the Children—Children who he loved and cherished, who had become a part of him as he was a part of them—to suffer in darkness. Alone.

_“Thus it has been decided.”_

And Manwë smiled upon them with that serene expression, eyes of the sapphire sky wide and clear and free of all guilt. And Ulmo, who counted the Lord of the Winds amongst his dearest friends, felt at that moment the urge to slap the other’s smile off his heavenly face.

He sat in his throne, and he thought: _We are entwined with them. Their fates are closely tied with our own. We are all of us_ already _involved. And, in vowing to do nothing to save them, thou hast condemned them all rather than given them free will._

And his heart wept as storms gathered in the sky and droplets began to fall. Fall for the Exiles. And for his own brethren.

But the sea was never one to be tamed. As a cupped hand could not hope to cage the rippling liquidity of water, neither could Manwë hope to imprison the will of his fellow vala with mere words and edicts. Ulmo did not speak out against his brother’s words nor openly defy them, but, as he swept away from the emerald hills upon which Valimar stood and returned beyond the Valacirya to the welcoming Song of the Alatairë, he vowed that he would not be a pet to the Lord of Arda if said Lord were to act in such blatant disregard.

Ulmo did not seek to control the Eruhíni nor deny them their beliefs and their rebellion, but he loved them dearly and did not want to see them harmed. And he would offer his aid to the beloved Children regardless of the foolish attempts of his brethren to cut all ties with the Hither Lands and the Exiles trapped abroad.

For Ulmo was Water, and Water was _everywhere_ and in _everything_. And there would be no woe to which he was not privy. No suffering he did not hear resonating in his bones. No tears shed that would not fall as though from his own eyes. No bitter sorrow that he did not feel as though from his own core.

Their Unnumbered Tears would be his own.

For he was _them_ and they were _him_. As one, ever flowing, connected by the chains of fate.

He would be with them as he was meant to be, sharing their Curse. _Involved._ As was Sung into the annals of forever before the beginning of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Máhanaxar = Ring of Doom (Valarin-Quenya)  
> Eä = (lit.) Be! (Realm of Being)  
> Eruhíni = Children of God (pl)  
> vala = greater holy being (s)  
> fëar = spirits (pl)  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> Quendi = elves (pl)  
> Alatairë = might sea, name for Belegaer


	333. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the rising of Gil-Estel out of the West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 18, 2016.
> 
> An addition to the collection of stories during the period of time in which Elros and Elrond are the fosterlings of Maglor. This particular piece happens probably some time after New Direction, though I don't have an exact timeline in mind. I'm also completely exhausted (long day), so not really sure how this one turned out. It might get a bit of editing later.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of murder (including child-murder). Awareness of impending doom. War and all the ugliness that comes with Morgoth and his armies.
> 
> *Dialogue taken directly from Of the Voyage of Eärendil in the Silmarillion
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

Beleriand had become a hopeless, desolate land. Beyond recovery. Beyond salvation.

It matched Makalaurë’s heart perfectly.

The remaining followers of Fëanáro—and his only two living sons—lived atop a gray and dull hill within sight of the Gelion, the highest point for leagues in any direction. Once, this place might have been beautiful with a view of endless verdant fields and a thousand colored flowers and the forest lingering upon the east banks of the river in emerald glory. But the pollution of the North was ever creeping southward, stretching its long, dread fingers over the land and sinking death deep into the soil. Trees would no longer blossom even when the spring warmth came up from the south, and no flowers would bloom in the meadows for the sickness in the air. The grass was reduced to a dry, brown kindling and the river, which had once been mighty and pure, was now toxic with filth flowing down from the northern reaches.

Some days, it seemed like there was no beauty left in all the whole world. That it had all been completely destroyed, raped and ravaged and burned until nothing remained. Nothing but unforgiving blackness and ash and hate. 

And it weighed heavily on the morale of all. As if the knowledge of the innocent blood on their wicked hands were not enough to leave them all wracked constantly with gnawing guilt. As if the unyielding parade of nightmares and the images burned into the backs of their eyes were not enough to haunt them to the point of exhaustion and ruin.

Even the liveliness of the twins—his precious young charges—was not enough to raise the spirits of his desolate folk anymore. Faces grew wane and gaunt, eyes ringed with dark circles staring starkly out of white faces. Smiles were few and far between. Laughter was all but extinct.

Even Elros and Elrond began to feel the weight of the horror and sickness of the spirit. The little ones had lately been rather subdued and tired, sticking closer to Makalaurë’s side than normally they would, clinging with their tiny hands to his knees or wrapping their tiny fingers around his own, little nails digging sharply into his palms. Their big, silver eyes were too knowing for ones so young and sweet, too observant for their own good. They saw the encroaching darkness but had not any understanding the despair they witnessed and the destruction they beheld. They saw the fading of their guardians and friends but did not understand the weight that lay heavy upon all hearts.

Makalaurë wanted to protect them from this reality. From everything. From the shadow. From the death. From the sheer _hopelessness_ of their situation.

He did not want to think about what the last moments of his charges’ lives would be like. How they would end splattered in the blood of their fallen protectors, surrounded by the bodies and ruins of all whom they knew and all that they loved. Alone and trembling with some nameless evil bearing down, sword aimed to split open their little skulls.

The thought made him nauseous. And it never went away.

It was only a matter of time now. Their armies were broken. Their people were scattered. None now could stand against the might of Morgoth. Eventually, the burning and pillaging hoards would reach Ossiriand, the armies of orcs and monsters in the tens of thousands overwhelming the flimsy protection strewn across the hills and surrounding the forests which contained those few left of the Nandor and the Sindar who were not departed to the Isle of Balar. And all of the elves left in Beleriand—Kinslayers and refugees of Doriath and peaceful forest-folk alike—would die together in one last death-blow.

They were living on borrowed time.

It was in those waning days—long days of holding their breaths, feeling the powerful ache of loss in their chests, their eyes fixed upon the smoky haze and red glow of the North—that it first appeared.

A light from the West.

It was so bright that it was impossible to miss. As Anar dipped down beneath the horizon and the vibrant splashes of blood and fire across the sky diminished into the heavy, rich navy of the twilight sky, it appeared as a white burst of light coming up and splitting open the night. And there was recognition in all their eyes. For that familiar light seemed to glow down on all that was evil and spoiled and seemed to clear it away, purifying even the very air that they breathed into their tortured lungs.

“Surely,” Nelyafinwë whispered reverently, “that is a Silmaril that shines now in the West?”*

And Makalaurë felt his breath catch as he gazed up upon the resplendence. For it was only the power of the Lords of the West which could have pulled that lost stone from the depths and placed it into the heavens. And he said: “If it be truly the Silmaril which we saw cast into the sea that rises again by the power of the Valar, then let us be glad; for its glory is seen now by many, and is yet secure from all evil.”*

Though it did not absolve them of guilt, nor did it cool the raging agony of the unfulfilled Oath burning ever in the back of their minds, it did prove one thing: the Valar had decided at last to speak out. It had to be a sign, a glistening jewel sent hurtling through the blackness as a warning of impending doom to the Enemy and as a symbol to those yet trapped and losing all faith, waiting for death. It had to be a message, that help was finally coming.

Perhaps the Valar heard their call. Perhaps they had taken pity upon the Exiles.

For the first time in months, Makalaurë’s chest did not ache. His heart did not twist sharply and pound in a bruising tattoo against his sternum. Instead, there was lightness, a fluttering pleasure.

And he felt his eyes sting then, the sight of that light above blurring faintly. He and Nelyafinwë had failed to reclaim the jewel, and it was now beyond their reach. And yet, it was not grief that Makalaurë felt in his breast, but rather relief. A relief he could see faintly in his brother’s cold, dead eyes. A relief he could see in the faces of his men, contorted in amazement and shock as they stared upwards, lips parted in awe and prayer.

That Silmaril would never fall into their tainted hands. Their chase which had brought about two slayings of kin by kin was over. The finality of the distant light that could not be touched and could not be captured… it was beautiful.

And it brought hope.

Hope that the Valar had heard their cries and answered their prayers. That they still yet had mercy in their hearts for the disobedient and arrogant Noldor. Perhaps even the cursed and despised Kinslayers. That they might offer _forgiveness_ to the condemned.

Makalaurë placed a hand atop each of the heads of his fosterlings, feeling their silken, dark hair beneath his gently combing fingertips. For weeks, he had imagined these helpless, tiny lives being extinguished in a ruthless rush of barbarianism, and he had prayed each night for some mercy in this world of rage and hate that might spare the sons of his heart such a violent and terrifying end. 

But, perhaps, there was a chance…

There was a chance that their men might live. There was a chance that help would come and they could push back the vast armies of the North. There was a chance yet that Morgoth could be defeated and their father’s vengeance achieved.

Then the Silmarilli would be plucked from the crown of the Dark Lord forever. And Morgoth, their Enemy, would finally find a punishment fitting of the crimes he had committed against the peoples of Beleriand and Aman. His throne would be thrown down, his fortress utterly destroyed, his servants captured and killed. And he would be dragged back to Valinor in chains, humiliated and brought lower than the lowest of slaves.

And Makalaurë felt, in the back of his mind, an idea come to fruition. That, perhaps, seeing the Silmarilli out of the possession of the Enemy might be _enough._ That, perhaps, the Oath might be satisfied with the completion of their father’s revenge. That, perhaps, by accepting the stewardship of the Valar over the Silmarilli, they would reclaim their birthright in the eyes of Manwë and Varda and Ilúvatar himself, and then they might surrender peacefully and be _free._

That, perhaps, they might never need to sully and wound their spirits with the taint of murder in the cold blood ever again.

It was, for Makalaurë, a balm upon the festering wounds of his spirit. He withheld a wet, hiccupping sob and instead stared silently upwards, quite unable to look away. And, all around him, dull silver eyes were now burning bright, each a small moon shattering the black despair blanketing their home.

A star of hope had risen in the West.

And the hearts of the Noldor were kindled once more to white-hot energy, to untried and untested strength. And the heart of the second son of Fëanáro was raised in gladness. And his eyes were bright in the darkness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Anar = the sun  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> Silmarilli = the Silmarils (pl)


	334. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegnor doesn't have much faith left in his broken-down old spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 19, 2016.
> 
> So this is a thing that I've been thinking about writing since way back when I was still writing stuff before my temporary hiatus. It's part of the Machine Arc and features a modern-day setting with Aegnor and my OFC Sarah (who are, I thought I would mention, not romantically involved).
> 
> Warnings: Aegnor being depressing. PTSD. Flash-backs. Talking about death, including burning to death. Semi-graphic depictions of war. Lots of blood imagery. Hints at suicidal tendencies, as usual. But, believe it or not, it's actually got a nice ending despite all this icky crap.
> 
> Also, just as a side note on the etymology of names, Andreth means Patience in Sindarin.
> 
> And as a second note, I hate picking out last names. Which is why there aren't any.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro = Aeron  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

_“You should have a little faith,” she said. “Quit being so pessimistic all the time!”_

_“The last time I had faith in the Powers of the World it got me a forbidden romance doomed to failure and a fiery, meaningless death,” he wanted to say. But instead, he said, “I have no reason to have faith.”_

_“You’re not supposed to have a reason,” she told him. “That’s why it’s called faith, not trust.”_

Faith.

Sarah had been trying to beat the idea into his brain for the past year.

Admittedly, she might have been succeeding at least in lightening the burden that had laid across his spirit for many millennia. Her influence was pulling him out of the empty rut that he had been trapped in, pulling him away from the world of the dead and the silence, instead leading him back into the modern world.

Even looking around his apartment, Aikanáro could see the stark difference. Where once this small living space had been barren—an empty kitchen, white and picture-less walls, a living room with only a chair and a table, a bedroom with a single, headboard-less full-size bed and a table with an old, cheap lamp—now it was something that appeared lived-in. 

Sarah had insisted upon placing bouquets of flowers or bowls of “artfully” arranged fruit upon the countertop island. His old appliances had been switched out for newer, sleeker (and, he would concede, better-functioning) models, and his refrigerator was covered in magnets and sticky-notes. A grocery list lolled down, its tongue covered in Sarah’s scrawling handwriting, containing a variety of foods that Aikanáro had never bothered to even try before she had forced her way into his life.

His living room, too, had undergone great change. There were two couches now, and a widescreen television that he rarely used (or so he told her) with a decent sound system. The large window that overlooked the city sprawl beyond now had proper curtains with richly colored designs, and the empty spaces on his walls now had abstract paintings and drawings that Sarah had purchased locally, their vibrant colors taking away the bare whiteness to which he had become so accustomed.

He had put his foot down at letting her renovate his bedroom and bathroom, but it seemed that she had gotten to him anyway. Some of the pictures had found their home on the walls of his inner sanctuary—including a single landscape that reminded him achingly of the pine-forests of Dorthonion beneath the shadows of the mountains—and he had actually purchased for himself a heavy wooden headboard and matching furniture. The lamp had long since been replaced, and he stopped buying the plain white shower curtains. The latest pattern had multi-colored polka-dots to match a new set of towels he had snuck in behind her back.

He also blamed her for the new variety in his wardrobe. Women were terrifying creatures when they were given free-rein in a mall. Sarah had held him captive—a “Ken” doll for her to dress up to her heart’s content—for more than six hours. He had spent a rather painfully large sum of money appeasing her by buying what she had deemed “fit to be worn”.

Well, there was naught to do about it now.

Despite all of these changes and all the good fortune that had been showered upon him in the last year, Aikanáro was no more religious—no more _faithful_ —than he had been since his death and rebirth. He was still and ever would be a pessimist. And he certainly wouldn’t be holding his breath, expecting any more blessings.

There had been a time—a very, _very_ long time ago—when he had believed wholeheartedly in the love and protection of Eru Ilúvatar. Even when he had joined his people in exile, abandoning the safety of Aman and the guardianship of the Valar, he had still had faith in the One. Surely, no loving god would throw aside His Children, leaving them to suffer and die alone and in darkness, crushed beneath the thumb of evil. Surely, despite the anger and the hatred and the bitterness that plagued the Exiles, they would be led by grace to the fair end that Fëanáro had promised them.

But that fair end never came.

Even thinking about the First Age had Aikanáro’s jaw tensing, the joints aching and the teeth grinding. Taking a deep breath, he moved into his kitchen and pulled an apple from the decorative glass bowl Sarah had insisted upon. He needed to cut something up.

The knife he chose for the task was probably unreasonably large and so sharp that it could easily remove a finger if mishandled, but Aikanáro had handled larger, deadlier weapons without mutilating himself before. Blades were an old friend. With deft movements, he began to peel the skin from his prize, little ringlets of shining red falling upon the countertop.

He found his eyes fixated upon them. Red. Like blood.

So much blood.

He remembered coming out of the hell of the Helcaraxë—and any man’s faith would have been tested by those white, barren stretches of frigid cold and merciless ice—only to meet an army at the Lammoth. The clatter of armor and the scream of unsheathed blades, the battle cries in the lilting tongue of the Eldar and the rotted and jagged speech of Morgoth’s hoards mixing, the clash of swords and spears, the cries of the injured and the moans of the dying—all that noise swirling and twining together into such a loud, echoing mess that one could barely hear himself think, let alone hear the steps of the enemy upon stone or the ring of his sword slashing through armor and grinding into bone.

The deafness did not take away the sight of crimson spilled over stone and splashed all over the bodies of the fallen. It did not take away the stink of entrails splattered across the ground or the sickly-sweet iron smell of fresh blood. It did not take away the slide of the feet losing their balance on the slickness of sullied rock. Nor did it remove the blinding flashes of weapons in the sunlight, of snarls upon hideous faces, of agony contorting beloved features.

It did not take away the sight of light fading from the eyes of friends.

But still, there had been faith. They had come out victorious. Yes, they had lost a cousin and many good men besides. There was a certain sort of despair that lingered like a mist over their morale—the knowledge that some had made the deadly crossing over the Grinding Ice only to meet their demise when they first felt again warmth upon their skin and earth beneath their feet and light shining into their eyes. But the rest were still alive, still _fighting._

They rebuilt their strength from the ground up. They settled the northern lands and set up a watch on the Enemy. They began creating lives in their new home.

They began to feel happiness again. The horror of Helcaraxë and the Battle of the Lammoth faded into anguished memories.

It was then that Aikanáro met _her._

Andreth.

He remembered her face so clearly, reflected in the water of Lake Aeluin. Big brown eyes and long, straight auburn locks and a heart-shaped face. Compared to the women of the Court of Finwë in Tirion, she was almost ugly, but there was something about her that was more genuine than any woman Aikanáro had ever seen.

Without cosmetics and without hair baubles and without handmade lace and without richly embroidered velvet, she was natural and graceful and lively and _warm._ Her skin was marked with little freckles and darkened from spending time in the sun. Her rosy upper lip was fuller than the lower. Her eyebrows were thick and dark. Her irises were flecked with green.

He had seen her reflection rippling in the crystalline water of the lake, and something about her earthly beauty had captured his heart and never allowed it free. In all the countless years since, he had probably met thousands of women who were more attractive, both in face and in body, but none of them could ever leave a mark upon his spirit as had she, his dark beauty caught in a net of stars and rippling silver moonlight.

Scowling, he viciously sliced his apple into eighths and set the skinned slices upon a plate, taking pleasure in the sound of the blade tearing through the soft flesh of the fruit. Even as he reached for the jar of peanut butter in the top cupboard, he caught himself thinking that he had been foolish.

She had been mortal. He had _known_ that she was mortal. He had _known_ that their romance, regardless of whether or not it came to full fruition and ended in marital bliss, was doomed to tragedy in the end. Even had they gone against the wills of their people and remained together, it would have taken less than a century for her beauty to wither away, for her hair to turn gray and for her back to hunch and for her body to surrender to the inevitable passage of time.

But he had allowed himself to love her. And elves seldom gave their whole love more than once. As with many of his people, he named her his One, and he never loved another as he loved her.

It was a small consolation that he had died first. That he had not been forced to _watch_ as she faded away into old age and death. Losing her to the Timeless Halls would have shattered him had he lived to see her passing. As it was, he still was not certain how she had died. By blade or by fire or by old age. He hoped it was fast and painless. His own death had not been so merciful.

He tried not to think about it too much.

He tried not to think about the injustice that was his doomed life. Fated for forbidden love. Fated to die in fire and agony. Fated to be reborn to an empty existence. Those dark thoughts never allowed him to release the bitterness that rested as a bad taste in the back of his throat, nor the resentment that lingered sharply in the back of his mind.

He tried not to think about anything. But the memories never really went away. He was haunted by her pained, sorrowful eyes and by the sound of his own screams as fire consumed his flesh and by the knowledge that, no matter how close he came to death, it was not his gift to receive.

The fact remained that Eru, somewhere in his great theme, had Sung of an elven prince falling for a mortal woman by the reflection of her fair face on a moonlit night in the crystalline waters of Aeluin. Somewhere in that theme, He had planned for her to die and him to live on forever in agony, two souls forever sundered until the End of Days. And Aikanáro could not help but feel as though, from the very start, he had been set up for failure.

That his supposed god would do such a thing—ruin his life and steal away all that he loved—and _still_ let him linger on afterwards, forgotten and suffering and mourning without closure, it destroyed the little faith he had had left after crossing Helcaraxë and after dying in the Dagor Bragollach.

_Who would ever put their faith in a god who gifted them with nothing but pain?_

Certainly not Aikanáro. Not again.

Still caught in his dark mood, Aikanáro looked down at his plate with his large blob of peanut butter and the eight slices of apple, some beginning to brown already at the edges. He set it on the counter on the center island and went for the refrigerator. Pausing, he examined his beverage choices. Soda, orange juice, milk, and cheap, chilled wine.

Unsurprisingly, he went for the wine.

The bottle was heavy in his hands, and his fingertips protested the cold. Condensation immediately began to cloud the glass, water droplets cutting trails through the pale sheen. He couldn’t help but think that it would have felt nice to grasp something so sweetly chilled as he was being burned alive by dragon-fire. Even thinking about his death—and he was hard-pressed to think of a more terrifying and helpless and _painful_ way to go than writhing on the ground, screaming as flames crawled up your body and nothing you did would put them out—it made his skin break out in shudders and gooseflesh.

_Glass_ , he reminded himself sharply, trying not to think about it. _I need a glass._

He didn’t bother with an actual wine glass. Those were for lounging around with Sarah, watching the evening news on Monday nights after a dull day at work, not for afternoon snacks on the weekend. Instead, he went for the brightly colored plastic cups in the cupboard in the corner. The first one he grabbed was blue. It clicked loudly against the silence when he set it down on the countertop.

The cold bottle was still in his hand, and the limb was beginning to protest more insistently now. Sighing, still deliberately _not thinking about things_ , Aikanáro pulled the cork and tipped the neck of the bottle over the lip of his glass. The sound of sloshing liquid filled his ears.

He stared at the liquid filling up the cup. The red wine looked purple through the translucent blue barrier. It was almost mesmerizing, watching the bubbles and the swirling colors, the deepest of reds and the lightest of cerulean blues all mixing together before his eyes. For what felt like a moment but might have been an age, Aikanáro felt completely lost within that tourbillion, as though it had swallowed him whole.

In the back of his mind, he felt what might have been an itch. It vaguely reminded him of laughter, the gentle touch of warmth caressing his thoughts. Drawn inwards, still lost in a thousand shades of purple, he couldn’t help but think it odd…

And then the door in the other room unexpectedly slammed open.

The elf jumped, his wide eyes suddenly filled with the real world, and the condensation-covered glass bottle in his hand slipped from between his slightly numb fingers. The sound of glass crashing onto the counter was blaringly garish enough to bring him back from his oddly wandering thoughts, and, even Sarah’s voice distantly registered beneath the echo ringing in his ears, he was already cursing in archaic Quenya at the mess. The red liquid was spreading into a thin layer across the counter.

He tried to ignore the fact that the red stain looked far too much like blood. He could recall how fast blood spilled from a dismembered limb of a living being, how the pool spread and spread and spread like this pool…

_Do not think about it. Do_ not _think about it._

Quickly, he tipped the bottle upright. At least it wasn’t broken.

Still muttering under his breath, he began searching for a dish towel. There had to be one lying around here somewhere…

“Hey, Aeron,” he heard from behind him as his unofficial roommate-slash-nuisance entered the kitchen. “Oh… I didn’t mean to startle you. Here, let me help.”

“It is fine,” he grumbled, digging through his drawer, searching for a towel that _was not white._ “I was not expecting you.”

“Ah, well…” Her voice turned faintly hesitant. “You know how I said that I was meeting up with an old friend from college today. I was telling her about how I’ve been helping you renovate and how you’ve been letting me camp out in your living room, and she asked if she could meet you. So I, um, sort of brought her over.”

_Lovely._ His thoughts were all fuzzy and purple, his apples were now brown, there was a sticky puddle of red wine all over his counter and he couldn’t find a dark-colored towel so he was going to have to sacrifice one of his white towels to the fate of being stained in order to clean it up. _I desperately need to be forced to endure the attentions of an empty-headed female right now as well. Clearly._

And here, he’d been thinking that Eru didn’t hate him so much as of late. He must have been delusional even _thinking_ about giving up his pessimistic ways in the wake of Sarah’s forced reinvigoration of his ancient and weary spirit.

He turned, towel in hand, and peripherally saw a second female figure standing beside Sarah on the other side of the kitchen island. But his first thoughts were for the wine slowly creeping towards the edge of the counter. He took a step forward, looked down into the redness, and saw the reflection of the figures in the wine.

Sarah. And… and _her._

Aikanáro stared, lips slightly parted and breath caught in the back of his throat. If it were not for the fact that he was staring straight into a face he had only been able to imagine in his dreams for the last dozen or so millennia, he would have scoffed and thought: _Wonderful, now I have not only lost my afternoon snack, spilled my wine and stained my counter, but I am hallucinating my dead lover’s reflection, too._

But he couldn’t really think. He could only stare.

“Aeron. Earth to Aeron! Hello?”

He startled out of his frozen state. Blue eyes looked away from the redness. Sarah was there, and he focused on her face, on the concerned furrow of her eyebrow and the purse of her lips and the curls of blond hair that had come loose from her bun and twirled down around her temples. “Forgive me, I was lost in thought.”

“You spend too much time with your head up in space,” she accused before turning towards her companion. “This is Patience. She was my roommate in college. Patience, this moron is Aeron. Forgive his terrible manners. He spends more time around dead people than live ones.”

_Patience._

Blinking once, he turned his head just enough to look at the newcomer. To take in her heart-shaped face and her dark hair and her brown eyes. Her warmly tanned skin and her full upper lip and the little freckles that dotted her cheeks. They locked gazes, and he could see that her irises were flecked with green.

And he couldn’t help but faintly think, _I should have had more faith. Eru forgive me, for I shall never doubt again._

_Sarah was right._

And he was utterly lost again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> Eru = God  
> Ilúvatar = Allfather  
> Eldar = elves (who have seen the Two Trees) (pl)


	335. Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elf meets girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 20, 2016.
> 
> This is a continuation of Faith (Chapter 334) from Sarah's POV. Basically just Aegnor and Patience (Andreth) being sort of adorable and awkward around each other, and Sarah trying to figure out what the fuck is going on in that blond bastard's screwed-up brain.
> 
> Warnings: Obsessive behavior. PTSD and depression. Suicidal tendencies and unhealthy fascination with death. A tiny bit of objectification of women present. As cute as Aegnor is, he's also very not-right in the head.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aegnor = Aeron

Never before had Sarah seen such an intense look of _focus_ on anyone’s face before.

If she had to describe it, she would said it looked like an invisible red string tied to an invisible point beyond Aeron’s forehead, somewhere in the middle of his brain, stretching through his eyes until it ended, tied to the center of Patience’s face. She half expected to see smoke rising from that spot, a dark pinprick burned by the harsh intensity of a laser pointer’s light.

It was like… like imprinting. Like that stupid “rearranging the center of gravity” thing that happened to the werewolves in Twilight. Only, Aeron was definitely not a werewolf, and things like that didn’t happen in real life. Still, for a moment, it was like Aeron’s whole world had narrowed down to just the woman standing across the kitchen. His normally meticulous mind had forgotten all about the wine still creeping steadily towards the edge of the counter, seconds away from dribbling off onto the pristine floor. The towel still hung limp in his hand.

There were a few seconds of silence. They did not seem to bother Aeron (though, he spent all his time around dead people who didn’t speak, so she shouldn’t have been surprised), but Patience shifted in a way that registered to Sarah as _nervous._ Sarah would’ve been nervous, too, if a guy as smoking hot as Aeron was staring at _her_ like _that._

Hesitantly, her best friend and former roommate lifted a hand over the counter, reaching across the pool of spilled wine with a centerpiece plate of browning apples and peanut butter. “Hi, I’m Patience,” the brunette introduced herself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally. Sarah’s been talking about you all day. Only good things of course.”

 _Please, please_ , please _don’t do something hideously stupid, Aeron._ Sarah almost looked skyward in prayer. _Just this once, act like a normal human being._

Blue eyes flickered from her friend’s face to the extended hand and back so fast that Sarah thought she might have imagined it. It seemed like his gaze simply could not be drawn away, that something about Patience’s mostly unremarkable features had him reeled in like a fish caught on a hook.

“Of course,” he replied after a moment, and his lips twitched into something which might have been a maybe-almost-kind of-smile. There was no denying that the look made him twice as handsome as he was with that blank stare etched into his features. “As Sarah said, I am Aeron. It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Lady Patience.” 

_Wow._ Sarah whistled in her brain, watching the charm turn on as though someone had flipped a hidden switch in the back of Aeron’s brain. _So this is what he’s like when he’s actually trying to be friendly. Maybe even flirty._

As he spoke, he raised his right hand as if to shake the brunette’s, seemingly unaware until the last second that it was already occupied by a towel. The movement was aborted when he caught sight of the fluffy white material, blinking down at it with wide eyes as though he were not quite sure when he had decided it was a good idea to pick it up and carry it around.

Patience chortled softly. And Aeron—for the first time _ever_ since Sarah had met him—blushed. Because of a _woman._

Sarah wasn’t quite sure what to think of this.

She watched as Aeron quickly dropped his hand back down, as if he could hide the evidence of his inattention by keeping the towel out of sight. “Ah… Perhaps I should finish cleaning up this mess while you ladies wait in the living room. I am afraid I am in no state for proper introductions. Normally my mind is not so preoccupied.” 

“That’s fine. You don’t need to banish us from the kitchen.” Patience waved off the sheepish words. “We didn’t mean to scare you or get your countertop stained.”

Aeron still had not taken his eyes off Patience for more than a handful of moments. He had yet to notice that the wine was finally dripping off the edge of the counter and onto the floor and the rug below, a slow march, each droplet skydiving to its demise in a steady pulse. Sarah couldn’t help but wonder how pissed he would be when he realized that that deep red stain was probably not coming out.

Then again, he didn’t seem to be capable of thinking about anything at all right now other than Patience. And it was the strangest thing.

Sarah knew about Aeron’s obsession—with a dead woman at that—and she would never have expected him to show interest in anyone. Ever. She had thought that it would take nothing short of a tall, big-breasted, smooth-skinned Brazilian model to turn Aeron’s head. For all that she adored Patience, Sarah could think of dozens of more attractive females from TV and magazines—actresses and singers and supermodels—but Aeron had never shown even the slightest _hint_ of interest in any of them.

In fact, he never showed interest in much of anything or anyone. The whole world seemed to just breeze by, flowing around him and above him and below him, passing through him as subatomic particulate waves but never truly touching him. Sometimes, Sarah thought that Aeron wouldn’t even notice if everyone around him suddenly vanished off the face of the earth. He lived in his own little universe, a reality that consisted of his dead lover, his job at the morgue, and his overwhelming fascination with death.

Yet, apparently, all it took was her roommate of slightly above-average attractiveness to pull him out of an obsession with death—with _being dead_ —that was so powerful that he was _suicidal_ because of it. And that just wasn’t normal.

Nothing about this was normal. Nothing about his hyperawareness was normal.

She was missing something important. She _had_ to be.

She sat back and watched the couple dance around each other. She watched as Patience leaned against the kitchen counter rather than departing for the living room, observing as Aeron mopped up the mess of spilled wine. She watched as, for once, the color red didn’t make the blond male stop and stare with dread in his blue eyes, because he was so distracted that he wasn’t even looking at the way the wine stained white fabric. She watched as Aeron had the first _normal_ human interaction—without staring and without awkward silences and without deadened blue eyes—she had witnessed since first spilling her coffee on his white button-down shirt at the café down the street.

His gaze never left Patience. His body was tilted in her direction. Even when he turned around to chuck the soiled towel into the sink, his head was still turned such that he could see the brunette out of the corner of his eye.

It was, she thought suddenly, as if he were afraid that the woman might _disappear_ if he dared to look away.

 _We need to have a serious talk later._ There was clearly something going on that Sarah didn’t know about. And she would beat it out of Aeron if she had to.

 _But maybe_ , she thought, _this is not such a bad thing._

Sarah didn’t claim to always understand Aeron. She didn’t understand his horror at the color red, how it made him freeze and stare and stand still as a statue for hours on end. She didn’t understand what gave him his awful, shouting nightmares that always ended in nearly inaudible sobs echoing through the dark apartment. She didn’t understand why he liked limp, gray dead bodies, why he took such comfort in being near them and speaking to them and caring for them when he could be spending time with _living_ people instead.

But she did know this much: Aeron seemed more _alive_ and more _in life_ now—as he turned back towards Patience and asked her about her job in his lilting, curious voice, pinning the brunette in place with his piercing sapphire eyes—than he ever had before. Sarah couldn’t help but think that he needed more things to tie him to the real world. Something to keep him from falling back again and again into his old habits. Something to pull him away from his constantly dark thoughts. 

Patience began to talk about her job as a doctor in pediatrics. About weird illnesses she had seen and treated. About how much she adored the children, how sweet they were. About how much she loved seeing them smile. And Aeron was nodding along, a tiny, genuine smile on his normally down-turned lips, as he was carried away on the tide of such raw enthusiasm. Helplessly. Willingly. _Eagerly._

Maybe Patience could be that something. That _focus._

As she stood and watched Aeron stare at Patience and Patience stare at Aeron, both seemingly enamored with the other, she couldn’t help but think that, maybe, this was meant to be. That, maybe, someone somewhere was looking out for Aeron.

That, maybe, the sarcastic, pessimistic, self-depreciating, depressed and faithless mortician might be getting that impossible happy ending after all.

_Now,_ she thought, _to teach him how to date…_


	336. Angry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Manwë isn't a saint. Who would have thought?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 21, 2016.
> 
> This oddity came surprisingly easy. Not really sure of how it turned out, but characterizations are always a work in progress. Anyway, I've been thinking on Manwë--on how annoying it is that he's always portrayed as being this perfect guardian angel character who can do no wrong and who always is so tranquil and well meaning, but also about his inability to understand the Children and his rather stickler-for-the-rules attitude. All this culminated into me trying to think of him in terms of being the personification of air and wind as well as all these other things... and this is what I came up with.
> 
> Warnings: Ideology. Perhaps indoctrination rather than ideology really. Self-hatred.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor

The wind was a free spirit. Something untamable and wild in its beauty.

Often, it was imagined that its personification was someone tranquil, like a gentle gust rippling through the blades of grass in the meadow, swaying them back and forth in a soft slow-dance. People imagined the billow of diaphanous curtains being lifted by a warm summer breeze through a window or the rustle of the leaves in the trees as branches were rocked to and fro by an invisible, parental hand.

They imagined things that were peaceful and serene and harmonious. Musical. A caress across the cheek. A breath across the lips. The swish of fields of golden wheat.

They forgot that there was much more to the air than summer breezes and soft breaths.

They forgot that the air and the wind could change at the drop of a hat. That one minute all could be calm and restful and the next there could be storms upon the horizon kicking up swift and powerful gales.

They thought of storms and they imagined rain and lightning. They forgot all about the slash of bitter cold on their cheeks, the whip of their hair that left stinging trails, and the howling, screaming voices resonating in their ears. They forgot that it was the wind which raised waves into towering white crests. They forgot that it was the wind which swirled into giant, darkened vortexes that swept across the plains. They forgot that it was the wind which picked up monstrous clouds of dust into blinding walls of stinging, choking pain.

They forgot that wind was not always peaceful and calm. Sometimes, it was angry and cold and vicious. Sometimes, it was even cruel.

And was not Manwë the wind, the movement of the air through the sky?

When he had first Sung of the air and the wind, he had not Sung of tornadoes cutting violent swathes of destruction across the plains nor of typhoons lashing out in overpowering and relentless fury against the southern coasts. When he had first Sung of the wind, his voice had been something gentle and sweet. In the days at his Father’s feet, the favored child had relished the adoration he received from his brothers and sisters, how they were drawn to the complexity and freedom of the twisting, turning, rising, falling, delicately dancing and swiftly diving melodies that were given unto their ears by his thoughts. Instead of violence, he had been flying through the jet stream as if upon wings or rising up to the very edges of the atmosphere or swirling in bubbles that floated to the surface of the sea.

He wondered when that had changed. 

Maybe in the midst of the Ainulindalë, he thought, when confronted with Melkor’s theme. Maybe some small part of his own music had been corrupted, parts of his melody used for wicked purposes. Or maybe some pitches had been lost in the clamor and cacophony of the clashing melodies and harmonies, forever stolen away.

Maybe, he theorized, such things had arisen when his voice rose in combat against the disobedience and arrogance of his stronger sibling. Maybe such things were the result of the cosmic battle, Melkor standing upon one side in ice and fire with his followers at his back and Manwë perched upon the other with the Valar supporting his great theme of valor and righteousness and faith and _good._

Maybe, he admitted, if only to himself, some of that good had been diminished when it was used in violent contention and war rather than acceptance and mercy. Maybe that was where he had gone wrong.

But, somewhere, something must have been dissonant and out of place.

Because he was not a tranquil and serene being. For all that he could, at times, be as a gentle breeze caressing the skin—something soft and tender, infinitely loving and forgiving—he could equally be something harsh and cruel. Something wild and passionate and chaotic. Something that went against all the principles he had been taught at his Father’s knee.

Manwë desired to shape the world in harmony and beauty. He wanted peace. He wanted symmetry. He wanted consonance.

How it was it possible to achieve such ends when he, himself, was a traitor to his own cause?

 _“It is alright to be angry and frustrated,”_ Varda would reassure him when he shared his innermost doubts. _“It happens to all of us sometimes, my husband.”_

And she would try to soothe him, her pale and warm hand resting upon his arm, her head coming to lie upon his shoulder so that the star-clad night of her hair brushed against his airy flesh. _“Be not unnecessarily harsh with thyself. Mercy aught be applied inwardly as well as outwardly, especially when no wrong or fault has been committed.”_

But was it not a wrong? Was it not a fault—that the King of Arda, the highest of the Lords of the Valar, was an _imperfect being?_ That even he, the foremost enemy of Evil, the antithesis of Melkor, the one whose path was to fight for justice and safety and all things good for the Ainur and for the Children, was also _tainted?_

How could such anger be acceptable? How could it be fine for him to _want_ to lash out in frustration when things did not go his way? How could it be _right_ for him to wish to cut across his brother’s cheeks in punishment when Melkor ruined his plans?

With a contorted, agonized scowl upon his face, he would often think: _All I desire is for all things to be right and beautiful. To bring happiness._

The fact that it was never as he desired only seemed to make the strangely hot and tense feelings _worse._ That, each time the Children stepped outside the bounds and rules and edicts, he had to withhold the urge to kick up an icy gust off the sea that would chill their flesh to the bones. That, each time Melkor meddled in some great work, destroying the beauty that was so dear to one of their siblings, he wanted to make the wind scream with such fury as to deafen his unworthy foe.

That, sometimes, he wanted to forget all about the rules and laws that his Father had put in place and just be a wild thing. That, sometimes, he wanted to do something spontaneously sadistic rather than smiling and turning the other cheek. That, sometimes, he wished he could be just as disobedient and untamed and unleashed as Melkor.

And then he would wonder with horror as ice touching his spirit whether or not he and his brother were really all that different in the end.

It was such thoughts as these which brought Manwë to resist such sinful urges. He resisted the rising heat in his breast, the way it made his raiment feel so tight that it might burst from the pressure. He resisted the way his mind curled inwards darkly, his thoughts hissing and beating at the gilded cage he had set to keep them at bay.

He had to follow the rules. He could not _be_ angry. He had to be peace. He had to be calm. He had to set a good example for his fellow Ainur and for the Children.

He had to care for all, and he had to make sure they followed the rules, just as he did. And when they stepped out of bounds, he had to punish them soundly, but such that they were merely chastised and brought low rather than truly harmed.

And so, even with that bubbling, smoldering, white-hot, painful brand of _something_ swirling with the force of hurricane winds behind the calm veneer of sapphire eyes, he always managed a smile and clung steadfastly to patience. He would be gentle in his handling but firm in his ideals, and he would guide his brethren and the Children forth into bliss.

He would be the perfect child his Father made him to be. No matter how much it hurt. No matter how much his spirit cried. No matter how much the beast rattled the bars of its cage.

Because free spirits were too dangerous.

And the wind was a free spirit indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)


	337. Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In preparation for the first date...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 22, 2016.
> 
> Another long one. This is a continuation of Faith and Focus. More Aegnor being an adorable old-school dorkasaurus who has been orbiting around the real world instead of living in it for way too long. I think it's cute, anyway...
> 
> And, just to clarify, Sarah _does_ know that he's not exactly human. She'd have to be a complete moron not to have figured that out by now, so let's just say that he, at some point, has explained his immortal elf-ness to her off-screen.
> 
> I didn't actually write the date itself, though. Saving that for another day and another POV.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of PTSD, nightmares and flashbacks. Hand-kissing. I don't think there's anything else in here that's too terribly triggering unless you've had bad cafe experiences. Or traumatic first dates (though this one ends well!)
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aegnor = Aeron  
> Maglor = cafe husband or harp guy (just to clarify)

_This is hard to watch_ , Sarah thought to herself as she stared at the couple before her. _I knew he had old world mannerisms, but I didn’t think it was_ this _bad!_

Her hot, antisocial, blond almost-not-quite-roommate and friend had captured one of Patience’s hands, and he was bowing over it just like a charming lord or prince fallen out of a historical romance novel. His lips brushed across the back of the brunette’s knuckles in a caress caught somewhere between coy and tender, their rose-flushed bow-curve widening into a smile.

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Aeron practically purred, “Lady Patience.”

 _He did_ not _actually just call her Lady Patience and kiss her hand, right?_

Sarah blinked and stared. The image didn’t go away.

_He totally did._

And Patience, clearing her throat and gently tugging her hand away from his hold, was now slightly flushed and fidgeting, obviously slightly embarrassed at being treated like some sort of princess. “It was… um… nice to meet you, too, Aeron.”

If Aeron noticed the discomfort of his newest fixation, he was successfully pretending not to. Or maybe he really was that oblivious. With his eyes focused sharply on Patience, almost glazed in their wide blueness, it was hard to tell what—if anything—was going through his mind at that moment. It was hard to tell whether or not Aeron knew twenty-first century social behaviors and taboos. It was hard to tell if he would care even if he _did_ know.

“Yeah, we should get going,” Sarah finally interrupted after about five _long_ seconds of awkward silence. “We’ll see you later, okay, Aeron?”

He hummed noncommittally in the back of his throat, his gaze _still_ never leaving the new object of his affection.

Without looking back, Sarah herded her female friend towards the door (firmly ignoring how Patience tried to glance back every two or so steps), and she could hear Aeron’s footsteps in their wake, could feel the air shift as he breezed by them. She made a herculean effort not to sigh when he reached the door first and opened it, holding it wide like a gentleman. Sarah knew Aeron—knew that he never really acted in a gallant or chivalrous manner around women on a day-to-day basis—and she knew that this behavior was quite odd.

She glanced back once, caught a glimpse of Aeron staring after Patience like a faithful dog stares after its master’s shrinking image fading into the distance through a window, and then the door closed. The invisible red string that had been steady and tense in the air, connecting the golden-blonde and the brunette, suddenly snapped.

They were halfway down the stairs before Patience spoke.

“Is he always like that—Aeron, I mean?” she asked.

“You mean the hand-kissing thing,” Sarah muttered. “He can be a little eccentric sometimes.”

“It was kind of cute,” her friend told her, looking a little shy and a little flattered and a little weirded out all at once. “Not that I’m going to try to hit on your new pet project, but he’s pretty handsome. Just a little strange.”

_Well, not a glowing report, but it could have been worse._

“I’ve been working on getting him caught up with the modern world.” 

Sarah pushed the door to the apartment building open, holding it for Patience to slip through, and they then turned right, heading for the car. It was evening now, and the sky was just beginning to darken. Above the buildings, the skyline was on fire, burning starkly orange and gold in the beginning of a spectacular sunset. She was sort of surprised at how long they had been over at Aeron’s place; it had been full-on daylight when they had arrived.

“So…” she began, “You’re not even a _little_ interested?”

Patience gave her a _look._ “Are you trying to set us up?”

 _I wasn’t initially going for that_ , Sarah honestly admitted to herself, _but yes, I totally am trying to get you two together now after seeing Aeron look at something other than a dead body with such fascination and adoration._

“Maybe I thought you could at least go on a date before rejecting him altogether. He actually really seems to like you. And he doesn’t like many people.”

_He doesn’t like anyone, really._

They reached the car, Sarah climbing into the driver’s seat and Patience into the passenger side, the doors slamming shut behind them. The car vibrated to life as Sarah turned the key in the ignition. There was a small space of silence broken only by the growling of the engine in the background. And then…

“I guess maybe I could give a date a try,” Patience said hesitantly. “He is very good-looking.”

 _Score!_ Sarah did a mental victory dance. _Congratulations Aeron! You owe me big time! I’ve just gotten you a night out!_

With any luck, the first date would be the catalyst for a healthy relationship, something Aeron desperately needed. He needed to spend time around _real people_ , and this would be a perfect solution!

As they drove off into the fading daylight, Sarah felt her satisfied smirk diminishing slightly. Beside her, Patience began talking about work again, Aeron already fading from her mind. And Sarah couldn’t help but think that the man would need to make a _really good_ impression if he was going to have a chance at a second date.

 _I’ve got my work cut out for me_ , she thought to herself.

_How on earth am I going to beat twenty-first century dating techniques into that fossil?_

\---

The first thing to curb was the hand-kissing.

She brought it up after telling him that she had gotten him a date.

Sheepishly, he rubbed at the back of his neck, tangling his fingers in the tail of his golden hair. “I did not realize that such a thing was considered untoward. Where I come from, it would be rude to shake a lady’s hand.”

“That’s another thing,” Sarah interrupted. “You shouldn’t call her a lady or anything weird like that. Stuff like that is considered a pet-name, and pet-names are for established couples.”

“Pet-name…” Aeron tried the term out on his own tongue. It sounded absolutely ridiculous when he said it in his archaic, lilting accent. “You mean a term of endearment.”

“Ah… yeah.” Sarah cleared her throat. “It’s kind of like you calling her darling or sweetheart or something. It’s a little creepy coming from a guy you’ve only just met.”

And then his cheeks flushed faintly. “Ah.”

“Yeah.”

\---

“I know that it is considered normal for young women to live on their own in this day and age,” Aeron grumbled, “But are you certain it is appropriate for a young woman to… uh… go on a date with an unfamiliar man _unsupervised.”_

 _My God_ , Sarah couldn’t help but think. _The last time this idiot was interested in a woman, chaperones were considered_ normal.

She knew he was old—ancient, really—but it hadn’t occurred to her that dating as it was done now would once have been considered extremely improper.

“You’re not going to be in her house with her ‘unsupervised’ or anything,” Sarah told him, quoting “unsupervised” with her fingers sarcastically. “Not unless you want to be alone. Usually couples go on dates in public places. You know… dinner at a nice restaurant and a movie at the local theater… I’m sure you’ve seen stuff like that on TV at least, right?”

“I have,” he admitted. “Is that considered normal, then—dinner and a movie?”

 _He’s never done this before_ , Sarah told herself, trying to stifle the urge to both laugh and bang her head on a wall. _It’s like a teenage boy agonizing over taking out a girl for the first time._

“You don’t _have_ to do that. You could choose something else. Some guys prefer to be creative and unique instead of going for the usual stuff.”

“That sounds like my cousin. When he was courting— _dating_ —his wife, he snuck her out of her window at dawn and took her to see the ocean.” Aeron’s blue eyes were distant, caught in memories. At least these ones didn’t seem traumatizing. “It was terribly scandalous.”

_That sounds like something straight out of a novel. How cliché can you get?_

“Maybe going out the window won’t be necessary. You should probably just show up at her place. No sneaking necessary.”

“Right,” he agreed. “I shall think on this matter.”

 _Great_ , she couldn’t help but think doubtfully. _At least I can veto anything too stupid._

She left him to his brainstorming.

\---

This was a rather delicate matter. Difficult to approach. But Sarah felt it was necessary.

“You’re really, actually interested in Patience, aren’t you?”

Aeron blinked up at her. “Of course I am,” he replied. “You already know this.”

“But I meant like _really seriously_ interested. As in, interested enough that you might… you know… stop obsessing over your… uh… former lover. That you might, you know, marry her one day.”

Those blue eyes sharpened with pain at the mention of the lover he wrote to in his journals, the mystery woman who he refused to talk about no matter how much he was pestered. The hurt in those depths was burning hot and frigidly cold all at once, a swirling mixture of agony and something else that Sarah couldn’t quite make out.

His lips pursed, his tongue darting out to wet the plush flesh. “My intention is to court L— Patience until either she rejects my suit or we are married, yes.”

“And you’ll be okay. I mean, you haven’t exactly gotten over your other lover.” _The dead one._

“Andreth was special,” Aeron told her, his voice low and a little rough. “She was not the loveliest woman, nor the most intelligent or skilled in any craft. But she was caring and kind and loving and wise, and I loved her dearly. I did not think I would ever love again as I loved her. I wanted to _die_ to be with her.

“But,” he continued, “Patience is special as well. I do not know whether or not I can explain my meaning or how I know. But I do. I believe that I could be happy with her for however short a time we might have. I never had a chance to really _be_ with Andreth—our families did not approve, and we only ever flirted and courted. We never married or had children, never had a home together or slept together in the same bed.”

His fingers were idly tangled, weaving in and out of each other in a slow, twining rhythm. His blue gaze focused on the digits, wistful and hazy with remembrance. “I would like to have a chance to have those things.”

Sarah felt her throat grow tight, her eyes brimming with hot tears.

“Well,” she said, breaking the solemnity of the moment. “We’ll have to get you properly prepared, then. Starting with where you’re going.”

He blinked innocently up at her. “I honestly have no idea.”

_Of course…_

She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Well, there’s always Google…”

\---

Out of all the potential date ideas, Sarah was sort of surprised that watching the sunset and stargazing were Aeron’s favorites, followed closely by getting coffee and pastries at a local café or getting ice cream and wandering around at a marketplace or street fair.

“Hiking would have been fine as well,” he admitted, “But I know not whether Patience is the sort to enjoy rigorous physical endeavors. Perhaps for a later date…”

“Well, why don’t you go to the café where we first met and get some coffee and talk? You know, the one where I spilled coffee all over you and made you late for work. It’s small and cozy, private but not _too_ private for your _delicate sensibilities.”_ At this, she received a deadpan look, but she could see those eyes spark with interest.

“The lady who works there, her husband plays harp in the café at least twice a week in the evening. And he’s got the voice of an angel. It could be super romantic.”

Aeron’s face contorted oddly. Sarah crossed her arms. “What? It’s a great idea!”

“I am not certain I want my cousin and his wife to be privy to my first attempt at courting since Andreth died.”

“Wait, wait… your _cousin?”_ Of course, the harp guy was also insanely sexy (in a sad-eyed, solemn kind of way), and his wife sometimes seemed to gorgeous to be real, but Sarah had never even suspected… 

She cocked her head to the side and stared at her now-fidgeting friend. Now that she was looking at Aeron and thinking of the café husband, she could see some similarities (beyond ridiculous attractiveness) that she hadn’t noticed before. The chiseled lines of their cheekbones. The long, sharp blades of their noses. Something about the way their eyes sparkled even in dying light. “I guess there is some family resemblance.”

“Technically, we are half-cousins,” Aeron further explained.

“But you know each other. Think of it as, like, a support team. They could totally help you out. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind!”

“Maybe…”

Aeron was trying to play at indifference, but Sarah knew he was sold. A smug smirk lining her lips, she moved on to the next topic.

“Now, about what you should wear…”

His groan was that of a man dying slowly in agony. But it made Sarah laugh.

\---

Two weeks to the day after Aeron and Patience first met, Sarah was sending her blond friend off (into battle) to pick up his new girl for their first date.

She had forced him to do something a little different with his hair—the results being a straight, shockingly neat plait that ran down his back, gleaming and golden—and she had managed to convince him to go more casual than his usual slacks and button-down shirts. Somehow, she had gotten him into jeans—(she would never admit to the fact that his ass looked quite delectable all wrapped up in denim)—and an actual, honest-to-God legitimate t-shirt underneath a leather jacket that hugged and accented his upper body in all the right places. He looked quite delectable if she did say so herself.

“Are you really certain that I should not kiss her hand?” he asked for what had to be the fifteenth time that afternoon. “I _am_ allowed to offer her my arm when I escort her to the car, am I not?”

_Well, you can’t ask for everything all at once. I suppose it’s mostly harmless…_

“Yeah, sure, fine. I guess, since you’ve already done it once and didn’t manage to scare her off, Patience probably won’t care if you kiss her hand again. Heck, she might even find it cute!”

Aeron’s look was slightly offended. “Showing a lady the proper respect is simply good manners!”

“Yeah, yeah.” She would let him win this one. “You need to go. You said you’d be by at six to pick her up, and you’re pushing five forty-five already. Being late will hardly give a good impression.”

That, at least, seemed to get him in gear and moving towards the door.

“Good luck,” Sarah added just as he was about to slip away. “Don’t do anything too stupid, old man.”

“Thanks, brat,” he said with a cheeky grin. Before she had a chance to do more than sputter at his mocking endearment, the blond was gone.

_Hopefully, my hard work pays off. Mission One: First Date is a go!_

\---

Now, Sarah was not delusional about the fact that Aeron was a somewhat screwed-up individual. He had horrible nightmares and flashbacks about blood and sometimes stared off into space for hours thinking about things that she didn’t want to know or think about. He worked in a fucking morgue and enjoyed making dead people look pretty more than he liked living, breathing human beings. He wandered through life as though he lived in an overlapping dimension, unaffected by the comings and goings of the real world. He was sometimes blunt and rude and his temper leaned more towards swift and sharp than mild and mellow.

And she knew that he needed help. She knew that having someone else besides her—a closer, more intimate confidant—might help where she couldn’t. She hoped things turned out well, because she believed that this could be the break Aeron needed to get his life back on track.

In fact, she _knew_ that it was. Especially when, as he finally returned back to his apartment late into the evening, Aeron was smiling more broadly than she had ever seen before. She watched him practically waltz in through the door, his feet almost floating right off the ground in his jubilation, and he actually came right up to her and planted a kiss on each of her cheeks.

“I take it things went well,” she said.

And there was that faint hint of a pretty pink blush again. “Patience has agreed to go on a second date,” he told her, his whole body vibrating with glee in a way that reminded her suddenly of a giddy child bouncing up and down on their heels in excitement. “I was worried that she might be… unnerved… by my mannerisms. I know I can be a bit odd and unfriendly.”

_A bit of an understatement there._

But Sarah just smiled fondly at her weirdo. “Well, I bet she just couldn’t resist your old world chivalry.”

His grin died down to an affectionate, crooked sort of smile, the left side of his mouth curling up just a bit higher than the right, a dimple forming in his cheek. It was almost, dare she think it, boyish. “Thank you for your assistance, Lady Sarah.”

“Yes, yes, I’m amazing, I know.” And there was the eye-roll. “So, now comes the most important part of your debriefing…”

His stare was questioning.

“Details. All the details. Spill!”

As he sputtered and stuttered trying to figure out where to start, Sarah couldn’t help that her inner self was cheering and crowing, fists raised towards the sky with in a battle cry to the fates. There was a long way to go and much work to be done before Aeron was anything even remotely resembling a healthy individual, but this was definitely a good start. Already, he was more alive than she had ever seen him before. More blushing. More vulnerability. More openness. More friendliness.

More _aliveness._

They had a long road ahead, but they’d gotten a damn good start.


	338. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can one contemplate music in the world of Tolkien without contemplating the birth of the universe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 23, 2016.
> 
> Weirdness. I have to say, I'm sorry if this is confusing. It's written from the POV of Eru himself (and I feel a little nervous about having done such a thing...), and it's basically the Ainulindalë. Sort of?
> 
> Warnings: Religious context. Extensive and intentional capitalization of nouns and verbs that would not normally be capitalized. Other than that, not much, I guess.
> 
> *Nearly quoted directly from the Ainulindalë. Because Tolkien made this line far too poetic and perfect, and I couldn't defile it by changing it nor write a story like this and leave it out. So I'm not taking credit for it. Just admitting that I would be hard-pressed to write it better.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Eru = He who is Alone  
> Melkor = He who arises in Might  
> Manwë = He who is Blessed
> 
> Note: Sorry about the naming. I guess I could have used Quenya or attempted Valarin (though Melkor doesn't actually have a legitimate Valarin name), but I didn't. So it might be a bit confusing. Also note that pronouns referencing Eru are capitalized!

Music was sacred.

All things in the world had their foundation in Song.

And all Song stemmed from the same single source.

And that source was _Him._

And to Him, music was sacred as well. Perhaps, the most sacred thing of all.

For it was music which had the power to make and destroy the vastness of universes. It was music which had the power to bring into light the greatest of splendor and glory. And it was also music which had the power to bring into being the greatest and foulest evil and heaviest, most suffocating heartbreak. 

It was music which had the power to bring into being an innate, unique spark—a shard of the Flame Imperishable—in mortal shells, giving them that fascinating thing called Life.

Music was the art of He who is Alone. His bread and butter. His heart and soul. His be all and end all—for He began and ended with music, and all that He loved was of the themes that He composed in the secret realm of His thoughts.

Many different worlds had He dreamt up in his endless, timeless forever. Long and hard had He contemplated all that He wished to have in His physical realm which would be His greatest composition and legacy. He meditated on the complexity of that which He wished to exist there, on the nature of all that would Be.

He prepared three great themes. 

The first two, He perceived would bring into Being the world. One would be the sweet innocence of new being and matter, and it would be dominated by darkness. Such would epitomize all the strife to come, the breaking of the paradise at the birth of the universe. And the second, led by righteousness and compassion, would be all that was good fighting against that strife. Resilience and hope and faith.

But the last, He held close to His breast in wait. For it was the most precious.

And, when He was finally prepared and His great themes were lying formed in the back of His thoughts, he Sang into being the Ayanûz. His first Children, begotten not from flesh or from material matter, but from Song alone. 

They were of Music. They were of Him.

They were His instruments and tools, the foundation upon which the realm that would become Aþâraphelûn was built. And He taught to them the mysteries of Song.

And he loved them.

His first Child—the eldest son, and the greatest in power of voice and intellect of mind—was called He who arises in Might. His son’s voice echoed above all others with ease, its timbre rich and unique, the deepest of sounds such that it might resonate through the spirits of all who were graced to hear it raised in Song and hold them captive in its powerful embrace.

The theme that birthed He who arises in Might was a theme of great joy and great sorrow turned to darkness. And, though for now the eldest Child was innocent and inquisitive, a young thing still learning how to think for himself and obeying ceaselessly with joy and adoration, ever present was the knowledge that He who arises in Might was the linchpin upon which all despair and hopelessness and hate and evil would come into Being. 

This child would lead the first theme of music into darkness.

Thus, He taught his eldest songs of light and fire and ice, the instrumental building blocks of all material things, and gave unto him the strength to defy his brethren to his last breath. He who arises in Might needed to be strong. He needed to be fierce. He needed to be tumultuous and blind and insidious and clever and foolish all at once.

For He who arises in Might was the most important role in the great themes of Music, though he knew it not yet.

And then, He who is Alone Sang into Being He who is Blessed.

He who is Blessed was birthed from a Song that touched the heavens and brushed against the outer edges of existence. He was at once the same and entirely different than his older sibling, cut from the same cloth yet stitched together in so radically different a fashion that the two were nearly incomparable.

Where He who arises in Might was overpowering in strength, He who is Blessed was instead softer but longer in endurance. Where He who arises in Might was a Song of dissonant voices tangled into a torment of sound, He who is Blessed was of the same motif but in harmony to combat the cacophony.

Yet, both had the capacity for great love. And both had the capacity for great cruelty.

Around these two singular voices, He built his realm. He Sung into Being hundreds of little lights in the darkness, each with their own independent thoughts which stemmed from His own. Unto each, He gave themes, slices of the Song that had first brought them into Being in the Void of the Timeless Halls.

He gave them pieces of Himself. And they were of Him. 

He set them to the task of Singing at His feet. And He, their conductor, listened as they learned their own voices, as they began to minutely understand the tiny parts of themes that He had gifted unto their minds. Fledgling creatures that they were, they grew swiftly into their confidence and understanding of the complexity of their own parts, maturing and putting more detail and more delicacy and more control into their voices.

It was then that He gave unto the thoughts of His eldest Child visions of independence. And he sensed that He who arises in Might wished to be more than he was, to create without direction things that he believed were birthed from his own mind rather than his Father’s.

But those thoughts, too, from He who is Alone had come. And He smiled where he sat and listened upon his throne. For all was coming together as it should.

Until all was ready. And He would put to task the celestial choir. And they would Sing into Being the greatest and most prolific work of His thoughts.

The Ainulindalë began.

And the first theme was beautiful. It was spring and warmth. It was new and curious with wonder. It was the heat of golden light and raindrops upon blades of grass.

It was symmetry and consonance. It was the foundations of the earth, its metal core and the long-fingered reach of magnetic fields brushing into blackness beyond. It was the first air coalesced around this spinning sphere, pulled to and fro by rotation. It was the first water, deep and endless in the ocean but carried up into the skies and falling as condensed droplets of liquid back to earth, again and again.

And, when He who arises in Might parted his lips, the first theme became _fire._

It was passion and heat and chaos. It was the heave of the earth that broke apart the carefully constructed lines of mountains and belched from open pores great plumes of toxic gas and vaporized rock all the way up past the clouds. It was the scream of the wind in a storm, stoked by heat and pressure and cold into a vortex of such power as to be incomprehensible and untamable. It was the dread sigh of tourbillions opening in the midst of sea, spinning down where the earth had cracked open beneath, swallowing all into darkness that fell into their gaping maw.

It was the sickness in green things and bloodlust in the minds of beasts. It was the fire eating away flesh and pain born from cruel touch. It was the act of defilement of all that was beautiful, turning it to ruin and emptiness.

It was He who arises in Might that brought, with his Song, evil into the world. Through the clashing of dissonant chords, tension was born into the Great Music.

And, when the theme grew too chaotic and broken to continue, when others were lost in the wake of his eldest son’s bellowing, earth-shattering voice beating down the weaker wills of the spirits beneath his power, He who is Alone thought to begin his second theme. The first had served its purpose.

Aþâraphelûn Amanaišal was born. And was marred.

He touched upon the defiant thoughts of His eldest, feeling the fierce and powerful ecstasy within those thoughts as His eldest son put his very heart into his disobedient theme. And then He touched upon the soft, questioning whispers of His second-born, a confused and lost spirit searching for guidance in the face of such catastrophe.

 _All will be well_ , he whispered unto those thoughts, a hand stroking with soothing coolness in the face of searing heat. _Sing._

And He who is Blessed Sang.

And the second theme began, others joining their older brother in Song. Where the first theme had started in the majesty of something pure and clean and untouched by asymmetry or dissonance, this theme started softer, as the whistling of the wind carrying on in the night. Until there was twined light broken by shadow, churning ocean rising and steady earth supporting, and all the singular motifs wove together to form a front, a shield to keep at bay the disharmony.

For He who arises in Might Sang again. And he sought to break the theme of his brother and dominate once more the Great Music. Their rhythms clashed sharply, falling out of beat with one another until disagreement reigned. Their harmonies drifted apart until each tone clashed sharply against the tones of the other as strikes of sword to sword. Each moment, that which had begun softly and with tenderness grew sharper and harsher and louder and fuller.

Until, once again, there was a deafening roar.

And the second theme was ended in chaos.

And then, from His breast, He allowed the third and final theme to unfold.

At first, none knew what it was that they sang, for He had not shared any part of this strange, new theme with His Children. It was contrived from pieces and snippets of familiar melodies taken from their context and thrust anew, joined together in a different pattern of harmony. Soft and tender, but a whisper at first, it came forth from within the ruckus of sound. And it was sorrow. And it was pain. And it was lamentation.

And it was the overcoming of grief, the beauty and horror of all things, and the beauty that arose from the horror into something more glorious and breathtaking still for its foundation in darkness. It was the ultimate complexity, the true workings of the World that Would Be.

It consumed utterly the second theme, rising in contention against the themes of He who arises in Might. And it stole away the powerful notes of the disobedient eldest son rather than only contesting them. It took trumpeting calls and arrogant bays and vicious, sharp cries as screams cutting through silence, and it wove them unto itself. And its beauty was ripened and deepened.

And, at last, all harmony and all dissonance came together into tension, into a building and building crescendo. All minds twined as One together, their beings quaking.

And He who is Alone listened to the culmination of His thoughts. Had He been a creature of the flesh, He might have wept. It was indescribable. It was the tessellation of a million colors mixing. It was supernovas detonating in the void of space. It was all things, from the most insignificant subatomic particle to the entirety of the material World.

It was His capacity for love. It was the weeping of His greatest sorrow and the twinkling of stars reflecting his greatest joy. It was the warmth of His comforting hands and the depth of His echoing voice. It was the thundering of His laughter and the sternness of His face. It was the terror of His anger and the bitter cold of His hatred.

It was the Flame Imperishable. It was _Life._

It was all that He was. It was Music.

And He raised his hands above his choir. And in one final chord, deeper than the Abyss and higher than the Firmament, piercing as the light of His eye, the Great Music ceased*.

And there was silence.

Aþâraphelûn Dušamanûðân was completed.

And it was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valarin:  
> Ayanûz = Ainur (note that it's purely conjecture based on the few other plural nouns in Valarin that this is actually plural and not singular)  
> Aþâraphelûn = Arda  
> Amanaišal = Unmarred  
> Dušamanûðân = Marred


	339. Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel is not immediately, absolutely, one hundred percent certain that she is _actually_ in love with Fëanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 24, 2016.
> 
> So today gave me some grief. I was busy literally all day, then came back to find that the prompt that I was originally planning to write was actually a prompt I'd already written way back when. So I had to scrap my initial plan and went with the next prompt on my old list, which just so happened to be Sweet. Luckily, I've used Sweeten, but not Sweet, so I went with that.
> 
> And then I thought about the Nerdanel fan who I spoke with over comments a while back. And this happened.
> 
> Warnings: Premarital sex and pregnancy out of wedlock. Pretty blatant mentions of sex. Sensuality. Couple in the honeymoon phase. Childbirth (non-explicit).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Sweet was the flavor of love resting upon the tongue. To the point of pain. Soft and bursting, flushing the skin with warmth and burning through the veins with giddiness and filling the belly with the flutter of butterfly wings.

Utterly addictive.

\---

Nerdanel was not entirely certain that she actually loved her husband.

It was a strange thought that came to her sometimes in the dark of night in those quiet moments when the buzz of afterglow finally faded, when she lay entwined within the flexing cage of his arms, her head pressed against his shoulder and her nose tucked up against the throbbing pulse in his throat. In her ears, she could hear the steady sound of his breath, long and deep and synchronized to the rise and fall of the chest upon which her hand rested.

Did she really _love_ him? Helplessly, she would wonder.

Of course, she was terribly attracted to him. Like a moth to an open flame, drawn into his light was she like a planet spiraling into the gravity well of a star, and she was consumed by its resplendence and burned to cinders. All he need do was glance in her direction, his white-hot star-eyes narrowed and coy beneath the dark, half-hooded shield of his impossibly long lashes, and she would feel her belly go molten.

Well she remembered losing herself to his gaze. Though they had yet been married in the eyes of the law, as two young lovers utterly entranced with each the other they had consummated their passion beneath the stars and the glow of Telperion in secret. The night had painted their bodies silver as they joined on the soft grass beyond the Mansions of Aulë, when Nerdanel had given herself to the arrogant, wild and charismatic prince. When she had given herself to Fëanáro, the Spirit of Fire.

Even remembering that night sent a shudder of pure heat through her body, leaving her nipples tightly pearled and the apex of her thighs faintly damp. Needless to say, she certainly felt lust for him, her husband.

But love…

Fallen pregnant out of wedlock and fallen into lust with her lover, she had surrendered to his suit. They had had a whirlwind wedding. Like the cunning, dashing creature that she knew he was, Fëanáro had swept her off her feet and taken his newly-wed wife to his country estate, and there they needn’t sneak around. There, they made love at all hours of the day and spent the long aftermath giggling and cuddling, naked out in the open in the light of Laurelin at midday. And the two of them were alone together in all the world.

Still, was that love? She couldn’t help but dwell.

Fondness, perhaps. Affection, certainly. A bit of awe as well. And a bit of insecurity. His beauty was beyond that of any man she had met. His intellect was such that it was frightening at times. His tongue could be both sharper than a blade and soothing as the sound of raindrops falling upon water. He held her within the cage of his brilliance with ease.

Yet, for all that they spent time together, she still felt sometimes as though she knew him not at all. His mannerisms were strange and she felt distant from his thoughts. What went on in his mind, she could hardly have said, for mystery lay in the dust of newborn galaxies beyond the mercuric gray of his eyes.

Sometimes, when she stood next to him, she felt small and inadequate. Like he should be with someone more beautiful and more intelligent and more… just _more_ than the freckle-faced, flame-haired daughter of a talented but lowly coppersmith. She was no princess, no lady daughter of the finery and elegance of Court. How could she truly be his match, his mate and wife, his future queen, when she was nothing special? Just a simple sculptor, an artist with her head mostly in the clouds and her heart cradled in the palm of his hand.

Ever with ease would he draw her away from these worries. But a kiss upon her lips that turned into his mouth tracing down the whiteness of her throat and she would be lost again, her self-doubt forgotten in a tide of lust. And ponderings of love would fade beneath the fire.

And then the cycle would start over again.

And that was how Nerdanel found herself lying, sweaty and exhausted and white-faced and trembling, in the same chambers which they had used to officially consummate their joining. Months after they had first come to Formenos, and she had just given birth to their first child. And she still was not sure if she loved her husband.

Her ordeal had been long and hard as was to be expected of a first-time mother. The pain of childbirth was not something she relished, and it had been frightening for her body to be so out of her control, so wracked with agony as it bore forth a child from her womb. But she remembered feeling the warmth of her husband’s fiery spirit close when she reached out for comfort, felt his warm hand tangle with her own as she struggled and bucked and cried out in the pain of bringing their greatest creation into the world. He had stayed by her side.

Her world was still a little hazy, and she could hear her husband’s voice echo faintly in her ears. Could feel the brush of his lips upon her temple. “Vessenya, thou hast done so well.”

Blinking slightly, she watched as through frosted glass as he rose from the bed and was drawn away by the sound of the soft squalls of a child. _Their child._ And she saw as his arms were filled with a soft, squirming bundle, instinctively folding firm but gentle in protection.

And she looked at his face and felt her heart stutter beneath the bars of her ribs. The thought returned to her as a cool mist upon her face, just as it did in the darkness of the night when all else was quiet—the thought of her love.

Because, for all that he was a man of surpassing perfection in face and form, for all that he could lure her to his wicked ways with but a sinful smirk and smoldering eyes, she had never seen anyone look so shocked and so fascinated and so entranced as he did when he looked down into the face of their child. All at once poleaxed and adoring and made of melted sugar. As though the babe who was so small and helpless tucked against his chest were the most precious, gorgeous thing he had ever seen.

The look of a father’s love for his child was a potent taste on the back of Nerdanel’s tongue, all at once too sweet to bear and too wonderful to wish to cease. And she swallowed sharply and withheld the tears which gathered upon her lashes.

He cooed at the child, long fingers scarred from work at the forge turned soft and tender as they tickled at the roundness of newborn cheeks. Even the ever-present heat of the fire in his eyes seemed to soften, white-silver turned dark like the glimmer of starlight upon water. And he was smiling as he looked up and met Nerdanel’s gaze. To the child, he said, “Let us go introduce thee to Emya, winimo.”

With a flourish, he swept to her side, his weight pressing down upon the mattress to her right so that she felt her hips roll towards his magnetic warmth. And he placed the child into her arms. And he leaned down and kissed her lips. And he consumed her soul.

And he said, “We have a son, Nerdanel, nárinya.”

And she wondered how she could have doubted.

\---

Once sampled, the flavor of love was ever present in the back of the throat. Ever lingering as a memory upon the roof of the mouth. More potent than the shimmer of the stars and the sound of the first song of water. Unforgettable.

And it could not be untasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> vessenya = my wife (vessë + nya)  
> Emya = mama  
> winimo = baby  
> nárinya = my fire (nár + nya)


	340. Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Maedhros doesn't understand his wife any better than she understands him at first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 25, 2016.
> 
> Another long one. This piece is pretty much Soft from Maedhros' POV plus some more cute couply-ness. Generally, just a guy trying to figure out how girls work. Good luck with that.
> 
> Warnings: Some distantly implied sexism and questionable social norms. Also, some sexual imagery but no outright sex. Crying. And kissing. And awkward couples.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë

It was often said that women were a mystery that no man could solve.

Having grown up in a house full of men—eight in total, including himself—the only female company that Maitimo had ever kept extensively was that of his mother.

He would not have described his mother as being a particularly mysterious or confusing creature. Certainly, she worked differently from his father. Her moods were softer but less predictable, and her mannerisms at times were so dainty and fair that they seemed out of place in a house filled with males. But Maitimo had never found her to be unpredictable or strange of mind, never the finicky and illogical sort of creature that such a statement would have implied.

Once, he had said thusly to his father, and Fëanáro had laughed at him. Frowning, the young son had taken in his father’s face, contorted with unhidden glee and the faintest dusting of disdain, and had thought perhaps he was being mocked.

“Thou wilt understand one day,” Fëanáro said. “It has been no great task to learn the fine arts of the architecture of jewels, nor the delicate balance of metallurgy, nor the wary dance of the political stage. Feats of mind that others might gawk at have I achieved, and they name me most intelligent, prodigy even! But understand the mind of a woman, I never shall, for there is no sense to be had nor pattern to be discerned.”

A strong hand had rested upon his shoulder. “When thou hast married, thou wilt have grown wiser in this matter, hínanya.”

Young Maitimo had still been skeptical.

Married Maitimo knew the truth of the matter. Rarely did he concede to his father’s wisdom, but in this matter Fëanáro had most definitely been in the right. For the life of him, Maitimo _could not_ figure out the inner workings of his young wife. And it was driving him to insensate frustration!

Admittedly, he did not know his young wife very well. They had never even met before their wedding, but she had seemed to be a cold and distant beauty when he had first beheld her, all white hair and intricate braids threaded with pearls and shells, her slender body draped in iridescent fabric and pale green and blue tiers of silk falling to pool about her feet. Like a goddess made of foaming wave-crests and mother-of-pearl, she stole his breath from his very lungs for a moment.

Then the Princess of Alqualondë had looked up at him with pale blue eyes as she had placed her hand upon his arm so very delicately, and he had thought despondently that perhaps their marriage truly _would_ be one of convenience. For he could not imagine such a passionless and cold woman would ever become a close friend or confidant—let alone a lover!

That night, he had straightened his back and lifted his chin and resolved to do his duty to her as a husband. Let it never be said that Maitimo had not learned the manners of a proper gentleman from his mother, if not from his father! And it was not as if he were virginal. He would do his best to make their consummation something that both of them enjoyed at the very least in body if not in mind and heart.

But, upon entering the bedchambers that they shared, he found a creature that resembled not at all the cool light of the stars as had the calm and collected china doll upon his arm at the altar.

Instead, her white limbs, now uncovered below the knee and the elbows, were trembling faintly where they lay curled about her and beneath her slightly hunched form. The silk that covered her body did nothing at all to hide the comely shape of her curves nor the ripe swell of her breasts and the peaks of her nipples, and her long throat was bare all the way down to graceful clavicles with the hint of the swells of her bosom edged in lace just below. Yet, her face was not tranquil and her eyes were not cold.

She was warm and shaking, blue orbs glimmering in what could only have been unshed tears, and pupils blown wide in terror rather than longing or lust. This woman was _terrified._

For the first time, Maitimo found himself at a complete loss.

He did not understand what he had done to frighten her so or if, indeed, it was _him_ that had frightened her at all. Certainly, he hadn’t been particularly friendly when they had first met—it would not really have been appropriate to break the solemnity of their joining in such a manner—but neither had _she_ been. He had been under the impression that they had mutually danced around one another, remaining rather apart in their hearts though they welcomed the marriage and the benefits it would bring their people. That she was, if not happy, at least content with their arrangement.

Clearly, that was not the case. Thrown for a loop, Maitimo had had to scramble to improvise a solution. It was tempting to try to use words—to try and speak to her, to ask her why it was that she was frightened, to explain that her fright was unnecessary because he would rather be harmed himself than harm her with intent—but he pushed aside the silver-tongued urge.

Instead, he did what he might have done with the twins when they whimpered and huddled in their beds, frightened by the shadows lurking in the dark or the creaking of trees in the wind or the sound of thunder breaking across the sky. He brushed back her loose hair, the beams of Telperion woven of silk beneath his fingers, and he tilted her chin upwards so that he could see her eyes brimming with tears. He stroked with lenitive slowness at the infinite softness of her cheek.

“Please do not cry,” he pleaded, trying to reassure with the gentle timbre of his voice, the soothing croon that so often calmed his little brothers when they came to him for comfort. “I will not harm you, vessenya.”

And then she cried. And Maitimo was at a loss again.

With no idea what he had done to finally make the tears spill, he sat himself just beside her upon their bed, and he thought to comfort her with soft touch and a warm presence at her back rather than by words, though he knew not what was wrong. Steering her with butterfly kisses to her sides and back, he leaned her against his side and chest, felt her wet cheek press against his shoulder and the crook of his neck, and he stroked his palm up and down the arch of her spine. Against him, she shivered faintly, her arms pulling tighter in their embrace around her torso, and there was tension in the heaving of her shoulders with each soft sob.

He waited her out.

Part of him wondered if she had not wanted this marriage after all. Perhaps she was frightened of him. Perhaps she was lonely and homesick. Perhaps she was nervous about sharing a marriage bed.

Perhaps she had no idea what was going on. Did she even know the details of the act of coitus? If that was the case, why did she not say something?

Did she think him callous enough to ignore her plight?

Biting his lip, Maitimo tried to settle his ponderings. Consummation would not happen this night, and probably not any night in the near future, but he felt any interest he might have previously had wane in the face of her distress. There was no enjoyment to be had in sex with a partner who did not equally enjoy the encounter.

Thus, when her tears had finally ceased and the tension sharp in her muscles was turned malleable against his palm, he lifted her face once again. Her eyes were even deeper blue, ringed with silver lashes and lined with swollen redness from weeping. Her nose, too, was flushed, and her cheeks were somewhat blotchy and streaked with salty tear-tracks that trailed all the way to her plush pink lips and down her pointed chin.

No, he would not pursue any physical pleasure this night. She looked as tired as he suddenly felt, her eyes shadowed and her brows furrowed.

Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips— _I am gentle_ , he tried to say with the brush of skin to skin, _and I mean thee no harm_ —and lifted her into the cradle of his body, coiling about her as he rolled them onto the excessive expanse of their marriage bed. Her back rested against his chest, so much slighter than he had imagined, and her hair spilled like liquid silver over his arm and snaked up to tickle at his face and clung to the sharpness of his hip.

Her head tilted, her eyes seeking him out again, so very tentative. She looked as confused as he felt. “M-my Lord, I do not understand…”

For a moment, he did not comprehend her words. What was there not to understand?

And then he realized that she thought he was still going to…

 _She must think that I was raised in a barn!_ Part of him was offended, but the rest was put-out and worried. Had he given some indication that he was some sort of… of _barbarian? I would never do such a dishonorable thing as a pressure an unready woman into intercourse!_

But he pushed aside the rush of violent emotion, instead stroking a hand through her hair to calm himself with the repetitive motion. They could talk later—extensively about a wide range of topics that currently had Maitimo completely mystified, starting with whatever was causing her such fear that she cried at the very sight of her own husband—but for now…

“Let us save the rest for later,” he mumbled, breathing in the scent of the ocean upon her skin. “Sleep, silly girl.”

“But—”

“Sleep.”

Finally, she obeyed. Her head rested upon his bicep, and her fingers rose up to cradle her check, the tips tracing at the bow of her lips. Now that he had put aside the possibility of a sexual encounter this night, she seemed to fall into a state of limp relief, her body curving naturally and sinking into the down of the mattress.

Her breaths evened out, her eyes growing distant in sleep.

But Maitimo remained awake. His thoughts would not leave him to rest yet, though his body craved to have the mercy of sleep and his temples ached with fatigue.

He wondered if all women made so little sense as did the slight slip of a thing he held against his chest. He wondered if she was frightened of _him_ or of _marriage_ or of _sex_ or of something else entirely. He wondered why she said nothing of her plight to her husband, who had that very day sworn an oath at the altar to care for and protect her to his dying breath for all eternity.

He thought back to his father’s words. _“Thou wilt understand one day… When thou hast married, thou wilt have grown wiser in this matter.”_

As he finally managed to drift off to the night-sounds beyond the window and the steady sound of his new wife’s soft breaths tickling his skin, Maitimo hoped that this start was the worst of their contention and confusion. Surely, it was just nerves that made Istelindë of Alqualondë so outright confounding.

Yes, that had to be it… Just loneliness and nerves… All would be better… in… the… morning…

Of course, he was being optimistic. And naïve.

Maitimo quickly discovered that women were _always_ confusing. How they functioned, how their thoughts moved and twisted and turned, how their odd brand of illogical logic worked, it was truly a complete mystery. One that made no sense at all.

He quickly discovered that Istelindë tiptoed around him as though he might bite despite the fact that he had been nothing but polite if not downright _friendly_. The soft curve of his lips and their gentle words were oft greeted with the fake stretch of her mouth trying to achieve something resembling a smile. Nothing he said seemed to be taken at face value, as though she thought he might (for some reason that he could not comprehend) be _lying_ to her, or that she thought there might be some hidden message of doom or mastery or ill intent underneath his calm responses and greetings.

Why did she not just understood that he said what he meant?

Certainly, in politics one might hide truths in his words. But this was their _marriage._ They were meant to be intimate, to trust one another and get to know one another!

And yet, for all that he tried so very hard to be polite, to open himself up and make himself vulnerable before her eyes, she seemed to believe it was a trick. And he quickly realized that most of her responses were ingrained. A curtsy here, a few words of small talk there, a soft inquiry when she was uncertain but otherwise she left him alone.

How he was he to come to know his wife if she would not even _speak frankly_ to him?

He wondered if all couples had these sorts of troubles. Once, his father had told him that his parents’ courtship had lasted decades. Had it taken that long for Fëanáro, the intrinsic genius, to know well enough the mind of his intended to convince her to marry him?

_A decade or more… what a frightening prospect._

While such an amount of time was but the blink of an eye for his people, Maitimo still thought it seemed a daunting prospect. To spend the next ten cycles of the Trees or _more_ trying to figure out why Istelindë wouldn’t just _talk to him_ sounded like an excruciatingly trying experience. One that he would have liked to avoid.

 _Do I just ask her what troubles her?_ Often he thought about what he might say to her in the early hours of the morning, or perhaps when they first rose from bed and she went to sit at her vanity and brush her hair free of the tangles of sleep. _Should I be so blunt? Should I try to be subtle?_

He wondered if, perhaps, he should ask her about her home. If, perhaps, he should ask whether she might like to visit her family. If, perhaps, she would rather spend the first months or even years of their marriage closer to the sea.

Maitimo often found himself downcast and sighing into the cup of his palms, eyes squeezed shut in his frustration. All he wanted to do was _help_ , but nothing seemed to soothe her or calm her or reassure her of his good intentions. The politician within him was writhing in agony at his inability to use rhetoric to worm his way out of the situation, for none of the many lessons in diplomacy or compromise that he had ingrained into his brain as a prince seemed to garner the intended reactions.

Attempts to draw her into conversation at the dinner table usually ended in awkward silence. Invitations for her to join him in his study always led to long hours spent sitting stiffly together in the same room without speech, surrounded by the thick, suffocating heaviness of tension. Soft words of reassurance were met with wide-eyed skepticism, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to trust in his good will.

In desperation, he had even tried asking his married brothers. Kanafinwë told him that they needed to find something in common, that he needed to do kind things for her at random times and use his actions rather than his words to convince her of the meaning of his words. Curufinwë told him that he was being an idiot, that all women were standoffish in the early stages of courting, and that it was best to try to become her friend before he attempted to become her husband in more than law.

Maitimo did not even know where to start.

His father’s first suggestion was to buy or make her a gift. _“Something meaningful,”_ the Crown Prince had advised even as he was pouring over schematics for some project or another, mind half-occupied with other things. _“But nothing too intimate. For some reason, women do not find that to be flattering.”_

 _Intimate but not_ too _intimate… What in the name of the Valar does_ that _mean?_

Maybe something to remind her of home, he had thought. While he wasn’t entirely certain that she was actually homesick, he knew that he would have liked to have some small piece of Tirion with him at all times had he gone off to live in an entirely new city filled with people of a completely different culture and mindset from his own.

With that task in mind, Maitimo had scoured the marketplaces of Tirion. And, when he found what he was looking for, he _knew._

It was a necklace, almost too simple for a princess. It was all tiny white pearls that caught the golden rays of Laurelin as did _her_ hair. The long strand was woven into an intricate knot, and he could not help but imagine how they would lie sloping down her throat, resting heavily between her breasts, the end trailing down to the curve of her stomach.

So, admittedly, his first thought was of her wearing _only_ the necklace, but it would be just as beautiful with a pale rose or lavender gown. And it was a gift that might be expected of a husband, moderately practical with some faint sentimentality but nothing too bold or risqué.

He wrapped it in silk and presented it to her that evening.

She was silent when she unfolded the cloth. Her delicate hands tangled in the strands of pearls, and his voice floundered as he thought of what he should say.

Eventually… “They made me think of thee,” he admitted. “And I thought, perhaps, thou wouldst appreciate having a little bit of home here with thee. I am certain thou hast plenty of strands of pearls, but…”

And then he realized that she was crying. _Again._

And, once again, he wasn’t sure what he had done to instigate the reaction. Only that tears were suddenly leaking from the corners of her eyes, those aquamarine gems which were downcast and resting upon the simple strand draped across her palm. Delicate fingers folded over the white pearls, the white crescents of her nails clicking against the tiny spheres.

She sniffled faintly, breaking the silence left by his trailing words. And he swallowed around sudden thick lump stuck in the back of his throat.

“I did not mean to upset thee,” he whispered

Another sniffle, and one of her hands rose to wipe at the tears in a most unladylike fashion, the water staining dark the edge of her sleeve. “Thou hast not upset me, Nelyafinwë. They are beautiful.”

 _Then why art thou crying?_ He wanted to beg her to make sense. _Clearly thou art upset, but why? Why lie so blatantly?_

He wanted to ask all of these things and more. He wanted to bang his head against the wall and curse his own stupidity. He wanted to disparage his father’s advice right then and there, because _clearly_ Fëanáro had been entirely wrong about this course of action. How was this mess supposed to help him break the tension between himself and his wife?

“Really, they are beautiful.” Her voice was tremulous and raw now, balancing upon the razor’s edge of tears. “Just like at home, draped across the windows so that they catch the light of the Trees and glow…”

And then she was bawling out of the blue, loud and wet and full of passion. Her arms were around his chest in a taut hold and her face was upon his shoulder dampening him with tears and her hands tangled in his hair and pulled sharply. It was all he could do to wrap his arms around her delicate frame, trying not to squeeze too tightly as he rested his chin upon her head and looked skyward.

 _Sweet Eru_ , he couldn’t help but think, _this was not my intent._

It seemed everything he did made her cry. He had no idea what he was doing wrong.

And so, in his helplessness, he held her against him and waited for the tears to stop and the insistent hitching of her breath to fall to tranquility once more. His fingers tangled in the nacreous strands of her hair, carefully combing their way down her back again and again whilst his eyes tracked the creeping of silver across the floor towards night.

They might have been there for hours before her tears passed and a sort of emotional exhaustion set in. Against him she leaned heavily, and he thought it was late and time for sleep. At least _that_ seemed to make sense. With ease, he lifted her into his arms, feeling her rest fully against him, melting to meld perfectly with the sharpness of his muscles and bones, and he carried her back to their bedchambers. And, all the while, her small hands clutched around the gift as though it were a lifeline, stroking at each tiny bump of each pearl as though they were a sacred thing of tender worship.

He set her upon their bed and changed himself into his nightclothes, keeping one eye upon her face, upon her eyes which still rested on the pearls. And then he went to her, intending to help her out of her gown.

And, when he leaned over her, she kissed him full on the lips. 

“My thanks, Nelyafinwë,” she whispered.

And he wasn’t sure what to say. _“Thou art welcome”_ seemed paltry and dim-witted a response to being kissed by his shy wife whilst she was tear-stained and half-awake, lying upon their bed in such a state of vulnerability. The whole moment seemed… seemed…

It seemed more intimate than any moment they had shared since their first night together.

“Let us get thee out of that dress,” he said instead, voice gruff and cheeks faintly flushed with color. “Then we can sleep.”

Stripped down to her shift, for once she seemed not at all embarrassed or nervous of her undress. Instead, she seemed to fully welcome his touch when he moved them to the center of their bed, and she tucked herself into his body without prompting, curling herself up into the safety of his arms as might a young child seeking comfort and closeness. And she did not release her gift once, tucking it up against her sternum in the clasp of her cupped palms.

And, once again, she fell into reverie before him. And Maitimo laid awake thinking that he might never figure out what was going through this woman’s head. One minute she was shy and distant, then crying and hugging him, then sleepy and kissing him, all in the space of a single day. How one strand of “intimate but not too intimate” pearls could lead to such emotional upheaval, he just could not understand.

Much as it irked him, he conceded defeat to his father’s wisdom. How Fëanáro could have known the potential for gift-giving to turn into something so intimate and close, Maitimo could not have said. Experience, probably. Lots and lots of experience.

Altogether, the crying left his heart throbbing and the kissing left his cheeks flushed and everything just made him more confused. Confused by her thoughts and her feelings and her actions and reactions.

Istelindë was a mystery. And, by Eru, he would try to solve her.

But right then, he needed sleep. Maybe everything would be clearer… in… the… morning…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> vessenya = my wife (vessë + nya)  
> Valar = great holy beings (pl)  
> Eru = God (lit. He who is Alone)


	341. Envelope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad receives the Rings of Power from Celebrimbor and begins to fear the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 26, 2016.
> 
> This is sort of a continuation of Closing In. Basically, I sat around all day thinking of the best and worst things that come in envelopes and, of course (being the horrible, awful person that I am) I decided to write about the worst rather than the best. Ah well...
> 
> Warnings: Prescience of a sort. Impending war and death. General depressingness.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Annatar = Sauron
> 
> As a side note, yes, Erestor ended up on the Isle of Balar with Gil-galad, Elrond and Elros and all the remaining Falathrim and survivors of the Third Kinslaying. Thus, he meets up with his distant cousin, eventually finding a high position in the court of the High King and becoming friends with Elrond, the King's herald. This is, in my AU, how he ends up going to Imladris with Elrond after the High King dies at the end of the first War of the Ring.

An envelope could be a rather innocuous thing.

Depending on the sender, they could contain anything from general missives to declarations of love to ill news from abroad. And, as the High King of the Noldor, Gil-galad felt like he dealt with all of these and more on a daily basis. It was not uncommon for him to have stacks of correspondence thicker than tomes. 

On a typical day, he might have something from Círdan in Mithlond or from Oropher in Great Greenwood or Amdír in Lórinand, as well as dozens of messages from his own councilmen and advisors wanting this or that, and the occasional handful of amorous writings as well. Add to those things to the writings he received from the people—everyone from the lowest stable-hand on up, ranging from topics such as problems in everyday aspects of life to simple admiration—and there were quite a few envelopes indeed. 

However, he usually only had to deal with a pile of them on his desk in the afternoon.

Right now it was the middle of the night. Not a time to be reading or answering correspondence. In fact, he would rather be sleeping. But a loud knocking on his door and the sound of squeaky hinges turning drew him from his reverie. He vaguely recognized the slight frame in the doorway to his bedchambers. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he focused in on the black velveteen robes and the long falls of ebony hair and the impossibly dark gray eyes. 

Everything about Erestor was dark. Except for the pale skin which glowed through the blackness, caught in the net of moonlight. Gil-galad wished for that vision to go away.

“It is the middle of the night,” he complained in a sleep-roughened voice, wanting nothing more than to roll over, pull the quilt up over his head, and plunge back into the calming embrace of dreams. “What dost thou need at this unholy hour, Erestor?”

“A messenger has come for thee.” The dark advisor paused diffidently, the sweet sound of his tenor cutting short following those words. His lips were quivering as though he were shifting his tongue about in his mouth, trying to find upon its tip the shape of his next words. “It is urgent, my King.”

_Urgent._

Urgent was never good. Especially in the middle of the night.

Gil-galad was rolling out of bed already, the last vestiges of sleep fading quickly into worry. “Who sent him?”

“Lord Celebrimbor, my King.”

What could Celebrimbor want so badly that his messenger, who had probably just spent more than a week of hard riding to get to Lindon from Eregion, refused to be tended to and shown a bath and given a bed for a decent night’s sleep before delivery of his message? Moreover, how had the messenger convinced Erestor that whatever words he carried were of such import as to wake the King for a private audience in the middle of the night?

“Did the messenger say anything about his missive?”

The King could see Erestor shake his head. “Nay. He is exhausted and filthy and seems… troubled, my Lord. He would not take no for an answer. He insists that he must speak with thee immediately.”

Pulling on the same robes that he had worn yester-eve, Gil-galad forwent the usual pageantry of his station. “Take me to him.”

Erestor ignored the nightclothes clearly visible beneath the rumpled drape of rich blue fabric. It was not often that Gil-galad saw his friend and distant cousin so unsettled as he appeared now, those dark eyes distant in thought. Something about this situation had Erestor nervous enough that the usually fastidious elf did not chastise the King for wearing dirty clothes or venturing out with his hair messily braided and unadorned by the circlet of his kingship. Though Gil-galad was grateful to avoid the nuisance of being pestered, it left him just as unsettled.

He did not like this. Not at all. Something was not right.

They came to the Great Hall where the High King would normally receive visitors and hold court. But Gil-galad was not pompous enough to sit upon his throne in the face of the messenger, a tall and dark-haired noldo whose clothes were splattered in mud and whose face was white as spilt milk. There was a parcel and a letter in those broad hands.

“Thou hast a message for me.”

“My King,” the messenger said, his voice low and hoarse from fatigue as he held out the letter first. The envelope was simple and unadorned, the parchment thick and heavy. But it was a thin envelope indeed, not the robust sort that carried many pages worth of writing.

Gil-galad blinked down at it, feeling foreboding rise like a chilly wind in his spirit. With deft movements, he ripped the side of the parchment open and found but a single slip of paper and a key. The King took one look at the key, a simple-looking thing if not for its make in mithril, and then held up the note.

There were but two sentences scribbled upon the paper in Celebrimbor’s familiar script. But the normally elegant curves and strokes of his cousin’s hand were rather jagged and uneven beneath the faint light of the lit torches upon the walls, looking written in a hurry as if on a rough surface. The King felt his stomach grow heavy and leaden when he took in the slight shake in the handwriting that distorted usually pristine loops and curls, as well as the blotches where ink had leaked onto the surface perhaps from a broken quill-tip. Then he read the words.

_Annatar is not who he claims to be. I am betrayed._

That was all.

“Is there nothing else?” Gil-galad demanded, shoving the note back into its housing. “Did he say nothing else to thee?”

The messenger licked his lips, an almost nervous gesture. Then he raised his package—a box, small enough to be held in one hand and wrapped in dirt-stained silk. The King reached out and took it, unwrapping it from its cloth housing to find that it was of solid mithril—a simple-looking jewelry box that had likely taken many long and painful hours of skilled labor to shape and smooth into the soft edges and perfect lines and precise angles—adorned with only an intricate lock. No doubt the very lock to which the key resting cold and heavy in Gil-galad’s palm belonged. 

“My Lord gave me this with strict instructions to give it only unto _thee_ , my King,” the noldo told him, “And no one else. And he told me to take my belongings and that I should not return to Eregion. He was… very upset.”

From the corner of his eye, Gil-galad could see Erestor blanch, the advisor’s dark hair and robes standing out in stark contrast to the sudden pallor of his skin. Dark eyes widened, glancing towards the King in question, and Gil-galad shook his head faintly. Though he knew not for certain why Celebrimbor would do such a strange thing as order his messenger to make haste and not return, he could guess from the short two sentences.

The images that arose in his head were not reassuring.

“Very well,” he said, “Thou hast accomplished thy task, and now thou canst rest, my friend. Thou art welcome in my halls.”

“My King.” The exhausted messenger bowed deeply, nearly falling over as his balance precariously wavered. 

Heedless of the difference in their stations—as, indeed, the High King had ever disliked lording his kingship over others, feeling all too much like a commoner playing at being something more—Gil-galad used a hold on the noldo’s broad shoulders to steady him and rested the tall body into his side for support. “Let Lord Erestor find thee accommodations, my friend. Thou must be tired from traveling so far in so short a time.”

“But please, first, my King…” The noldo shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs of his thoughts, and his gray eyes were dark with concern. “Please, is all well? Is Eregion safe? Is my Lord Celebrimbor safe?”

And Gil-galad thought to lie at first. But he couldn’t bring himself to impart false words to this man without feeling the shadow of guilt constricting about his chest. How could he lie to this servant whose city was probably in grave danger, whose friends were likely in peril and whose Lord could very well be upon the very threshold of war and destruction? He would have been the worst sort of liar, the spreader of false hope. 

Instead, he said, “I do not know. But I will do my best to help thy Lord and his city should they need my aid. Now get some rest.”

That head bowed, those eyes filled with fading hope, for they could see the way Gil-galad’s stern face had become stony and his eyes had become distant. They could all feel the tension, the foreshadowing of ill news as a specter haunting at their backs. And the High King feared that he would be far too late to help Celebrimbor now.

He sent the messenger off with Erestor, who sent him a single dark look before departing into the night. And the King was alone with a mithril box, a letter, and a key, standing in an empty hall with only the company of flickering light and crackling flames to part the darkness.

Gil-galad went to his study. There would be no more sleep this night.

_I am betrayed._

In his hand lay crumpled the envelope bearing those words. And the chill that had taken up residence in the King’s heart spread like a toxin through his veins until he shivered despite the warmth of his halls and the glow of fire golden against his flesh.

He knew that the message heralded more than simple betrayal. Long had they known their Enemy was preparing for war, and now he feared that it was come to their doorstep at last, that Celebrimbor had incited their foes to make the first move.

Eregion would be the first to fall. And her Lord with her. Gil-galad knew in his heart that he would not see the Lord of Eregion alive again.

And then their trials would begin in truth.

Innocuous indeed seemed the folds of white paper bearing the ill news of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Places:  
> Mithlond = Grey Havens  
> Great Greenwood = Mirkwood  
> Lórinand = Lothlórien
> 
> Quenya:  
> noldo = deep-elf (s)


	342. Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sea-longing is a long-drawn and painful affliction. More so than anyone gives it credit for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 27, 2016.
> 
> This story pretty much belongs with most other things in the Cheat Arc, as well as all the Legolas-related things floating around. Most particularly, it reminds me of Shadows (that one that I wrote literally ages ago), but from a different POV.
> 
> Warnings: Mostly just depressing stuff. Maybe a hint of insanity. Happy endings aren't really a thing in ME, as Tolkien establishes time and again.

It was some time before he even realized something was wrong.

The way his people talked about the sea-longing, he would have expected some sort of instantaneous pull, an immediate drag like a fish-hook stabbed through his heart and yanking sharply. Something that was utterly impossible to ignore. Something that ruptured lives and destroyed reams and forced minds to turn to the West with a ruthless lack of mercy. All-consuming and obliterating.

But it wasn’t like that. Not at all.

It was, rather, a _calling._

At first, it was just the sound of gulls. Legolas had never seen the ocean before, and he had never heard the cries of the white birds that circled the horizons above the white, foaming wave-crests. But there was something about the sound that had captured his attention, the way it mixed with the deep breathing of the water riding up upon the land and crashing back out in the distance, again and again and again. He looked out across the blue plains reflecting the soft puffs of cloud above and then down into the dark depths, a mixture of gray and blue and green, the deepest of blacks underneath it all, and he thought that it was beautiful.

It was mesmerizing. And he remembered thinking that he could understand why some men found their heart in the ocean and never wished to leave its sight. Standing upon a Corsair ship moving steadily towards the mouth of the Anduin, he felt no seasickness and instead enjoyed the way the water rocked beneath his feet. Steady and slow. Almost comforting.

At the time, he thought nothing else of it. There were more pressing matters.

But then they went upriver, and that was when the first warning sign appeared. Even then, Legolas noticed nothing amiss. Later, he would realize that he had been willfully blind.

For the thrumming of the sea did not dissipate with the loss of the crooning, churning waves to the distant gaze of his elven eyes. At their backs, the wide endlessness that was the sea disappeared, the last vestiges of the blue plains glimmering in golden light fading away, replaced by green and brown and gray as they traveled further and further inland.

But it was still there. A steady pulse. The echo of gulls in his ears.

_Calling, calling, calling…_

And he ignored it then, too. It was just a memory of something enjoyable then. Something soft and gentle carrying him into a war that he might not survive. Rather than being annoyed or worried, the elf had found himself grateful.

Imagining the ocean, its cerulean hue and its heavy sighs and the feel of mist kissing his cheeks, it was just a comfort. He hadn’t felt so at ease since Haldir had died.

And he didn’t want to think about _that. Anything but that._

But he didn’t die.

He went home. To Mirkwood. To his father whose face was merrier than he could ever recall, whose eyes had lightened and gleamed with newfound joy. And to his older brother who greeted him softly but with the warmest of embraces, looking as though a great weight was lifted from his shoulders. To the familiar shapes of trees no longer shadowed in the darkness of degradation and decay, their leaves now vibrant emerald in the summer light. The air had been so very sweet, filled no longer with the sharp scent of rot and death.

Eryn Lasgalen, they called it now. And, hearing the name, Legolas felt himself flush in pride and faint embarrassment, for it had practically been named in his honor.

His home was alive again.

And he wanted to love it. He wanted _so very badly_ to love it.

But he didn’t.

Where once he had loved nothing more than climbing into the cradle of the arms of trees, pressing himself close to their trunks and hearing their whispers brushing across his mind, he now found his passion waning. He no longer wished to lie beneath the stars and listen to the rustle of a trillion leaves dancing in concert for his pleasure. He no longer felt the same fondness for the silent and friendly woodland creatures, for the gentle does that dared come close enough to sniff his hands or for the song of birds that had not been heard in these depths for centuries.

He no longer desired to sing of the ancient white memory of the stars or of the life of spring come to the world or of the blossoming of flowers spreading their sweet smell upon the breeze. Where once he would have loved nothing more than to join his people in their worship of the wonders of nature.

Legolas pasted a smile on his face and tried not to let his disinterest show. At the time, so soon after the end of the War, he could not have said what exactly it was that had caused this abrupt and disquieting change in his breast. Maybe, he had thought, it was Haldir. He missed the warden dearly, though they had scarcely done anything more than kiss. Or maybe he missed the thought of what might have been if his not-quite-lover had lived. Maybe he missed the happiness that he might have had.

_Yes,_ he had thought, _that must be it. That_ must _be it._

Or so he thought. Until, once again, he encountered the Anduin.

And the thrumming. And the sound of horns resonating in his ears. And the cries of gulls…

_Calling, calling, calling…_

It was then that he began to first suspect truly what it was that plagued him in his waking hours and his dreams. What it was that stole away his love of green things and spring air and the homely, rustic beauty of his father’s halls. What it was that left him dragging his fingers more often through dewdrops upon dipped leaves and trailing them through the rushing waters of the Forest River.

The sudden fascination with water. The heady pulse that seemed to make his brain quake in its skull. The hiss of waves crashing against the shore. The phantom of mist against his cheeks.

He hadn’t known much of the sea-longing before. But he had not expected it to feel like _this._

The closer he came to the ocean, the worse it became and the harder to ignore. The sound was louder, the thrumming stronger, the screaming shriller. Until his ears were ringing. Until his bones were shaking. Until he wanted nothing more than to join that strange deep chorus in song, raising his voice in lilting tones of cresting waves and trilling to match the whispers of the mist falling upon rock

Legolas did not see the ocean on that visit to Gondor. Instead, he had stayed in Minas Tirith, trying to ignore the longing—

_Calling, calling, calling…_

—cooing over cute little Eldarion with his ruddy, chubby cheeks and his big gray eyes. He kept himself busy in the white pearl of Gondor, helping with the rebuilding that never seemed to quite be finished, advising Aragorn and hunting out in the forests near the feet of the White Mountains. Suitably distracted, he was capable of resisting the urge to travel into the south, to follow the mighty Anduin all the way down to her delta, her maw which opened into the vastness of the Bay of Belfalas and, beyond that, the Belegaer.

Even so, more often than not, he found himself humming under his breath some ancient melody that he knew not in his mind yet knew better than any other in his heart. The eyes of Gimli and Aragorn were sharp, and they did not miss how often Legolas’s gaze was turned into the south whilst he murmured melodies of the waves and the gulls and the glisten of sunlight dancing off the surface of the water.

“They would welcome you in Ithilien,” Aragorn told him, a knowing look in his eyes, wise beyond their mortal years. “Faramir and Éowyn would welcome your help in their rebuilding and rekindling of the lands to the east stained by Sauron and his evil. And you could be near the ocean whenever you wish. If that would help.”

Legolas had thought for a moment. Thinking of the steady beat in the back of his mind.

_Calling, calling, calling…_

And he sighed. “I cannot say yet what lies in my heart. For now, I will visit the great, ancient forests of the world and the deep depths of the earth to see the miracles and treasures that they would show me. And then, perhaps, afterwards, my thoughts on this matter will be clearer, my friend.”

The King had accepted those words without argument. But the look in those eyes did not leave the elf’s thoughts ever after.

Aragorn knew that Legolas would be back before the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen had even realized the truth in his own breast.

Instead of going into the south, Legolas returned north. Despite how traveling further inland made his chest tight with a strange, uncomfortable ache. Despite how he wanted so desperately to turn around and go back. Despite how, even when he reached the shelter of the trees and left the Anduin behind, the heavy beating of the ocean upon the shore _would not leave him._

Legolas returned to his father’s halls. And he was haunted.

He could see the depths of the ocean in his father’s ancient, clear blue eyes. He could see the churning of the waves in the foaming rapids of the Forest River. He could feel the spray of the sea upon his flesh in the place of raindrops. And, when the thunder of summer storms burst open the sky, all he could remember was the rumble of the waves upon stone.

_Calling, calling, calling…_

And Legolas felt like, perhaps, he was going a little mad.

Trapped in the land, away from the water, he felt withered and stretched thin. It was such a gradual transition as to almost be unnoticeable. But he could see in his own reflection that the joy that had once been in his young eyes was now harrowed and darkened. His skin was grown too pale and the sheen of health in his hair diminished. Like a sickness did the longing now lay over his mind, preventing him from finding any rest when he longed for kind dreams.

He was stubborn, and he tried to stay. For his father and his brother. For his friends and his people. For himself. He tried.

But the time came when he could no longer deny the truth of the matter.

“I am leaving,” he told his father, voice low and solemn.

And Thranduil had given him a look of such love and tenderness and unending sorrow that he almost changed his mind. “When will you be coming back, ion-nín?”

And he had said, “I will not be coming back.”

And he hated to make his father cry, wanted dearly to deny his own words and erase the heart-fractures they had left in the wake of their harsh blow. But then he pressed his cheek to his father’s, and the tears slick between their faces only reminded him more of what he longed for. The taste of salt upon the back of his tongue was the scent of the ocean wafting upon a cool air. The glisten of silver in torch-light turned to the burn of sunshine reflecting off the waves.

He had to go. He _had to go._

For he could no longer ignore it. Louder and louder. Bolder and bolder. Never ceasing and never withdrawing. The calling of the sea was as the thing itself—untamed and wild.

It could not be ignored.

_Calling, calling, calling…_

He went to Ithilien. He helped rebuild.

But the most of his time he spent upon the cliffs and beaches on the shores, drifting ever further from civilization, looking far out into the distance instead for comfort. Thinking that the sea contained the color of his father’s eyes and the capacity for their infinite grief. Thinking that only the cries of the gulls overhead and the heavy breathing of the ocean could make him feel less alone in the face of the separation.

Thinking that the brush of foam and mist upon his lips might be Haldir’s kiss come from beyond the infinite distance of water separating them from one another. Soft and yearning.

And, with the Song of the ocean ever in the back of his mind, Legolas smiled bitterly.

Even here, with the water within his sight, his agony was not ended.

Ever was the sea calling. Calling him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Eryn Lasgalen = Wood of the Greenleaves  
> Belegaer = the Great Sea  
> ion-nín = my son


	343. Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is hard to let go of the past. And maybe even harder to let go of guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 28, 2016.
> 
> Part of the Cleansed Arc. Basically Fem!Maeglin-centric, taking place just before Elladan and Elrohir depart to go with Aragorn through the Paths of the Dead and fight at the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Mostly, though, this is hurt/comfort angst with a happy ending. Because I'm feeling nice today.
> 
> As a side note, this is also related to Sword and the Noldor return to ME AU. Turgon and his wife, along with Ecthelion, Glorfindel and Erestor, are living in Imladris (though not as rulers, but as subjects).
> 
> Warnings: Mentions torture and death (in semi-explicit detail--thou hast been warned), as well as implied rape. Talks about war. Lots of guilt and self-hatred. Also, some vague sexual content as well.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maeglin = Lómiel

Somehow, it took her completely by surprise.

_“Marry me,”_ he had whispered against her ear as they lay together in the gardens, their lips swollen from kisses and their bodies slickened with sweat and their dark locks tangled together in the grass. _“Marry me, Lómiel.”_

It should not have been surprising. Truly. Their friendship forged my mutual commiseration and understanding had long since deepened from shyly holding hands and soft, moth-wing kisses upon cheeks to something darker and hotter, something molten in their cores.

As the days passed and their time together grew shorter, as the shadows that littered the land with evil grew ever darker and longer, harbingers of war creeping ever closer to their doorstep, they felt as though there was no time to be slow in their passion. There was no time to wait and to slowly court, no time to ignore what they both knew that they felt in their hearts. No time to deny how their eyes constantly clashed in white-hot flame and their skin tingled each at the touch of the other.

There had been no time to sidestep advances and pull back from the heady kisses. No time to shy away from stripping away clothes and rolling naked against one another in the grass.

Lómiel had given herself away to him in passion. And she was not sorry.

But marriage. She had not expected nor asked for commitment. A commitment that she was not even certain that she could fulfill.

_“I need to think,”_ she had told him, rising from where they lay tangled together in the grass, not at all shy for the nakedness of her slender form before his eyes when he had just shortly ago kissed her all over and touched every inch of pale skin. _“Give me time, Elladan.”_

They both knew that time was short.

Lómiel wished she had more.

_“I haven’t much time left,”_ he had said then, his gray eyes darkened and saddened, fearing her rejection, resigned to his fate. _“We leave on the morrow. At sunrise.”_

_“I know.”_

And she had walked away from him, let him there unclothed and with his soul bared before her eyes. How could she not have?

How could she—a traitorous, sinful, ruined spirit caged in a beautiful, unmarred body—dare to sully her lover with the binding of their souls? How could she live with herself knowing that he deserved so much better?

How could she live with herself, knowing marriage would make her happy?

Thousands of lives had Maeglin of Gondolin destroyed. _Thousands._ Thousands of warriors killed in fire and agony and terror as the gates of their city were thrown down and dragons descended upon their heads and orc overwhelmed their streets. Thousands of women screaming and fleeing in helplessness, trapped with nowhere to go, stalked and torn down and raped and slaughtered like cattle beneath the blades of their enemies. Thousands of _children_ with their wide eyes, no understanding of death but knowing deeply the pain of being ripped apart, of having their flesh torn from their bones by teeth, of watching as their parents were murdered and devoured before their gaze even as they themselves slowly died in anguish.

And the city burning. The white gem in the field of encircling evergreen stained red. The last great power of the Noldor in Beleriand fallen beneath the might of Morgoth.

Because of _him._

The sheer number of lives which Maeglin had destroyed with his _weakness_ rested as an ever-present black stain upon Lómiel. For she and he were one and the same, for all that their bodies were of two different genders. Their faces were those of siblings, their eyes identical in shape and shade, and their minds both equally tarnished with the memories.

So much misery had she cast upon others. How dare she even think of brushing aside all that she had done—the horrible, evil, sinful, _terrible_ things Maeglin had done in the name of his obsessive love—by saying “yes”? How dare she further betray their memory by reaching for that happiness that she had ripped away from those people? How dare she make light of their sacrifice by fulfilling her own desires and weaving her own fate when she had stolen their away forever?

It made Lómiel feel sick with heartache and guilt.

Alone, her body thrumming with the aftermath of shared pleasure but her heart chilled with the realization that she did not deserve her bliss, Lómiel stared off into the distance. The night sounds were soft in her ears as the touch of moonlight upon her skin, but they brought her no comfort. The rustle of newly-budded trees whispered against her spirit, but their tender attempts at soothing only made her draw away and huddle further into the cradle of her slight body. Her arms came up around her middle, embracing tightly until she felt the creak of her ribs beneath her own crushing grip. She dug her nails in and winced.

How dare she even think of saying “yes”?

“Why dost thou hide out here alone, gwatheliel?”

The sound of that voice made her stomach drop down to her toes, rolling over until she felt that she might truly be sick in the grass. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, and she dared not look up at his face. For all that Turgon had ever treated her kindly despite knowing whose spirit her body housed, Lómiel had never been able to meet his gaze. She felt too much shame. Too much self-hatred. Too much fear.

What did one ever say to the man whose kingdom one had destroyed with their selfishness and greed? Turgon’s people, his home, his daughter and son-in-law and grandson, his closest friends and all his subjects—they had all been the sacrifice upon the altar of Maeglin’s wicked heart.

“Lómiel?” He settled beside her in the grass, his body radiating faint warmth against her chilled skin. The burn of fading winter seemed to thaw around him, brushing away the frost that bit at her body. “Art thou well, gwatheliel?”

And she started to cry. Ashamed, she turned away. Even Maeglin—alone, having lost his parents, trembling with nerves and lost in an unfamiliar city with no one to turn to—had never bared his weakness in such a disgraceful manner. Crying before her uncle, as though she were a child—as though she were a _victim._

How dare she?

“Why dost thou cry?” His hand was broad and warm on her back. Nauseatingly comforting. The other combed through her hair, pulling it back out of her face so that he could reach for her chin and tilt her head towards him. “Tell me.”

“Elladan asked me to marry him,” she blurted out.

For just a moment, she looked up into startled gray eyes, the palest of hues. Then… “Is it because thou dost worry for his safety?”

No. Lómiel had faith that, if there was anything left to come back to, if he had even a drop of strength in his bones to spare, Elladan would _crawl_ back to Imladris rather than roll over and die. He was a powerful warrior, tried and tested in battle a thousand times and again, and he would survive the coming war should they arise victorious in the end. She shook her head. No, it was not that.

“Didst thou say ‘yes’?” her uncle asked then instead.

“How could I?” she replied, her voice watery and bitter. “How could I say ‘yes’ when we both know what a filthy, tainted, broken _thing_ I am? How could I allow myself such happiness after all that I have done? It would be… It would be sinful! It would be injustice! It would be… would be…”

Her voice had been raised, but now it fell into despair. Staring down at her hands, she felt a sob heave against her ribs. “I do not dare. It would be disgusting. _Selfish.”_

The hand at her back had ceased to stroke at her words, the fingertips resting still upon her shoulder. “Is that really how thou dost feel, Lómiel? That thou dost not deserve happiness because of something that has long since passed and been put behind us?”

Maybe _he_ had put it behind him. But she couldn’t drive away the image of blood staining her mother’s white gown. She couldn’t forget the snap and crack of bone shattering as her father’s body tumbled down onto the rocks below. She couldn’t forget the ache that burned through her chest—the _jealousy_ like a strangling green sickness in her mind—as she watched Idril smile at Tuor. She couldn’t forget the pain of her passion, the torment that had been rained upon her body and mind until she shattered apart and fell into darkness.

She couldn’t forget the last months of smiling into the faces of all who would die—such horrifying ends awaiting them and she said nothing. Did _nothing._

“I _do not_ deserve happiness. I never shall.”

“Thou canst not dwell on the past forever, gwatheliel.” The hand resumed its stroking. “Whatever guilt and remorse thou dost feel, they are proof that thou art not so evil in the end for all of thy faults. Many would have broken sooner than thou didst beneath the hands of the Lieutenant of Angband. In the end, thou couldst not have won against the will of Morgoth and Sauron both.”

“I could have _died,”_ she spat, furious with him and her defense of her folly. Furious with herself and the niggling little tendrils of _hope_ that those words stirred in her breast. “I _should have died_ rather than betray my kin.”

And he sighed. “We are all of us weak and flawed creatures. Thou art not perfect. And it was not solely _thy_ folly which brought about the ill fate of Gondolin.”

“It would never have fallen if I had not betrayed its location,” she insisted.

“And there would have been no one there for the Enemy to find if I had heeded Tuor’s warning,” Turgon argued back. “I was warned of impending doom. I knew what was coming. And I let my pride and fear blind me to the coming attack. It cost me the lives of thousands of my people—people I should have protected. As I should have protected thee.”

_But I did not._ He silently said. _And, for that, I am sorry._

“I forgave thee,” she whispered, still unwilling to look up. For all that young Maeglin, wrecked and ravaged and destroyed in the wake of torment, had felt bitterness and resentment for his uncle who had not come for him in his time of need, it was all in the past now for Lómiel. “Long ago, I forgave thee.”

“And _I_ forgave _thee.”_

Sharply did she look up into his face, meeting his eyes again. And they burned her soul. “Thou canst not live in the past forever. Let thy guilt go. Live. Be happy while thou canst,” he said, stroking a hand over her cheek, brushing at the falling tears with the pad of his thumb. “Go and be happy. Say ‘yes’, _Maeglin.”_

_I forgive thee. And I begrudge thee not thy happiness._

And the tears just wouldn’t stop no matter that they were brushed away. Not even when her face was pressed against his shoulder and her fingers trembled where they curled into the soft fabric of his robes. Not even when she felt his arms close around her and hold her close as they never had when she had needed them to support her so much in her darkest hours.

She cried. And, somehow, she felt as though the lingering touches of Morgoth’s slimy voice against her mind were burned away. The memory of lashes tearing open her back and fingers between her thighs and the breath of Sauron against the back of her neck dissolved. The vision of Idril’s horrified face watching as she was grabbed by Tuor and hurled down into the abyss faded away into white.

“I am sorry,” she sobbed out. “So, so sorry.”

“I know,” he said against her hair. His lips against her temple.

And he let her cry.

\---

It was the touch of sunlight against her cheeks which drew her away from the lamentation and relief of the release of guilt in which she wallowed. Soft and warm, teasing at the flesh which had been cold from the touch of winter air, turned away from the warmth of Turukáno’s shoulder. It interrupted her focus on the heart beating steadily beneath her ear and the sound of breaths washing in and out against her forehead.

It made her heart leap up into her throat. Like a startled colt, she shot up with an arched spine, a gasp upon her lips as her eyes went wide.

_“I leave on the morrow,”_ Elladan had said, _“At sunrise.”_

“I have to go!” She bolted from her uncle’s arms, heedless of the crumple of frosted grass beneath her feet as she fled back towards the house.

She did not catch his smile as she disappeared from sight.

Instead, she was looking down from the nearest balcony into the courtyard below. The horses were gathered, their snorting yielding white puffs in the air as they stomped and fidgeted, ready to depart more so than their riders. And the warriors were milling about, saying their goodbyes to family and friends, all dark-eyed and lingering.

She could see the twins. Elrohir stood apart, his face set and sullen. Elladan was beside his sister and his father, solemn-faced with glistening eyes. Eyes filled with weariness of heart.

And Lómiel did not want to send him off to war with sorrow in his thoughts.

_Nessa, give me speed,_ she prayed as she lifted her skirts and took off through the mazes of arches and hallways of the Last Homely House. Usually, she relished the beauty of their valley in the early spring—the fresh air and the whisper of the falls newly unfrozen and the twitter of birds in the early morning—but now the walk which so often seemed short morphed in a run longer than the distance across the Belegaer. To her mind it felt as though she moved not forward, though her feet carried her down the cobblestone paths and the narrow, spiraling staircases with fleet grace, nary a sound in her wake.

She needed to speak with Elladan. _She needed to give him her answer!_

Her hand closed around the last railing as she nearly hurled herself over it instead of circling around in her haste to get to the bottom. A staircase still stood between her and her lover, and she could see his back as riders mounted their steeds all around him. Elrohir launched himself up into the saddle, leaning over his older twin to say something—probably urging for haste as Elladan hesitated.

But she was glad that he had waited and lingered. Lómiel raced down the stairs as fast as her feet could carry her. Without pause, she pushed past the gathered councilors, slipping around Lord Elrond and Lady Arwen as she went like a dark flash breaking the golden light of dawn. 

Breathless, she parted her lips. “Elladan, daro!”

His hands had been braced upon his saddle, about to use the leverage to hoist himself upwards. But he heard her voice, and she felt relief when he turned to look, his gray eyes wide.

It was probably horridly ridiculous to see, but Lómiel still threw herself upon him. She didn’t care that everyone was watching—that Lord Glorfindel was just a few feet away with his sharp blue eyes, that Lord Ecthelion was at the golden elf's side with his stern face, that Lord Erestor was an ever-present shadow with his piercing gaze, that Lord Elrond must also be watching at her back as she embraced his oldest son—and concentrated instead on wrapping her arms tightly around her lover’s neck, squeezing his body against hers.

“Lómiel?” he asked hesitantly, even as she felt his hands come to rest against the base of her spine. “What art thou…?”

Feeling more daring than she had since she had been a youngling in the forest of Nan Elmoth in the elder days, she rose upon tiptoe and used her hands entwined in his hair to lower his head. Her lips pressed up against his ear, her breath tickling at his skin as their cheeks were brushed skin-to-skin.

And she said, “Yes.”

And she felt his arms tighten around her waist, lifting her bodily from the ground so that even her toes did not touch the cobblestone of the courtyard. She felt as though she were floating, so light was her heart and so weightless her mind in that moment. Her belly felt full of butterfly wings and her heart thudded in her chest and her eyes stung with tears.

“Yes,” she repeated again. _Yes, I dare to live. Yes, I dare to be happy._

_Yes, I dare to marry thee. Despite my faults. Despite my past._

“Thou hast made me the happiest man in the world,” he whispered in return, breaths hot against her ear. Lips like a brand in the hollow beneath where they brushed her throat.

He pulled away too soon from their embrace, but his fingers tangled with her own. He captured her hand and raised it to his lips. The very lips that had last night kissed her in the most private and secret of places now brushed in a caress a thousand times more intimate over her knuckles, their bow curved into a smile as they traced their way up to her wrist. As they brought her cheeks to a full, rosy blush.

“I _will_ return to thee,” he promised her. “I swear it.”

They parted then, and Lómiel felt her feet carry her back, away from him as he vaulted into his saddle and clasped the reins in the hand that had, moments ago, been cradling her own. He gave her one last smile—and his eyes were filled with joy instead of sorrow, light instead of darkness—before he turned away.

She stood alone in the courtyard amidst the entirety of the household of Imladris, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes as his form retreated, armor flashing with golden light. A hand brushed against her forearm, and she turned to see Lady Arwen beside her, a steady presence filled ever with light and beauty and accepting grace. The Lady linked their arms and brought them together as they watched the warriors depart onto the long road to war and potentially to death.

But Lómiel had faith. Elladan would return. And they would be happy.

And, if she had but glanced up at the lone figure standing upon a balcony many feet above, she would have seen that his gray eyes were filled with gentle joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> gwatheliel = sister-daughter  
> Belegaer = Great Sea  
> daro! = wait! (imperative)


	344. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turgon figures out this strange forgiveness thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 29, 2016.
> 
> Fuck (*cough* forgive my language...). Turgon turned into an actual character with actual characterization. Somehow, I never see this crap coming until it smacks me in the face.
> 
> Anyway, this is a companion piece-slash-lead up to Dare (previous chapter) and is closely related also to Friendship. Maybe also related to Affront and some other really old things that I can't remember off the top of my head right now. This is basically just a very long piece of introspection, so don't expect a lot of dialogue or actual stuff physically happening. Consider it a character study. Also, Noldor Return to ME AU.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions death (nothing explicit) and torture (again, nothing explicit). Some mental issues make an appearance, including but not limited to obsessive behavior, anxiety, paranoia, depression and insanity.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maeglin = Lómiel

Forgiveness is not easily granted.

In all honestly, Turukáno had not been much of a proponent of forgiving and forgetting in his younger years. There was, indeed, no way in which he could lie to himself about his own nature. Noldorin through and through—a true son of Finwë’s blood—he had been a bitter and prideful man, one who could hold onto a grudge with every bit as much an unyielding will of iron as his famed half-uncle Fëanáro.

Young Turukáno had been stricken with hate out of his love, with fear out of his suffering, and with pride out of his success. And it had been his folly.

He remembered how the loss of Elenwë left him shattered, all the jagged edges of his spirit grinding and jarring together where once she had held him stable. He remembered wishing that he had told her to stay behind where it was safe and knowing he could not go back and speak words he had never spoken. He remembered thinking that it was the treachery of his half-uncle which had led to her death, that if only Fëanáro had not betrayed them all would have been well and Elenwë would have been alive.

He remembered the rage that followed, how he scorned his half-uncle’s sons and placed upon their shoulders the blame for the deaths of all those who had perished in the cold darkness of Helcaraxë. Including his wife. _Especially_ his wife. He remembered looking upon them and feeling as though his lungs were set aflame, as though oxygen could not reach his blood. Light-headed, his eyes took on the red haze of battle-lust, and he had wanted nothing more than to make them suffer as he had suffered.

He had wanted vengeance. There could be no forgiveness. Not then.

He remembered conceiving of Gondolin, searching desperately for the place where he and his daughter and his people could be _safe_ from the ill-fated machinations of the demonic spawn of Fëanáro. And, as a pearl set upon a crown of emeralds, his city had risen from Tumladen to brush its glistening white glory against the pinnacle of the sky. And he had hoarded its beauty and its secrecy close to his chest.

Looking back, could see that he had grown paranoid in his laxity. Írissë went beyond the walls, and look where that had gotten her! A sadistic and crazed husband who had killed her rather than see her happy! And then his father had perished because he had gotten involved in the war that Fëanáro had started over a handful of glowing stones. Coldly had Turukáno wondered if he should even come at the call to aid even should it come from the lips of his own brother, for he found the war a treacherous creature.

He had gone anyway.

And the Nirnaeth Arnoediad had utterly ruined him. Nowhere was safe but Gondolin. _Nowhere._ The very _idea_ that his people _leave_ the net of safety which he had constructed, the only haven of the Noldor in all of Beleriand which had not fallen beneath the hammer-blow of Morgoth, was _ludicrous!_

And no— _no one_ —could convince him otherwise. They were too strong, he had thought, to be flushed out by siege. They were too well hidden, he had thought, to be traced back to their origins and polluted like the spring water of a river turned to filth.

Their Hidden City was perfect, he had thought. And, in his folly, he had ignored the warnings come from the lips of Tuor bearing the marks of Ulmo.

His decision to do nothing had, in the end, cost his people their lives. Thousands dead. The city burned. Homes and treasures lost. So much history turned to ash. And it had broken his heart to see all that he had worked for and all that he had loved crumble into dust.

As a king, he had failed. As much so as if he had struck all those people down himself with his own sword, as though he had lit aflame their dreams and futures with his own two hands.

Suddenly, in his eyes, he had been no better than the very Kinslayers that he had scorned. No better than the very traitors that he had so viciously deemed the bane of the Noldor, the source of their Curse. A disgraced and dispossessed exile.

Suddenly, Turukáno had no more rage and no more fear and no more pride.

All he had was guilt.

\---

Forgiveness of others was hard, but forgiveness of one’s self…

It had seemed impossible.

Elenwë first had tried. Tried to soothe him. Tried to tell him all would be well. Tried to convince him that it had not been his fault. Tried to insist that he had done the best by his people and naught else of him could be asked.

But she was wrong. _Wrong, wrong, wrong!_

For all that it had been Maeglin who had spilled the location of their gates and for all that it had been Morgoth who had ordered the assault and for all that it had been the tens of thousands of enemies who had raised to the ground their home and slaughtered his people in the cold blood, it could all have been prevented if Turukáno had but _listened._ If he had been truly wise as was written in song, he would have looked into Tuor’s eyes and seen the truth of those words of warning, would have admitted to his own folly and pushed aside his pride and led his people away from the Hidden City before Maeglin could have been captured and before the armies of Morgoth had ever arrived.

It killed him inside, stabbed him through his very spirit with a blade poisoned in knowledge, that all who had perished that day could have been spared—safely guided to the havens where the ocean would give them their salvation—if he had just been less prideful and foolish. If he had been even _half_ the king that he was supposed to have been.

For the longest time, Turukáno sat listless in the Halls of the Waiting, staring into the empty grayness of the walls crisscrossed in shadows. And he could not move on. He knew Elenwë was ready for re-embodiment, but he was still too damaged at heart to face the world abroad.

And then Ehtelion had come to him.

Ehtelion, who had stood by his side until the very end. Ehtelion, who had tried and failed time and again to talk sense into his numb, obsessed brain. Ehtelion, who had saluted him in their final hour and had fought Gothmog to the death in the King’s Square.

Ehtelion, who had died then and there, another victim of Turukáno’s folly.

 _“Thou shouldst not keep the company of guilt too long, otorno,”_ his cousin and friend had said to him, spirit thrumming as a silvered star in the gray twilight of the Halls. _“Thou shouldst know that we do not blame thee.”_

 _“Blame me thou_ shouldst,” Turukáno had said, _“For it was my mistake that cost thee thy life.”_

And Ehtelion had laughed softly in his ears, that rich baritone vibrating through the air around them like a living being stroking at his skin with a mind of its own. _“Perhaps it was,”_ was the reply, _“But few could say that they would have done better than thee in thy place. For who can claim to have faced thy heartbreak and remained so strong? Who can claim that they would not fear for their loved ones after seeing so many fall? Who can claim that they would not seek safety in their home that they believed protected from evil abroad if it meant that no more would see pain and death?”_

To have it laid so bare hurt. That Ehtelion knew. That his fear—the spawn of the agony at Elenwë’s loss and the terror at the thought of losing anyone else—was so evident. That his paranoia—after all, all the strength of the Noldor mustered had not defeated their foe—was naked in the sunlight. That his pride—his willful blindness that kept him blissful in his ignorance—had been like a badge upon his breast to wise eyes willing to look.

It hurt like nothing else. _“I deserve thy hatred,”_ Turukáno had said, and he thought, _For I would have hated my king in thy place._

 _“Hatred has no place here, meldonya,”_ Ehtelion told him, a ghostly hand brushing across his shoulder and his cheek, the touch of insubstantial lips tracing across his forehead just above his brow. _“The Halls of the Waiting are not a place of suffering for the dead, nor of despair and sorrow at the past. They are a place of healing and forgiveness._

_“Forgive thyself, meldonya—hannonya. And, perhaps, thou canst then forgive others as well.”_

It had not been easy. Turukáno would not allow himself the easy route, not after what he had done. He would not be swayed by the words of one man.

But they were repeated. By Laurefindil and his golden brilliance and his warm touch and his silent smile. By Egalmoth and the stern weight of his glowing silver gaze bursting through his distant courtly manners. By Penlod who was still ancient and tranquil in death as in life and who kissed his brow as he wept. By Duilin, whose laughter danced about him as the twittering of birds at the absurdity of his taking all the blame. By Rog who came upon him with the force of a storm, powerful hand squeezing reassuringly at his shoulder and words of comradeship rumbling in his ears.

And by many others. Turukáno found all of his people that he could still residing within the Halls. Some had welcomed him with open arms, had forgiven him for his sins. And some had spat upon him and looked upon him with eyes that he had seen a thousand and ten times that many before as his reflection gazed back from his own mirror. They looked upon him as he had looked upon the sons of Fëanáro—as though he were Morgoth in the flesh, the source of all evil and hardship in the world.

And Turukáno had been humbled. To have a taste of that scorn, and then remember how gracefully Nelyafinwë had bourn the hate of his family in the stead of his father, left Turukáno feeling sick down to his core.

It was not that he was not guilty, he thought, but that he was weak. That he was too weak to reach out and forgive. That he sought the easy path—that he sought the same path as had Fëanáro in those early days—and craved rather the destruction and suffering of others instead of rising above such base and animalistic cruelty to find something better.

He had become the very thing that he hated, and he had made the same mistakes.

But, in time, he had been able to move on. Perhaps it was in that realization—that epiphany which had stolen away all the leftover blackness in his heart, the taint that was his hatred and his pain and his vindictive nature—which allowed him to take away his blindfold. Perhaps it was releasing his need for revenge which left him feeling both as a rung-out rag left hanging to dry and yet slighter and freer than a hummingbird flitting through the meadow.

Not too long afterwards, Turukáno and Elenwë had left the Halls of the Waiting. They had found all the healing they could in the guardianship of the Doomsman. And Turukáno had been a changed man.

When next he saw his half-cousins, there was no rage. No red haze. No burning suffocation. They would never be friends, but they were not enemies.

He had looked Nelyafinwë in the eyes and seen understanding staring back. And that was enough.

That was enough.

\---

Much time had passed since then. And much had come to pass in that time.

He had been reborn. He had seen the shadow of the glory of Valinor. He, along with many of the reborn exiles, had taken part in the return of the Noldor once again to the Hither Lands.

Turukáno had met his great-grandson. His legacy. And he couldn’t be prouder.

He lived his life quite happily in Imladris. With his wife, Elenwë. With his brothers in all but name, Laurefindil and Ehtelion. In obscurity and the quiet stillness of peace in the wake of war. He had returned over the sea during a time of rebuilding, the devastation of the War of the Ring just passed and leaving the land blossoming into a new spring. All was hopeful. Elrond married Celebrían, daughter of Celeborn, and she had bourn him three children. And the great-great-grandchildren of Turukáno were glorious.

All was well in the world.

And then there was _her_ —Lómiel.

At first, Turukáno had thought her Írissë reborn. Certainly, the girl had much of her mother’s appearance in her face and form, all tall lines and silvered grace that reminded Turukáno of the elegant court ladies of old before the Darkening of Valinor. Noldorin through and through was she, this dark maiden.

But her eyes were of _him._ Of Eöl. Of _Maeglin._

Another traitor Turukáno had not yet encountered. One who he was not sure he would ever be ready to face. One who he was not certain he could ever bring himself to forgive.

He had remembered his sister-son from the ancient days—remembered the cocky grin and the piercing black eyes and the slithering silver tongue and the conniving mind—and he had prepared himself for all that in the guise of a seductive temptress. The Maeglin he had known would have spewed sharp words with deadly precision, would have been utterly unafraid of the unknown, making friends with such sickeningly charming ease and yet all the while plotting silently at their backs.

The Maeglin he had known was dangerous.

The Maeglin he had known was not this girl. Lómiel. Where he thought to see all that he remembered of the traitor who had brought the downfall of his kingdom, he saw nothing left but a shadow. A broken and shattered window of stained glass left to fade. As though all the color that had made Maeglin so vibrant and lively and dangerous were drained away into this pale wisp of a woman.

He perceived that she was as he had been: a guilt-stricken wraith lost in her own horror and remorse. How it was that she had escaped the Halls of the Waiting in such a state, he could not have said, for she was certainly far from healed.

She had not been forgiven. And she had not forgiven herself.

Once, Turukáno would have taken pleasure in this fact. Once, the vindictive and innately cruel part of his being would have danced for joy that she reaped the consequences of the suffering that she had brought down upon innocent heads. Once, he would have said it was her due—that it was justice—as he had once said it was only justice that Nelyafinwë be tormented in the hell of Angband for the treason committed by his father and family.

Once, he would have looked upon her with all the weight and fire of scorn he could muster, and he would have taken pride in how she shrunk away from his gaze as if stricken and refused to meet his eyes for the depth of her inner turmoil.

But he remembered that pain. He remembered the gnawing of guilt, eating away at the phantom organs in his gut to accompany the churning sensation of nausea building in his belly and burning up his throat. He remembered the hopelessness each time accusing eyes gazed upon him with that very same hate he had once taken so much pleasure in dealing out, how his whole spirit seemed to shrink in upon itself and tremble in chilled horror. He remembered the despair, the feeling that the stain of his sins and follies would never leave him alone, that he would be plagued by nightmares until the End of All Things, doomed to linger in a half-life in shadow until the world crumbled and he was judged lacking at the feet of the One.

And he did not wish that upon anyone. Not even Maeglin the Traitor.

For what traitor felt such blatant remorse that she grew wane and pale? What traitor turned from an arrogant youngling to a sad-eyed, self-depreciating waif of a woman through guilt? What traitor felt any sorrow for the victims of their treachery and not joy and greed for that which they had been promised?

What kind of traitor ended up such a broken doll?

And who would not have cracked as his sister-son had cracked beneath the torment heaped upon his shoulders? Turukáno shuddered to think what horrors had awaited Maeglin in the captivity of Angband, what sorts of twisted and foul evils could be concocted by the noxious minds of the devils which lurked there in the service of their dark master. The worst tortures that Turukáno could imagine and more had probably awaited there.

If he had been in the place of Maeglin the Traitor, would he have spoken? If he had been told that his daughter and grandson would be spared, that he would be rewarded handsomely and his family salvaged and his city saved—that the pain would _stop_ —if only he would speak… would he have spoken?

He liked to think that he wouldn’t have. But Turukáno was no fool. Easily could he imagine what might have been offered. Safety for his loved ones. The preservation of his life’s work. The return of his wife unto his arms.

If they had offered him _Elenwë_ , would he have been able to refuse?

Turukáno shuddered to think of it. Because he could not say that he would rather have kept to his silence, not with any conviction.

And he thought of all those who had hated him and misunderstood him—all those who would have said that they would have done differently in his shoes without truly understanding his motivations, blinded as they were by their anger and hate—and wondered if he misunderstood Maeglin just so.

It did not absolve his sister-son (sister-daughter now) of her sins. But there came a point where a choice had to be made: to seek vengeance or to forgive and try to understand.

He had seen in her eyes the regret of her choices. He had seen the sheen of tears that she tried to hide and heard the whisper of despair upon her voice. And yet, he had seen too the shadows of smiles and the echo of laughter. The vision of his baby sister and her wild joy in the golden years of Valinor burned behind his eyes. He could see the broken spirit that this girl was, but also the beautiful and pure thing that she could become.

Perhaps, the beautiful and pure thing that she had always been meant to be.

And he chose forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> otorno = sworn-brother  
> meldonya = my friend (meldo + nya)  
> hannonya = my brother (hanno + nya)


	345. Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo on the writing of books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 30, 2016.
> 
> So, it's been quite some time since I wrote anything Hobbit-related for this AU. As a reminder for those who may not have read the older parts of this work or who, perhaps (like me) forget who writes what in the sea of Hobbit fanfiction clogging this site, this is a Thorin Lives AU. Fíli and Kíli both still die.
> 
> Now, I've never really contemplated how much of the movie-verse Hobbit I actually liked and wanted to use. For the most part, I appreciate book-verse more on principle, but elements of movie-verse appear here. I also, however, have somehow gotten this verse mixed up with the Noldor Return to ME AU, so it's a bit muddled if you try to go back and pursue my Hobbit-related snippets. Thus, all that crap with Thranduil's wife in the movies... not a thing in my verse. Nor is any _serious_ romance between Kíli and Tauriel. Actually, book-verse invalidates like half the stuff in the movies, LOL. Altogether, I would say that I therefore lean more towards book-verse except in terms of Tauriel and the Bardlings existing, and we'll leave it at that.
> 
> *Direct quotes from The Hobbit

For as long as he could remember, Bilbo had always wanted to write a book. 

After all, he was the young bachelor who spent hours pouring over the tomes and manuscripts and maps in his library, daydreaming of adventures that he never would have dared actually go on, of doing things he would never have dared to actually do. Outwardly, he had been naught but a gentleman—a perfectly respectable hobbit indeed, thank you very much!—who valued his doilies and his mother’s china and the old silver above any fantasies of fame or glory. Not a great adventurer. No one worthy of tales or song.

Inside, perhaps, he had always desired something more. To see more. To _do_ more.

To _be_ more.

Back then, before the Quest and before the Battle and before the Ring, he hadn’t had anything to write about. No great tales to recount. No epic battles to immortalize in song. No great love to whisper to the stars.

Now, though, there was too much. _Too much._

Now, Bilbo sat at his antique writing desk, twiddling his quill between his fingers. The end was nibbled between his teeth as he sat and stared at the blank parchment paper bound in red leather. His eyes traced the emptiness as his mind raced with possibilities.

_Where to start… where to start…_

For there seemed to be too much to say.

But the best place to start, he always thought, would be at the beginning. Though it had happened more than a year ago, he remembered exactly the smell of the fresh morning air mixing with the smoke of Old Toby as he puffed into the breeze with contentment. He remembered the exact shade of butter yellow that had adorned his waistcoat and the delicate turquoise of the cravat that served to contrast and highlight the sunny shade. He remembered how he looked out over the hills and saw the trees rising golden in the morning light, how the vibrantly green grass swayed and danced, and how all was quiet and soft on that day in the Shire. Peaceful.

He remembered the old wizard in the gray robes with the silver scarf and the bushy eyebrows beneath his ridiculous hat who had shattered that tranquility.

_“Good morning!”_ he had said, seeing the strange big person.

And what did he get in return, but: _“What do you mean? Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”_

And how flustered and taken aback he had been when he had burst out: _“All of them at once, I suppose!”_ For what kind of response was that to such a simple greeting? And yet, the memory left a smile now on his face which, for quite some time, had been sans cheer and wane from creeping nightmares, solemn from the constant weight of memories that were both more precious than starlit gems and heavier than armor made of lead.

But was this really the beginning? He thought on that for a moment and decided that it was not. For the true beginning lay with the hobbit that he had once been. The respectable Baggins bachelor with his respectable Baggins father and his wild, wanderlust-stricken Took of a mother.

The hobbit who had lived in a veneer of contentment until adventure came knocking at his little round door and had carried him out into the wide world.

And Bilbo felt his heart lighten, for he knew how to begin his book. He lifted his quill and set it finally to the parchment, and he wrote:

_In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.*_

\---

As all things start, they must come to an end.

Writing a book, Bilbo had come to discover over the years, was a long and taxing thing. A work of art which never quite seemed to be completed. Over his red leather tome had he slaved for many decades—more than seventy years!—and still he looked over the pages of his neat script and his carefully drawn maps and his witty little rhymes and he felt that it was… incomplete.

It was done, but it was not done.

The old hobbit with his gray hair and his wrinkles ran his hands over what would be his final page. And, in his heart, he thought that, for all the effort and all the time and all the many edits and drafts he had dedicated to this venture, his words did not do justice to the real thing.

They did not do justice to the rude, arrogant, devilishly handsome, pig-headed, exiled king who had barged into his home and called him a grocer. The very same king who probably sat upon his throne now older and grayer than he had been, who probably never thought of the hobbit burglar that he had dragged off on his mad quest to slay a dragon and reclaim a kingdom. These words could not capture how frustrating and amazing and terrifying and beautiful all at once had been Thorin II Oakenshield.

They did not tell of the feeling of flight that had stolen into Bilbo’s belly when those steely arms had wrapped around him and squeezed, when that stern face had gifted him with a smile that crinkled blue eyes at the corners and that voice (which haunted still his most beloved dreams and horrifying nightmares) called him friend and comrade.

They could not adequately describe the treachery of those same beloved eyes grown hazy and flat with the Sickness. Could not describe the agony that had been watching that mind dissolve into madness and lose all reason. Could not tell of the sound of that same voice naming him traitor and the strength of the hand about his neck as he dangled over the wall and the way his heart felt as though it had been made of china—china which had been thrown down upon the rocks below to unceremoniously shatter.

This book named Thorin son of Thráin a noble and strong warrior, but not without fault. A brave and loyal leader, but broken in the end. And it did not speak of the secret love that Bilbo harbored in his breast which he had never confessed and which would never be known.

It did not speak of how he wanted to reach out and embrace the King of the Mountain as he lay upon his sickbed, fevered and severely injured but slowly recovering. Thorin would live, he had been told, crippled by a limp and scarred but mostly whole in body.

Yet, for all that that body had lived on, Bilbo remembered the way those blue eyes—once so vital and full of heat and flame—had dulled and done dark. For Fíli and Kíli had perished.

There were no words to describe how it felt to watch one you loved die on the inside. No words to say how it felt to stand there helpless and inept listening to their cries of denial and watching their grief-stricken tears. No words to explain the way he had wanted to wrap his arms around that body and press that face to his shoulder and give comfort as had been given unto him by this man who he loved.

Bilbo had never tried to write that part.

No, this was more a history tome, an embellished tale of slaying trolls and spiders and dragons. Leaving out the bad bits. The tragic bits. The way Kíli fawned upon the redheaded captain of Thranduil’s guard like a youth in his first love. The way Fíli winked at Bard the Bowman’s blushing eldest daughter with the flirtatious charm of a man barely reaching his prime. The way they lay so still and wrong in their tombs, weapons braced in their hands as they were returned to the stone with the sound of ancient Dwarven hymns.

The way Thorin never smiled again.

No one needed to hear about those parts.

Instead, Bilbo thought to end on a happy note. He thought instead of coming home to find his belongings being auctioned and never quite recovering the damnable silver spoons that he knew must be squirreled away in Lobelia’s smial. He thought of how they called him Mad Baggins because he went on walking holidays and hummed to himself and told tall tales to the fauntlings of the village during the summer festivals. He thought of how, looking now upon the provincial and silly people of Hobbiton, he felt all the more fondness for their innocence to the true darkness of the world.

He thought of seeing Gandalf and Balin years later, feeling the strong and cloying scent of nostalgia fall across his being as he opened the door to that gray-draped tall form beside the stout frame, to the ridiculous pointy hat and the familiar bushy white beard and enormous nose. He remembered how his heart had risen into his throat, choking out his words at first, stoking the urge to cry and leap for joy all at once.

Like any good and respectable hobbit, he invited them in for tea and donned his best velvet coat with the ridiculous gold buttons. And they talked of the prosperity of Erebor and the rebuilding of Dale and the ill fate of the Master of Laketown and of the truth in prophecies of old.

But they did not talk about Thorin. And for that, he had been grateful.

There were just some things better left unsaid.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo dipped his quill in ink and set it to the page for the last time.

_“Then the prophecies of the old songs have turned out to be true, after a fashion!” said Bilbo._

_“Of course!” said Gandalf. “And why should not they prove true? Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit? You are a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!”*_

He paused for a moment, thinking that _this was it! Could this really be it?_

And he wrote: _“Thank goodness!” said Bilbo laughing, and handed him the tobacco-jar.*_

And he set down his quill. And he took a deep breath.

He had said all he needed to say. And now his book was finally done.

Inexplicably, Bilbo felt lighter. A burden relieved. And, for once, it did not hurt so much to think of all those things that he sometimes wished he might forget. The things that he left out. The things that would never taint this tale of daring and adventure. The terror and the horror and the reality of death. The bone-deep cold of the deep places beneath the mountains and the scalding heat of dragonfire on his toes. The emptiness of dead eyes looking skyward and the gleam of unforgiving gold rings offering no comfort.

The smile of beloved lips beneath a thick, dark beard and the sparkle of eyes bluer than the summer sky. The vision of whispered words that would never be said.


	346. Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps it is unfair, but Thranduil judges the trustworthiness of the sons of Durin by the deeds of their forefathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 1, 2016.
> 
> Fusion of the Cheat AU with all of my Hobbit-based works. Basically, a further exploration of Thranduil's motivations in the late Third Age closely tied in with Decadent. He has a legitimate reason to distrust dwarves. Perhaps he is slightly unfair in his judgments based on past experiences rather than Thorin's own actions (mostly), but I've always thought that Thorin's harsh judgment of all elves was unfair as well, never taking into consideration what he and his people might have done (or rather, not done) had the roles been reversed and it was Mirkwood begging Erebor for help in the days before the dragon. So now they can both be pig-headed hypocrites together.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions kinslaying and war. Semi-explicit description of dragonfire burning down homes. Also, some blood imagery and death. Implied rape (if you know the story well enough to catch it). Distinct signs of mental deterioration/insanity (in all parties involved).

The memories of elves were long.

This was not surprising. After all, they lived far longer than any other intelligent creatures roaming the world. Millennia passed them by without tarnish, allowing the oldest of their race to accumulate knowledge and experience beyond the ken of even the most ancient men or dwarves. After all, what were two hundred or four hundred years when compared to six or eight or ten _thousand?_

In some ways, such accumulation was a boon. A blessing. But, in some ways, it was also a curse.

Sometimes, Thranduil was not certain which dominated. Blessing or Curse.

Because Thranduil was _old_ now. Not the oldest in Middle-Earth, but nevertheless one of the most ancient beings left in the Hither Lands. Old enough to have lived through most of the First and all of the Second and Third Ages by the timekeeping of the Golodhrim. He had been born in the times of relative peace during the Siege of Angband, the youngest child of four, son of a lesser noble elf of King Thingol’s Court.

He was old enough to remember Menegroth in the height of its glory. To have seen the tapestries woven by the hands of the finest weavers ever to grace these lands, students of Queen Melian herself whose face was filled with the mysterious light of the stars. To have seen the unspeakable perfection of Lúthien Tinúviel in the flesh, to have watched the Princess of Doriath dance on the grass to the sound of Daeron’s heavenly voice. To have seen with his own two eyes a Silmaril, its holy light garishly sharp in his wide, gentle blue eyes as he peered around the shoulders of his father and brothers for a closer look.

He was old enough to remember the glory of Menegroth fall into darkness.

Thranduil remembered a time when there was distant friendship and respect between the House of Thingol and the Dwarves of Ered Luin. He remembered a time when the tension between their peoples were solely due to the innate differences between their customs and physical forms rather than the memory of wicked doings.

He remembered how that fragile trust was shattered. The blood on the floors that his father had tried to hide from his eyes. But Oropher had not been quick enough to prevent Thranduil from seeing some of the slain guards left in the wake of the rape of Thingol’s hoard by the very dwarves who were supposed to have been their allies. Oropher had not been quick enough to prevent Thranduil from seeing two of his own brothers’ slain bodies strewn upon the floor, blue eyes the same shade as his own staring upwards with blank, dull focus.

In the end it had not been the dwarves who had destroyed all that was left of Doriath. But, while what had come afterwards—the horror he had experienced at the hands of the Sons of Fëanor who taught him the treachery of the hearts of his own race—would never be forgotten in his mind, it did not erase what had come before, either.

Thranduil remembered his hatred of dwarves. It had never faded fully. For how could he forget the treachery wrought by the weakness of these earth-dwelling, stunted creatures? How could he forget that it was a shining white stone which had driven these filthy beings to murder his King and slaughter two of his siblings in the cold blood, breaking all alliances and friendships that ever might have existed between their peoples?

And some wondered from whence had come his burning _dislike_ of the dwarves.

It did not help that these thirteen dirt-sniffing _rats_ were sneaking through his realm like spies or highwaymen. It helped even _less_ that he recognized Thorin II Oakenshield immediately, for there was no mistaking the bearing of the exiled prince-turned-king in exile.

Thranduil remembered Thorin from the days before the fall of Erebor. Remembered the prince standing at the side of his father Thráin and his grandfather Thrór, the three of them all posturing and smirking in arrogance, breakable mortal children playing at stretching their hands out, forming a shadow over Thranduil’s domain in a bid for dominance. Remembered how that face—unusually handsome for a dwarven lad—had been so young and free of wrinkles, lit with the light of the Arkenstone’s rainbow-shattered radiance.

It was like seeing the light of the Silmaril again, cast down in a shadow of treachery. And any trust Thranduil might have had in these stunted people was cast aside. They taunted him with his own desires for white gem-stars, and they tried to make him bow and scrape at their feet like a slave, and they thought to make him pay homage to them to maintain the prosperity of trade between their realms.

Then they expected him to save them.

This prince had expected _him_ —the very being they had mocked and taunted and disrespected!—to _save_ the refugees of Erebor. To ride down with his army to break the siege of a _dragon_. To protect the ungrateful and arrogant nobles and miners and smiths fleeing from their fallen home. To relinquish the very food and wine and blankets and clothing that he had procured for his own people, leaving those under his care to go without so that the dwarves might not face hardship in repayment for their sins.

Thranduil knew hardship intimately. He knew what it felt like to lose one’s home. He knew the taste of despair upon the tongue. He knew what it was like to _suffer_.

But rather than inciting pity in his heart, Thranduil felt rather a vindictive pleasure. For these beings who sought to extend their sovereignty over him through use of a cursed glowing rock now would reap the pain and hardship that they had courted by their own actions. They would know the horror that was losing their home as he had once known. They would face the reality of leaving their cushioned lives and see for the first time what the real world was like as had the young Thranduil in the ancient days of the world.

Maybe it would only give birth to resentment in their breasts for the elves who had refused them aid. But Thranduil did not care if they disliked him. He did not care if they _hated_ him or _feared_ him or _wished him dead._

And he was quite certain that Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, _wished him dead._

He sat upon his throne and looked upon the son of Durin’s house down the length of his nose. Those blue eyes had wrinkles now at the corners speaking of the passage of time. The deepest of raven-black hair he recalled was now threaded through with silver. The once-rich and luxurious blue clothing that had adorned the prince he remembered had been reduced to dirty and somewhat tattered traveling clothes.

And Thranduil could think of only one thing that Thorin II Oakenshield would be doing travelling through his kingdom.

The thought of these dwarves—these thirteen selfish creatures blinded by their greed for a glowing stone—riding up to the Lonely Mountain and awakening the _dragon…_

Dragonfire, too, Thranduil remembered. Though he had not actually fought in the War of Wrath—too young and too ill and with a young child on his hip—he had felt the lick of flame as had many of his people. After the Second Kinslaying, the refugees had fled to Ossiriand, the land of the Nandor. But the forests that harbored the gentle people of trees and song were destroyed, burning in a pyre of wickedness come down from the North. Thranduil had lived through having almost half of his face burned away. He would never forget the horrible memory of his home collapsing in atop his head, of cradling his crying son against his body and trying not to weep as he sought to find a way out, or of collapsing in the grass, screaming and lit aflame, until hands put out the fire.

Thank the Valar Valthoron had been spared then. But, were Smaug the Terrible to be awakened by these dwarves, were he to finish off the men of Laketown and devour the foolish, stunted people who had awakened him, would he then seek to decimate Mirkwood?

Would then Thranduil lose his people and his home again to greed and to fire? Would he then lose all that he loved and all that he worked to protect for the sake of a mad quest that had ended in failure? Would he then lose his precious sons, the two things that still brought light to the darkness growing ever stronger in his breast?

(Though, in the back of his mind, he remembered too the star-gems and coveted their light. He thought of the resplendence they would alight, cutting through the despair and decay of his home, and he wondered at salvation. Was that salvation worth the price that might be paid in the blood of his people?)

But orange and red flickered before his eyes, overlaying the blue of Thorin Oakenshield’s hate-filled gaze. And there was no pity in Thranduil’s heart for this selfish creature. He wondered if this dwarf knew what price might be paid for the reclamation of Erebor as did Thranduil.

As he stood and descended down from his throne, he met those eyes unblinkingly.

And he could not help but think that Thorin II Oakenshield was destined to fall to the same fate as his forefathers. The shadow of Thrór hung heavy over his grandson, the same gleam shared in both of their eyes. The same brooding darkness and weakness. The same hunger for material wealth. The same flicker of gold in the depths of their gaze.

The reflection of the light of the Arkenstone could be seen in that face.

Thranduil blinked but once. Saw blood on the floor and dead eyes staring up. Saw the gleam of battle-madness and unholy lust in emerald shine. Saw flame from the corner of his good eye licking at the ends of his own hair.

Saw the light of the Silmaril again. A cursed light. A herald of ill fortune.

And Thranduil would remember.


	347. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Nessa. Supposedly the least of the Valar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 2, 2016.
> 
> Valarin weirdness again. Not even gonna lie, I'm pretty sure this thing is a strange beast. The chemistry nerd in my soul decided to overtake and hold my muse at knifepoint, coercing it into evoking images that scientists such as myself would adore. Arguably, my poor hostage of a muse just made Nessa into one of the most powerful and understated Ainur. I guess I simply couldn't help but wax poetic on the true depth of the transfer of energy through matter by movement. Because I'm a nerd like that.
> 
> Written to the song "I Am Yours" by Really Slow Motion.
> 
> Warnings: Sciency things. Mostly that. General weirdness, too.

The Ainur were not created with a physical form. They were not material beings.

They were not something solid in the strictest sense of the word, nor were they innately of a form that was terrestrial and familiar to the Children of Ilúvatar. Rather, the Ainur were alien beings both of Eä and _not_ of Eä. Metaphysical creatures that they were, they were intrinsically entwined in the physical realm, and yet many did not yet know the cool touch of stone or the soft brush of grass beneath their bare feet. They knew the touch of one spirit against another, the intimate joining of two lives in what would later come to be considered matrimony, but they could not quite comprehend what it was to feel heat on bare skin or the rush of liquid water through branched fingers.

When she had first descended into the realm of Being, Nessa had been among those who had little part in the shaping of physical matters. She was not a governing Power whose participation was instrumental in the destruction and creation of matter into splendid forms, or so she perceived. No part did she have in the construction of the earth, nor the sculpting of the flora or the designing of the fauna, nor the deep and resonating voice of the ocean or the graceful swirl of the airs, nor even the bringing of light into a Void filled with darkness. She felt them in her core as an ever-present reflection, but she was not _of them_ as were her brothers and sisters.

Until she had first taken the form of a Daughter of Ilúvatar—her limbs long and slender and her hair the deep color of the earth coiling about her naked waist where it dipped inwards from her ribs and swelled to her hips—she had not understood truly what it was that she had pondered in the Timeless Halls, what it was that she had contributed to the Ainulindalë.

But then her feet had touched the grass in their first hesitant steps, her nerves flaring vibrantly at the steady foundation beneath her heels. She dug her toes into the soil and felt its cool and welcoming softness against her matter. The wind snaked about her extended arms and past the quivering muscles of her legs, invisible fingers tangling in the lengths of her wavy locks and tugging them back from her face. Raising her head, she looked skyward, saw the glimmer of the stars shrouded by golden and silver light, and experienced warmth upon her newborn skin.

There was at first stillness. But the world around her was not still, and Nessa felt her body move of its own volition, swaying beneath a great force. A steady thrum echoed through the whole realm, a whisper of a memory of the Song that had brought all of this wondrous and beautiful strangeness into Being. And Nessa felt it vibrate through her very veins, flowing through her very blood until it settled into the deepest marrow of her bones.

There was stillness, but through the stillness the whole of the world was shifting. Moving to the beat that she would recall forever in her most beloved dreams.

The heavenly choir had Sung, and now the whole of the world was the Dance.

Without realizing that _this_ was what she had always known, Nessa felt the shifting of the earth guide her feet forth. She felt the tickle of the grass against her ankles, its soft rustle to her ears a pirouette. She felt the wind sweep down over the land and carry her away, lifting her momentarily from the stability of the ground, giving her temporary wings.

She may not have been the earth or the water or the airs or the stars, but Nessa was movement. And movement was in all things. 

With the tips of her fingers raised into the heights of the heavens, she imagined each tiny molecule she touched zooming through empty space, shaking and quivering beneath a flood of energy sending them hurtling forth into the unknown. She swept her arms wide and closed her eyes, seeing the tremble and quake of the bonds of atoms trapped in their structural cages, even the most still and solid of objects invisibly vibrating beneath a veneer of quiet. The twist of her body was as the endless bustling of the insides of cells working together as a well-oiled machine, the building blocks which, when conglomerated, formed whole breathing organisms from millions of pieces. And beneath her feet so quiet did seem the earth, yet she perceived the shift of magma rising and falling in great waves, melting and cooling, shifting the crusts of the planet ever in slow motion. Such mysterious and fiery blood raising mountains and carving out oceans, both taking life away and beginning it anew.

From the smallest of things—too small for the eye to see—to a flow which encompassed the entirety of the universe and all that lay within, Nessa sensed the movement of energy. It was in the sweep of her arms as they sliced through the wind. It was in the curve of her spine as she mimicked the waves. It was in the distance and grace of her bounds as she copied the does that grazed upon the verdant fields of Almaren beneath the first light in a world that had ever known only cold and black.

There was no greater elation than this. To feel her body move in concert with the whisper of the Ainulindalë that lingered still within all that was of the realm of Being, it was to become energy itself. Like electricity ripping through her skeleton, racing out to each cell that formed her pelt, striking like lightning in each and every strand of her hair and flashing brighter than a thousand suns against her blinded eyes.

Nessa was in ecstasy. For she was in all things and all things in her. And she finally understood what it was that she had envisioned when she raised her voice in Song, a harmony that burst through the dissonance of two warring sides and joining them together irrevocably into one.

For nothing could escape movement. All the happiness and all the sorrow, all the goodness and all the wickedness, all that was captured in a net of light or shadowed in the deepest darkness—they were all under her spell. Distant galaxies did she stroke with the gentle curve of her palm, setting nebula alight with the birth of stars in her eyes, coaxing the rotation and vibration of even the most miniscule particles lost in the vast emptiness of space.

And Nessa breathed and moved as she was carried away upon the photons that were birthed in the beginning of Time and gave meaning to the world. Not even light could escape.

Everything that ever was or ever would be was part of a never-ending cycle of give and take. Of back and forth. Of constant birth and death. Of change.

And Nessa would dance. She would be as one with Eä as her body melted into the endless webs of space and time, swallowed into the wells of gravity. She would disintegrate entirely into nothing and everything.

And there was only bliss and energy.


	348. Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tulkas sees a reflection of himself in the Children. Sometimes not in the best of lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 3, 2016.
> 
> I wrote something for Nessa, and then--of course--my mind jumped straight to Tulkas. Stylistically a very different piece (I can't really imagine Tulkas being too poetic, for all that he seems well-meaning) but basically one of the arguably strongest of the Valar contemplating what it really is that he gave to the world with his Song. So yes, more Valarin weirdness.
> 
> Warnings: Some mentions of war and violence (mostly not explicit). Mentions death and rape (again, not explicit). Ideology and morality.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> 

Tulkas had been fighting for as long as he could remember.

In the Timeless Halls before the beginning of the world, his Song had been one of strength. For all that it was said that the theme of Melkor had been brash and loud, alike to the sound of trumpets baying in triumph but childish in make, Tulkas did not remember his own Song being so different from that of his greatest foe. The themes which had departed his lips then reflected now his very nature.

Brash. Loud. Confrontational. Both alike and unalike to the very themes in which he recalled escaping those blackened lips, reflecting as shadows through a spirit of heat and ice.

His only saving grace, he had once thought, was that he had aligned his themes in harmony with the whispering tenderness of Manwë’s heavenly voice and Varda’s radiant birdsong rather than falling into step with Melkor’s resonating bass. Even then, all those countless millennia ago, he had not been one to follow by force. He had resisted the call of the eldest of their Father’s children with steadfast determination, unwilling to be naught but a servant under the thrall of a mightier force rather than a mighty force in his own right.

Perhaps, he thought, that was from whence had come his aptitude for the arts of war.

For his Song had been one of those in the strongest and fiercest conflict with Melkor. For all that they had both been loud and wild and passionate, both with deep voices and unimaginable strength in their spirits, their voices had never once coincided on any chord in the symphony that birthed the world. Always had they been in discord.

Always had they been the chief source of dissonance in the Ainulindalë, ringing forever out against one another in constant struggle.

And Tulkas had wondered for some time if he had brought war into being through his stubborn and willful nature. If it had been _his_ voice, rising in contest against the forces of darkness in the final theme that gave birth to the Children of Ilúvatar, which had made the Children so harsh to judge those who were different, so easy to argue when disagreement came, so quick to strike out in violence rather than find a solution in peace.

If it had been _his_ Song which propagated _fighting_ throughout the innate nature of all intelligent beings.

It did not bother him at first. It was the nature of Tulkas to stand against his enemies, steadfastly rallying for that which he believed was just and true. The warrior vala had been all too happy to lend his strength to his lesser or more peaceful siblings, using the iron fortitude of his spirit as a weapon by which to chain down the rampant wickedness born from Melkor’s defiance.

He had enjoyed the rush of the battle from the very moment he had first taken part in the dance of war. The feeling of his bare hands showing their strength as they overpowered his foes. The fierce and terrible joy with which he laughed when he was struck with pain. The exuberance that filled his spirit as he bore his opponent to the ground and pinned them into defeat. The feeling of light glistening through the immaterial thing that was his spirit when he stood in victory after a long and hard battle.

Until he had seen his reflection in the Children of Ilúvatar, he had never considered these things to be bad. How could they be, when they had been used for _good?_

But he recalled how he had recoiled in faint shock at the harsh and quick judgments sometimes made by the elves. It came as a surprise to him—the outsider looking in—whenever he saw two Children, kin in the heart of the Father, dismiss or even hate one another for such small differences. That strife rather than understanding was their first instinct was frightening.

And then he recalled Fëanáro, and Tulkas wondered how he could realize such a poignant resemblance between himself and another being that he so thoroughly disliked.

Because Fëanáro was fighting. Every moment of his life. Every breath that he took. Every glare from the white-hot fire of his eyes.

He was fighting against control. He was fighting against destiny. He was fighting against grief and sorrow and acceptance. Until the bitter end, he was fighting with the whole of his being.

Tulkas could see it. In the loud and sharp voice slashing as whips through the din of battle, wrath something terrifying to look upon for the grin upon that mouth and the wild lust in those eyes. In the loud and fey laughter that echoed as an audial reflection of the flash of that sword cutting down enemies with glee.

Like him, Fëanáro was a being of constant defiance. A being of unending wrath and battle-lust.

Was that really his mark upon the world? That he bring Melkor low by his own power, seeking to safeguard the world with good intent, but then see his theme put against his wishes to such evil deeds as Kinslaying and betrayal of oaths and brotherhood? Was that really all he had wrought with his contribution to the Great Music? 

Sometimes, he wondered if any good at all had come from his own voice, the disharmonious twin to the theme of Melkor in the days before the beginning of Time.

He told his wife as much. Gentle and graceful Nessa with her hair dark as the richest soil and her burnished skin beneath the sunlight. Her eyes were wise and caring for all that her body and face were ever-young. And the touch of her hand upon his cheek had lifted his heart.

 _“Thou art blind sometimes,”_ she scolded with the softest and most affectionate of voices. _“In all our themes was the capacity for ill intent, and thy own was one of the most susceptible to perversion from its true course. But let it not be said that good has not come from thy voice either, husband.”_

 _“Good?”_ he had asked, thinking at first of the captivity of Melkor.

But then he thought of Fëanáro. He thought of his own sharp words to the elf, the way those eyes looked upon him as he had looked upon Melkor. Those eyes saying _“I will not be subject to a greater will than my own. I will be a force unto myself.”_

As though she could hear the dark turn in his thoughts, the touch of her hand upon his chin, lifting his head, brought him out of his mind. He met her eyes hesitantly.

 _“Strength. Courage. Valiance.”_ Her smile had been bright, and her fingertips were soft upon the flesh of his lips. _“The ability to smile through pain and heartbreak. The will to keep going in the face of danger. The fortitude to face death without hesitation. The stubbornness to see a cause through to the bitter end. For all that these things could be used for evil, they have also been the source of the greatest strength of the Children as well.”_

Maybe he was blind. Tulkas had never really been one for deep thought. He was swift to act, and sometimes a harsh judge. He trusted, but his broken trust was difficult to regain. He loved fiercely, but hated just as passionately. Maybe, in his haste, he simply could not see what she saw.

 _“Dost thou really think so?”_ he had asked then, his voice for once but a whisper.

And she had laughed in joyous, ringing peals. _“Ponder my words, husband, and thou shalt see their truth in the end.”_

And he had listened to her wisdom, for there was little doubt that she was his better half. For all that it was hard to banish the stain that was Fëanáro from the white pages of his memory, he pushed aside the darkness in his heart always inspired by the Crown Prince of old. Instead, he thought beyond Fëanáro, of the other great warriors and heroes of the First Age.

He pondered Findekáno, who had gone to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad knowing that he was going to die but standing tall and firm in his duty as High King and friend, smiling and laughing until the very last moments before the halberd had cleaved open his skull. He pondered Artafindë, who could have stood aside and allowed Beren Erchamion to face the werewolves of Tol-in-Gaurhoth alone but who had sacrificed his life in defense of a man he barely knew, slaying a werewolf with his bare hands and teeth. He pondered Lúthien Tinúviel, who had refused to allow even the power of the Dark Lord himself to stand between her and her love, facing down Melkor in the flesh for the salvation of her lover knowing that they could very well both lose their lives with a single misstep.

He thought of Turukáno, the elf who had suffered through the loss of all his family and still trudged on into the desolate future, who had used himself as a ploy to distract the enemy so that his people might escape the burning city of Gondolin at the cost of his life. He thought of Laurefindil, who had engaged in one-on-one combat with a Balrog upon the precipice of Cirith Thoronath knowing that he had not the strength to come out victorious, knowing that his body would fail and he would fall in the end. He thought even of Angaráto Angamaitë, who had suffered centuries within the confines of the hell of Angband, who had endured torture and rape and dehumanization, who had killed his own people in mercy, because as their prince he was tasked to be their impregnable strength and could not falter.

Bravery beyond measure. Laughter in the face of death. The will to continue despite the greatest of hardships. Fighting against impossible odds.

And he realized that he had, perhaps, bourn more into the world with his Song than mere strife. While he could see his willful nature and harsh temperament and enjoyment of confrontation in many of the Children, so too could he see that fighting was not only rooted in hatred and bitterness and evil.

Sometimes, fighting was necessary. Sometimes, fighting was for a cause. For truth or for justice or for love. To protect and defend and save. Against fear and oppression and sorrow.

And Tulkas had given unto the Children his strength and his stubbornness. With the steadfast strength of his theme ever in contention with the discord, he had given unto them the iron will with which to fight _against_ evil and corruption, to resist the call of Melkor’s seductive theme. 

In the back of his mind, he wondered if his Song foreshadowed the world that was to come. If trumpets would sound in an echo of his theme, brash and proud from the lips of the Children, through the shattered darkness of the world and carry on to victory all those with valiant hearts. And they would be tireless in battle, gifted strength beyond their ken. And they would smile in the face of Melkor’s terror, and laugh through the pain of their enemies’ blows.

If they were anything alike to him, then he had faith that they would withstand all temptation. That they would keep fighting the encroaching darkness until their last breaths. And they would be victorious in the end.

He had smiled into his wife’s glorious face. _“Of course, thou art right in all things, beloved. I would be a fool to doubt thee.”_

And the taste of her lips upon his was all the reassurance he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Cirith Thoronath = Cleft of the Eagles  
> Tol-in-Gaurhoth = Isle of the Werewolves
> 
> Quenya:  
> Angamaitë = iron-handed (epessë of Angrod)


	349. Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The romance of Finwë and Indis which changed the fates of the world forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 4, 2016.
> 
> First of all, May the Fourth be with you all!
> 
> Second... this thing. It's been quite some time since I've written Finwë. Longer still since I've written about his love issues, I think. Nevertheless, I thought this appropriately pivotal to use for this prompt. I couldn't think of much beyond marriage proposals (for this, I blame my engaged roommate in the midst of her wedding planning), so here it is. We all know how this mess turns out.
> 
> Warnings: Depending on who you ask, adultery. Death mentioned. Family issues. Secret affairs. Blatant mention of sex and some sensual content, but no outright sex on screen. Me being a nerd. Because yeah.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Their courting was in secret. A romance of the shadows.

It wouldn’t really do, after all, for the High King to be romancing a second woman. He had been a married man—some would still argue that he _was_ a married man despite the fact that his wife had chosen death over life at his side—and it went against all his sacred vows of matrimony to consort with a different woman in the way of lovers. It would be utterly scandalous. Utterly reprehensible.

Finwë found himself caring less and less by the day.

His thoughts were consumed by her. By her golden curls spilling down the graceful curve of her spine and resting in waves upon her shoulders, dipping into the grooves of her clavicles and teasingly drawing his gaze downwards. By her eyes, the deep and endless blue of the sky at twilight, of the sapphires set in the scepter of Manwë, but so much more _alive_ than the flat expanse of the sky and the dead glitter of jewels. By her laughter as the sweet tolling of high bells, a sound of joy that never failed to leave his heart raised in spirit and an echoing grin curving the usually dour bow of his lips.

He loved her. Indis of the Vanyar. This, he did not doubt.

They kept up the appearance of friends for the sake of maintaining secrecy. In the beginning, they _had_ been only friends. Back when Finwë’s heart had been an aching, raw and festering wound in his chest—back when his relationship with his son was strained and the duties of his kingship were exerting pressure on his morale and he had considered that perhaps it would not be so terrible a fate to lie down beside Míriel and _rest_ forever—she had been a balm upon his very soul.

A kind smile. A soothing touch. Her brightness never failed to drive away the creeping despair. Her friendly words of comfort had lifted him out of the abyss over which he had been hanging. And, at first, that had been enough.

At first.

Until he realized that he could not imagine what life would be like without her. Until the first time she returned to her uncle’s court and left him bereft and lonely in her wake, scrambling to find purchase on the slippery slopes of his mind. Until he realized that he sat by the window of his palace and looked down upon the street, his eyes searching in vain for the gold of her hair, helplessly hoping that she would return soon. Until he saw her again and felt such utter and indescribable _relief_ and _bliss_ at her answering smile that it frightened him.

Until he realized that she fit with him in a way too intimate to really understand. That she filled a void in his heart that he had never realized had been empty. That the places where he and Míriel had ever been in contention were now soothed.

If he hadn’t known better than to think such a sacrilegious thought, he would have said that she was his second One. His second soulmate.

And he knew she felt it, too.

Wavering around one another, constantly pulled towards one another even as they struggled to drift away, the gravity of their attraction could not be denied. They had known each other less than a year by the keeping of the Valar, but his tender fondness had evolved into something smoldering and hot screaming and trapped within his core, clawing and fighting to escape. And her eyes would look into his, captured and held steady in unwavering connection, and he could see how her pupils dilated and her breathing hitched and the stain of blood beneath her pale skin rose upon her cheeks and traveled down her neck.

He had wanted to be with her. He had wanted to mate with her. He had wanted to hold her in his arms. He had wanted to have _children_ with her.

She was the gateway to all that he had thought he lost when Míriel abandoned him. 

And Finwë was ready to be selfish. Fëanáro was grown and moving on with his life. Finwë had finally accepted that Míriel was never coming back. Desolate had looked the future for a man who had desired many children and grandchildren upon his knees in the days of his youth, but now there was a chance to have that dream still.

Swept away, he had kissed her. And it had been over for the both of them. No pretending to forget. No going back.

Thus had begun the love affair.

The whispered confessions and poetry that echoed through darkened rooms and corners. The stolen kisses in the gardens and in closets.

The first time he had committed adultery with her in the darkness of her guest quarters.

But it still wasn’t enough. _It still wasn’t enough._

Without marriage, he did not dare be caught with her in a compromising situation in public, for it would bring them both to ruin. Yet, he longed to be able to grasp her hand in full view, to be as the lovers of Tirion hand-in-hand wandering the gardens and markets with glowing smiles, to be able to kiss her knuckles in affection and show everyone how much he adored her. He wanted to have her at his side, sitting in the throne that had once belonged to his first wife, her wise and comforting presence at his side as he held audiences with his people. 

He wanted to see her swollen with his child, her belly growing round until he could press his ear against it and hear his unborn offspring, until he could cradle the swelling in his hands and press kisses to her belly-button until she giggled beneath his affection. He wanted to see her smiling with a child in arms, her face radiant in a way that Míriel’s never had been, their happiness a tangible presence in the air as they celebrated the birth of their greatest creation together.

He wanted to marry her. He wanted to be her husband in the eyes of the people.

 _“I would do right by thee,”_ he told her soon after this epiphany had come to haunt his endlessly thoughts throughout the day and into the night. They lay together, their skin bare in sin, coiled beneath the softness of the sheets. Her hands were in his hair, and his palms traced over the curve of her hips as he hovered above her body and took in her naked glory.

Her eyes had been honest and accepting of her fate. _“Thou canst not break the laws of the Valar. Not for me. I would not see thee ruined for the sake of my happiness, Finwë.”_

 _“But I_ would,” he argued, voice strained in his vehemence. _“I will break all the laws be they forged by the decree of my kinship or by the decree of the Valar or by the decree of the One Himself! I would rather be ousted from my throne and cast out in exile but married and happy with thee than remain High King sitting on my lonely throne without thy comfort and without thy light.”_

_“Finwë…”_

_“Please grant me this wish,”_ he begged of her then, leaning down to kiss her swollen lips, feeling the softness of her body against the hard planes of his own. _“Please, let me at least try.”_

_Give me this chance at happiness._

He did not have to say more. She had heard his deepest thoughts before, knew him inside and out. She had heard of his daydreams spoken in the hazy minutes of the afterglow in the silver dappling of Telperion’s light. And he knew that she felt the same desire, that she wanted to be with him as more than a mistress kept hidden in the dark. That she longed to fully consummate their joining in the eyes of all, legally and unquestionably, as much as he did.

In her shifting gaze could he see the inner conflict, the battle between her desire to reach out and grasp that which they both longed for and the urge to try and protect him from the inevitable scandal and displeasure of his people, from the potential backlash from the Valar. Like a pendulum did her face sway back and forth between wistful longing and determination and hidden sorrow.

And he kissed her again, pressing all of his passion and need into the air that he breathed against the roof of her mouth, into the stroke of his tongue tracing her sweet lips and the heady gasp that rose up from deep in his chest. Telling her— _showing her_ —that he _needed_ her. That he would do anything for her. That he would face the wrath of the Valar for her.

That he loved her.

When he pulled away, they were both short of breath and fire once again burned in their loins. But he did not move to trace his lips down the tempting arch of her throat nor to roll his hips down into the cradle of her body. Instead, he looked into her eyes.

 _“Please,”_ he had very nearly pleaded. _“Marry me, Indis of the Vanyar. Make me the happiest man alive. Bring me joy for the rest of my days.”_

And they both knew it was foolish. They both knew it was selfish. They both knew it was dangerous and sinful and _wrong._

But at the same time, it was so very right.

She pressed a kiss into his mouth, a mere chaste brush of skin to skin. And he could see in her eyes that he had won.

 _“Yes,”_ she had yielded then, her soft palms cradling his jaw. _“Yes, I shall marry thee, Finwë of the Noldor. Whatever comes, we shall be as One.”_

His joy had been fierce and terrible. He had wanted to raise his head to the sky and roar out his victory in defiance of all that kept them parted. And he wanted to lift her from the sheets and hold her against his chest and swing her around the room until she dissolved into helpless laughter. For all that his body was aflame, the jittery need to move that trembled through his limbs had nothing to do with coitus and everything to do with elation.

Instead, he had leaned closer, sharing their breath. Their noses brushed gently. _“Yes?”_

 _“Yes,”_ she had breathed against him.

And later, he would think back on that moment and wonder how such a little word could do so much to change the world. How a mere syllable could have altered the fates of so many lives, brought such wonderment and such despair and such hatred all into being. How a mere “yes” had birthed all the tumult and tragedy of the years to come, yet had also birthed so much beauty and so much good as to absolve it of regret and blame.

But then, in the darkness, he had laid his head upon her breast and sighed in contentment, thinking of a future that had yet to unfold. They would have many trials along the way, and he did not delude himself into thinking their path would be easy. Long and hard would be the road. But fair would be the end.

His fingertips caught a strand of her golden hair. Twined it round and round until it tickled against his palm.

 _Fair indeed_ , he had thought, smiling with stinging eyes. _Fair indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Vanyar = fair elves (pl)  
> Noldor = deep elves (pl)


	350. Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our choices set us on the path that leads us to our destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 5, 2016.
> 
> Sorry this one is a bit late in getting out. Computer issues. Anyway, this is an OMC-centric piece about Ilession (Maglor's oldest son), so if that isn't your cup of tea you might want to take off. Related to Villain, Morality, Ink and Gloves most closely. Also, Aloof and Cry as well.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of bloodshed, torture and death in war. Semi-graphic description of mutilation and disembowelment. Blood imagery. Mentions of slavery and human sacrifice. Devil worship. Espionage.
> 
> I actually think all the names, barring Ilession, are in Sindarin already. So no need to list them :)
> 
> I may, at a later date, attempt to translate the Black Speech. However, for the time being, I have little time to concentrate on learning to translate a new language. Last three weeks of my final semester of undergraduate uni, so a little busy.

Ilession stared into the reflection gleaming back at him from his silver mirror.

He did not even look like himself.

The elf staring back at him was something harsh and jagged, almost so foreign and un-elvish as to be unrecognizable. It was not simply the armor—the armor which was of galvorn, lightweight and black rather than the gold of the High King’s armies, meticulously sculpted into needle points and razor sharp edges rather than traditional weaves of smooth lines—that looked more as though it belonged on an orc general than an elf-man. Nor was it the background of shadowed, barely-lit and bare-boned chambers, both militant and forbidding in their unwelcoming gloom—chambers which echoed the violent and searing hot nature of the land through red firelight burning at deep darkness.

No, it was more of the face. All that, and the face could still have brought forth the glowing radiance and wisdom of the elven race.

But, instead, it looked like something demonic.

It was more in the furrow of his brow sloping downwards into a dangerous angle, a perfect match for the upwards curl of the reflection’s snarl that bared the teeth now hinting at fangs. The eyes staring back at him were darkened with ash and fury yet pale and bright with inner diabolical fire, so different from the typical elven tranquility. The skin of this stranger was very pale and lacked blemishes as was common of the Quendi, yet that blanched beauty was sliced through with blackened marks that spoke of ancient and wicked worship, marks that once might have adorned the evil temple dedicated to the exultation of Morgoth, silver roof stained and shadowed by spirals of black smoke. The smoke of burning human flesh.

This stranger looked more like one of the men of Harad, one of those exotic humans who decorated their dark-skinned bodies with piercings and tattoos, draping themselves with rich and vibrantly-colored fabrics. Were it not for the pallor of which skin and the leaf-shaped ears narrowing into delicate points, none would ever guess that this creature was of elven-kin.

It was hard for Ilession to look at this reflection and admit that this being was _his reflection_.

But it was.

 _“Art thou certain that this is the path that thou wouldst take?”_ Again and again, he had been asked this question by heavy, strained voices. Again and again, he could see the rising horror and the tangles of confusion and the living growth of concern in those eyes. _“Please, consider this more carefully.”_

 _“What other choice do we have?”_ he would counter harshly. _“What other choice do_ I _have?”_

They needed someone on the inside, behind enemy lines, who could pass on the most sensitive and secret insider information. Spies could only do so much when the mountainous borders of Mordor were so formidable and easily protected a barrier, when the tower of Barad-dûr was an impregnable fortress under the guardianship of a being as powerful and dangerous as the Dark Lord Sauron. Without someone inside—without someone deep in the enemy’s keep, a confident of the Dark Lord—they would lose so much invaluable information that they might as well be stumbling onto the field of battle blindfolded with tied hands.

 _“Thou wilt have to betray thy people,”_ they would argue. And he would scoff.

Though the idea of playing such a role as turncoat—of committing himself to a long trial of feigning betrayal of his people and fighting _against_ them to the point where he might be killing them with his own two hands—was a frightening one, the thought of going into battle without knowledge of enemy movements—of being ambushed or cut-off or tricked by the guiles of their intelligent and experienced foe, their forces decimated in one foul blow—was more terrifying still.

_“The safety of my people is worth a single betrayal.”_

So many that he loved were at risk. His younger brother, Erestor, who had already survived too much tragedy and trudged on through too much hardship, who he wanted only to protect from more sorrow. His brother in spirit by his father’s love, Elrond, who was already too stern of face and too old in the eyes for one so young in the years counted by Anar. His High King and distant cousin, Gil-galad, who had welcomed him with open arms despite his heritage and who had become a dear friend in the long years since they had stood side-by-side in the War of Wrath as comrades-in-arms.

Ilession would think, too, of Celebrimbor—would think of his cousin’s disemboweled body pierced through with a sea of spears, entrails tumbling down from his opened belly, pale skin slashed open by whips and decorated with the black marks of brands, blood staining everything until there was almost no white flesh left uncorrupted—and he would shudder to think how much his cousin had suffered before death. He felt physically ill when he tried to imagine how those marks had come into being. His throat closed in a suffocating chokehold when he thought of someone else in his cousin’s place.

For that was their fate at the hands of Sauron. The Dark Lord was a ruthless and sadistic being, one who took pleasure in the art of torture and murder. And if Ilession had to put himself in harm’s way to keep them out of its grasp, he would.

 _“And what about the lives thou wilt need to take? Art thou prepared to become a Kinslayer, to paint thy hands with the blood of thy kin?”_ they would ask.

And he would not hesitate to answer _“yes”._

If he had to sacrifice a handful of elven lives in the dungeons and torture chambers of Barad-dûr or slaughter a mere few of his own people upon the black plains of Mordor in battle, it would be a worthy sacrifice. For every life spent to protect the truth of his loyalty would be lost as the cost of the salvation of hundreds more.

If he had to sacrifice his own purity and innocence by staining his spirit with the blood of his people, that would be a worthy sacrifice, too. For what was his life alone in comparison with thousands more? Thousands of fathers and sons who would return to their wives and children and parents. At the price of a mere unmarried, cursed individual, this was a bargain.

When he thought this, Ilession shuddered. _Truly_ , he thought, _I am a son of my grandfather’s House now. For could the thoughts of my grandfather and father have differed much from these all those millennia ago? Sacrifice for vengeance. Sacrifice for salvation._

But he did not waver.

Instead, he would look in the eyes those who would try to prevent his destiny, and he would say, _“Who else couldst thou send that Sauron might not suspect, but a son of the House of Fëanor? For all that he murdered my cousin, our kin are known to be indifferent and ruthless. More likely it would be that I seek his guidance as a tool of revenge against those I might hold responsible for the damnation of my family—my father—than that I would seek vengeance in the name of a mere cousin who I barely knew.”_

 _“And what if thou art suspected? What if thou art_ caught? _What then?”_

And he would smile darkly in their faces, the forlorn visage of a man marching to his doom. Fitting for one such as he, carrying the Curse and bearing of his formidable heritage. _“Then I shall die knowing that I have followed the correct path. And I shall ask that those I leave behind do not grieve for my sacrifice.”_

Looking at his reflection, the visage of evil crafted from the foundation of his own familiar features, Ilession knew he had made the correct choice. Whether he lived to see the end of this strife or no, he did not regret. He did not hesitate. Because he knew that this life was his calling, and he could not deny what he knew to be right. Even if the means were wicked, they would justify the end. And even if it meant his eternal damnation and corruption, this path was in the best interest of his people and his King who held his undying loyalty.

The reflection grinned broadly. All teeth. All hunger and lust. All barbarianism and wickedness and vicious, cruel intent.

His door opened then, a long squeal of iron against iron and the crash of the heavy block of metal against dark stone. He turned to the newcomer—an orc, he noted with faint disgust—and stared with unblinking, unsettling eyes at the snarling, fidgeting creature cowering before him. Tempting though it was, he did not pull out his sword and slice open its throat for its daring in barging into his chambers.

Instead, he cocked his head expectantly.

“The Master summons his student,” the orc relayed, voice rattling in the Black Speech of Mordor. “Immediately.”

It took a moment for Ilession’s brain to comprehend the words in such a foul and inelegant language, all hard consonants and guttural growls. As different as night and day from the archaic Quenya he had spoken in his youth.

“I shall come,” he replied after flicking his tongue through the unfamiliar shapes of words behind his closed lips. “Leave, thrall.”

Beneath his stare, the lone orc trembled even as it glared at him defiantly. But it still fled as though Gothmog himself were at its heels, the tongues of his flame-whip licking at its back. Clearly this cowardly being knew when it was outdone by a greater predator, could feel the burning of Ilession’s fëa and sense that danger of a lethal killer stalking through the jungle, searching for unfortunate and unwary prey to devour.

Here, Ilession never dropped that threatening body language. Here, he could not afford the weakness of laxity for even a moment.

Here, he was the protégé of the Dark Lord, a student in the arts of war and torture. A being every bit as cruel and sadistic as his teacher. A being nearly as dangerous for his thousands of years of experience in battle. A being every bit as much a demon as its Master.

Glancing back at his reflection, Ilession thought he played the part well. The monster in the mirror smirked back at him in glee.

This was the path he had chosen. It was time to follow it through to its end.

Without a backward glance, he went to his Master’s side. And, in the place of the evil reflection captured behind polished silver, there now stood the soft-eyed and beautiful son of a prince and a baker’s daughter beyond the silver bars of captivity. And he was weeping and smiling both. And his throat was cut and his lifeblood leaked away.

Ilession would never be that person again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> fëa = spirit


	351. Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A celestial romantic tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 6, 2016.
> 
> Another entirely introspective piece, this time from the POV of Tilion. It is never explicitly stated whether or not he and Arien actually _become_ the moon and the sun, but in my AU this is the case. I am also unable to imagine that the world was ever flat, just so no one tries to call me out on this potentially being pre-removal of Valinor from the mortal plane. In my mind, everyone just thought the world was flat, but it has always been a sphere. If it weren't for the fact that roaming, star-less planets are actually a thing that exists (they get flung out of their solar systems on occasion) I would have had issues with the lack of a sun up until now, too. As it is, this is as close to happy with the non-physics-compliant Tolkien-verse as I'll probably ever get, LOL.
> 
> Warnings: Me being sciency and weird. Mostly that. I don't think there's anything else, really...

To say that Tilion of the Maiar, shepherd of the vessel of the moon, had a love-hate relationship with the horizon would be an understatement.

Of course, for a creature who embodied a celestial body, horizon could be a rather ambiguous term. From the whispers of his brothers and sisters, he knew of earthly horizons. He knew of the line that darkened the divide between the ocean and the sky, where the glittering of sunlight dancing upon the ever-moving and churning waters of the sea then broke into the opaque expanse of blue dappled with white puffs of cloud. He knew of the beauty that was seeing the mountains stretch and strain upwards into the cerulean vastness of the heavens, their peaks biting at the ceiling of the world as with sharpened fangs of black dipped in snow.

These things, he had never seen with his own gaze.

When Tilion had lived upon the little blue marble that lay thousands of miles below, he had lived in a world where the light came from within the walls of Valinor. When the Two Trees and their brilliance were at the peak of their glory, the mountains were lit from within, alight with a rainbow of a million shades of color against a backdrop of the deepest blue. When all light was still within the Blessed Realm and the Hither Lands were darkened, the divide between the ocean and the sky was invisible. Looking out across the sea yielded nothing but blackness and the faint, ever-present glimmer of the stars above.

Now, light came from without the Blessed Realm. As a far off jewel did glimmer Arien and her vessel where they hung radiantly in the net of space and time, a dip in the fabric of the universe. Though the people below might perceive that she moved, Tilion knew the truth of the matter. Ever stationary and ever watching, a sentinel to break the despair and terror of the unknown. Whereas she was affixed in the sky, he was spinning rapidly around the planet, his path both chaotic and organized in a trail of silvered reflection.

They said that he chased her light, that the reason he deviated from an ordered course was to try and grasp the tailwind of her beauty between his fingers. In a way, they might have been right.

It was impossible to chase such a distant being as Arien was. Now, all he could do was bathe in the heat of her glory, reveling in the flash of her mighty golden light off the silvered disk of his own vessel. Now, all he had of her was a distant, yellow burn, a star whose light engulfed all of the others so long as she could be seen. She ever dominated his sky.

Too, had Tilion heard of the beauty of sunrises and sunsets, creations in worship to her beauty. His brethren spoke of a watercolor painted across the sky at the opening and closing of each rise and fall of Arien’s vessel by their eyes. They whispered of the million-colored after-image of Laurelin and Telperion splashed across the heavens as the golden light bent and twisted through layers of gases and vapors, bouncing off clouds and dying them fantastic hues. Purples and pinks, reds and oranges, yellows and golds and even greens.

It was said that one of the most beautiful sights in the Realm of Being was to see a perfect sunset across the rippling waters of the sea. To watch as the blazing orange ball that was the last fruit of Laurelin disappear beneath the line of the horizon and fall through the Doors of Night.

He did not think even that could compare to seeing her uninhibited. Out here, where her light might burn mortal eyes and sear across their fragile skins, her power and beauty reached its true pinnacle. She was a being of flame, of heat and pressure and rage and cruelty, life-giving and life-ending. But Tilion was not of the mortal races, and the feel of supercharged particles blasting through his raiment was more as a shower of sparks across his spirit than a painful burning and slow death.

Even if her touch had hurt, he still would have craved its bite.

Constantly was he trying to maintain his glimpse of her. Endlessly did he orbit this tiny planet out in the vast emptiness of space, and she was his only comfort and his only love. He hated it most when the earth below—that terrestrial body with hosted and protected the delicate Children of Ilúvatar—dared to block her from his sight.

It was one of the most spectacular visions, to see her light break across the true horizon line, the curved and never-ending edge of the sphere hanging as a droplet of blue and green in the emptiness. A mortal might have been blinded by the sudden bursting forth of light, the way it broke the edges of the blackness and shattered even the black voids filled with nothingness. For then they were no longer empty and no longer cold and no longer desolate. As the earth turned and she crept further and further around its edge, a sunrise of such spectacular proportions as to be utterly alien to the earth-bound creatures below, her heat and flame would flash through the darkness and bring forth the demon of affection and futile hope in his breast.

He would lift his face—if he could, in truth, be said to have a face in this strange form—and smile as she caressed the craggy rock of his body. He would gaze upon her with the ever-present longing in his heart, wishing that they had not been parted so irrevocably by their fates. He would whisper her name in the cold, dead core of his being, and he would bitterly accept that this was all he would ever have of the woman that he adored.

But it was enough. For the time when they both rested together upon the same side of the planet and he could see her light, it was enough.

Until his constant turning brought him around full-circle again. Until he looked over his shoulder and could see the last rays of her brilliance bending around the contour of the world. Until she rested as a glimmer of light upon the horizon, a last golden droplet of hope in a sea of cruel blackness.

And then she would disappear entirely, swallowed up by the body of the planet. For those painfully long hours between the ultimate sunset and sunrise, he would be blinded by his sorrow, spiraling through darkness longing for the memory of her beauty. His desperation would drive him to keep hurtling through space despite the loss of his silver light within the earthly shadow.

And then her light would break the darkness once more and set the horizon aflame. The chase would begin again. And he would follow after her with a yearning heart and outstretched palms, her name ever upon his lips in benediction.

Forever. Until the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Maiar = lesser holy beings (pl)


	352. Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The actual death of Fingolfin. It isn't what you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 7, 2016.
> 
> So, this prompt made me bang my head against a wall. It was actually on the list before the last two prompts, but I've been having trouble thinking what to write. I mean "flat"... really... Then, when I was complaining to my sister today, I mentioned how the prompt made me think of dead eyes. And then she told me that I should write this scene. And I agreed, naturally. Thus, this is (I believe) pretty much Pretend AU-compliant. Which means that Argon and Fingolfin switch places at the Battle of the Lammoth.
> 
> Warning: Deathfic. Violence. Actually fairly explicit gore. As in actual description of stomachs being cut open and intestines being handled and bones and bodily fluids and lots and lots of blood. Thou hast been warned! Secret identity also. And severe mental trauma as well. Basically just war being the terrible, gory and horrible thing that it is.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno

There was blood everywhere. So much blood that it made Arakáno sick. He had not realized that there was this much blood in the whole body!

The young prince’s hands were covered in scarlet.

It had taken but a mere moment of inattention. He had been cut off from the other elven forces, cut off from his father and brothers, surrounded on all sides by his terrifying foes and prepared to die a painful but honorable warrior’s death. Arakáno was a wild and bold spirit, alike to his father most in visage but more alike to his mother in temperament and mannerisms, and he had been afraid but had pushed aside his fear. Of all Nolofinwë’s sons, he was the most reckless and uncontrollable, so very young and free and fearless.

He had been prepared to die that way. He would never have asked for anyone to save him after his foolishness put him within the throng of the enemy. Though he could hear the voices of his kin, knew they were close and fighting their way towards him, he had been certain they would not make it to his side in time.

The fatal blow had fallen as a flash of rust and steel, and he had seen it coming from the corner of his eye and knew he could not block it. Arakáno had expected the bite of a razor-sharp, barbed blade into his side, ripping apart his flesh down to the organs and bones.

He had not seen the shadow which darted between himself and death. Not until it was too late.

Not until that very same blade sliced open his protector’s belly, spilling intestine out of the open gash, and curved upwards in an arc to the hollow of the throat. The spray of blood, boiling hot and reeking of iron, splattered across Arakáno’s cheek as he spun around. From behind all he could see was dark hair and a silver circlet. A lone figure that had cut a swathe through the enemy forces to reach his side only to meet death in his place.

Immediately, Arakáno recognized his father.

Nolofinwë went down, body slamming upon stone with a bone-rattling thud, head striking sharply upon the rock. Arakáno opened his mouth in a scream, but if he made noise it was drowned out by the din of battle and the endless, deafening echoes of the Lammoth. In his chest, something monstrous rose along with the bile in the back of his throat, something acidic and cruel, longing for basal violence at the sight of the fallen body trodden upon by the enemy in their haste to reach their lone standing victim.

Arakáno had not realized such fury rested within his own breast until he slaughtered them without mercy. Up until then, perhaps, his blows had been hesitant. For all that these creatures were hideous in face and form, they were still living intelligent beings, and he had hesitated to kill them indiscriminately.

Now they were nothing but kin-slaying insects to be squashed. And, with the fury of a vortex sweeping across the open plains, Arakáno destroyed all within reach.

Until none more came. And he stood over his father’s body, panting and sweat-slicked and shaking down to the marrow of his bones.

In the distance, he could hear shouting and the sound of his eldest brother’s voice crying out orders through the clamor of metal upon metal and metal upon bone. But he cared about none of that. Kicking aside the bodies of his fallen enemies, he managed not to slip upon slickened rock as he knelt at his father’s side.

Somehow, Nolofinwë was still breathing. Shallow with pain, strained with the blood now resting upon stern lips. Arakáno had never seen his father look so disheveled and undone, eyes glistening with helpless tears of agony, hair slicked to his skull by blood and sweat, and lips gaping open in the struggle for each breath. The son took in the cut that tore flesh open to the bone, carving up across the ribs towards the throat. It must have nicked something there, because Nolofinwë’s blood was flowing like a river down upon the ground, and his hacking cough was wet.

Arakáno felt hot liquid splatter on his cheek. He tried to ignore it.

He tried to concentrate on the slick feel of the guts he was trying to press back inside. He didn’t want to think about what else might be on his hands, how filthy they probably were, how the smell of stomach acid and digestive fluid could only mean that more had been severed than just flesh. Part of his mind knew that no healer could hope to fix such a mess as the one which he was now almost elbow-deep buried in, but the rest of his mind shoved logic aside.

_Save his father… He had to save his father…_

And he did not hear his own labored breaths, hitched upon gasping and horrified sobs. His eyes blurred from the fall of tears that cut swathes through the blood on his skin, but he ignored his despair. Though he bore no wound but for scrapes and slight cuts, he felt as though his chest were constricted, like his ribs were closing in upon his lungs and squeezing out all the air that might allow him to take a full, deep breath. Panic was all he knew. Panic and blood and screams.

“Cease…” Shaking, deathly pale hands grasped at his forearms, pulling him away from the mess of organs and bone. “It is no use now, Arakáno, yonya. Cease…”

His father’s voice was so weak. He had to lean so close as to nearly touch their brows to hear even as the noise of battle began to slowly die into the symphony of the dying and injured.

This close, he could see the cloudiness in eyes that were always so very sharp. Eyes that were so very pale and cold. Those eyes often in these last years had reminded him of Helcaraxë, as though his father’s soul had absorbed the vicious tundra and integrated it into his very being, leaving him distant and apathetic and dangerous. As slicing as the bitterly cold winds flaying open flesh and as unforgiving as the hard slickness of jagged ice puncturing up through snow.

Now those eyes were soft.

He felt something hard pressing into his palm. His skin was wet with blood and worse, but he could make out the feeling of cool metal through the scalding heat. The hilt of a sword. His father’s sword.

“Atar,” he whispered, heart burning and throbbing in his chest.

“Take it…” Nolofinwë choked, his whole body shaken by the force of the desperate coughs trying to clear blood from his damaged airway. “Our people… still need… a leader…”

At his back, Arakáno could sense the appearance of his brother. But right now, he could think of nothing else but those eyes. They were staring straight into him, and he could make out the flecks of gray and silver and blue in the pale depths. He dared not look away.

“I do not understand,” he very nearly sobbed. “Atar…?”

“Take it!” The order was harsh and broken. “The people… cannot afford… to lose… their leader… now.”

What his father asked of him, Arakáno at first did not comprehend. But, when he did, he protested with a sharp cry. His hands, still covered in scarlet, reached out to grasp at his father’s cheeks, cradling his jaw and shaking gently.

“Stay awake, Atar,” he ordered even knowing that it was far too late. “Thou canst not leave us now! Please, stay awake! Please!”

Soft eyes turned glazed. “Arakáno…” A cold hand brushed his face.

And then the eyes turned flat.

The prince was staring into the eyes of the dead. And they would haunt him for all eternity.

Too shocked to weep and too shocked to scream and too shocked for rage, he felt strangely empty. It was as if all his vitality were sucked out of him, as if all the energy that had driven him in such battle-lust as to kill his enemies mercilessly now was drained away and left him feeling limp and cold. He pulled his hands away, stared at the red handprints upon his father’s face, and rocked back on his heels.

The sword was still lying there. Black blood upon the blade. Red blood upon the hilt.

And Findekáno knelt beside him. “Take the sword and the circlet.” Deft hands pressed the blood-slicked hilt into his palm, and then reached out and began untangling the simple silver circlet denoting their father’s status from the tangled black locks.

“What art thou _doing?”_ Arakáno asked hoarsely. “Findekáno, _what art thou doing?”_

“No one can know,” his brother said, voice low and harsh. “We cannot afford to lose our leader, not so soon after arriving in foreign lands. But we can afford to lose a prince. It is better this way.”

“Findekáno, no…” The younger brother tried to shake his head, but it felt as though all the joints in his neck were locked into place. He swallowed back a sudden wave of nausea and horror. “No, I cannot…”

“Thou must.” Those hands quickly wove the circlet into his hair, sharp pains dancing against his skull as they tugged locks of hair into tightly woven braids. “No one will know the difference, not with thee covered in so much blood. There will be time to figure out the rest later, but we haven’t time to waste now.”

“I cannot,” Arakáno protested again, still crouched over his father’s cooling body. “Findekáno, this is _madness!”_

“It is what Atar wanted.”

_Dead, flat eyes tearing open his flesh and boring into his soul…_

It was the cruelest thing Findekáno could have said. For Arakáno could protest no more. Not with the guilt as a mountain crushing his chest. Not with the memory of being elbow-deep in his father’s gut fresh in his mind. Not with the thought of those _eyes…_

_Dead, flat eyes cracking open his skull and ripping through his mind…_

What choice did he really have against such unholy power?

The tears that burned at the corners of his eyes would not come. He could not imagine his father would have cried. His father would have frowned and clenched his fists. His father would have vowed vengeance over his slain body. His father would have hurled silent curses at both the Black Enemy and their traitorous kin.

His father would never have shown weakness and wept before their people. And so Arakáno did not weep anymore.

Beneath him, his legs shook as he rose by Findekáno’s side. He locked his knees in place, forcing his body to steady. Even though he was younger, he had the greater height between the two brothers, just a hair taller than their father had been. He doubted any but the closest of friends would notice the difference.

There was blood on his face, streaked across his cheek and broken by the trails from his earlier tears. Arakáno raised a hand and smeared the tracks away, leaving twisted curls of drying blood and black filth in the wake.

His tunic was soaked with it, too. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between the brown he had worn and the dark blue his father had worn. Everyone looked like they were stained red and brown and black now. With the circlet of the High Prince braided into his hair, any who saw him would simply assume his identity without looking too closely for falseness.

His sword, which he had learned to fight with and which had been a familiar companion, now lay discarded by his father’s body. In his hand, Arakáno clutched at Ringil’s unfamiliar weight. The white blade gleamed up at him coldly through the darkness of ichor.

Arakáno’s eyes moved helplessly back to the body. It was staring upwards blankly, and he longed to reach down and close the eyelids so it would stop looking at him with accusation. Those eyes made his heart beat fast and his skin shudder with primal fear.

“Come away,” Findekáno said, interrupting his private moment of terror. “Come away from the body. We must see to the people.”

Later, they would come back and bear the body of Prince Arakáno forth. Later, there would be pyres upon which the bodies of their dead were burned with honor and reverence. Later, the newly-minted Nolofinwë would see his son turned to ash and swirling up as a black smoke into the comforting embrace of the heavens.

But he would never be able to erase the taint of the eyes from his soul.

_Because the dead, flat eyes were watching him. Ever watching him. Ever driving him to madness._

And the weight of the world seemed to rest upon his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> yonya = my son (shortened yondonya (yondo + nya))  
> Atar = Father


	353. Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Argon must now deal with being a person he is not without the emotional support he thought he would have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 8, 2016.
> 
> So, I'll freely admit that I needed sleep before writing this, so it's a bit late. I was on my feet literally all day doing a project, and then writing two papers and finishing a take-home exam. But now all of that is done.
> 
> Continuation of Flat. Basically an internal monologue detailing the beginning of the challenges that Argon faces as a person who is still himself but is not allowed to be or act like himself and whose relationships with people have changed vastly and abruptly almost overnight. An angst-fest, more or less. But who can blame the guy?
> 
> Warnings: mentions death, but nothing gory or explicit. Mostly just a really disfunctional family. Small mentions of sexism.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Argon = Arakáno

His entire life was a constantly growing mountain of pure frustration.

It was bad enough that everyone seemed to want a slice of his attention, and he had long since run out of droplets of attention to give. He wanted to tell them that the hours of his day did not grow like leaves upon trees, numbering in the impossible thousands and so easily plucked away. 

He felt like he had no time. So many written reports and meetings that his councilors and advisors wanted to cram into each day. So many audiences did they still want and roads paved in marble did they want, conveniently forgetting that the High King’s time must be devoted to all and that he was _running a war_ , not _reconstructing bloody Tirion._

But he was trying very hard to be a patient creature like his namesake. He knew the Nolofinwë of old would have ground his teeth and bore the discomfort and the disrespect. The Nolofinwë of old would have thrown himself into his work with that strange, dispassionate passion of the possessed. The Nolofinwë of old would have somehow still managed to please everyone despite the adversity of circumstances.

Of course, he was not the Nolofinwë of old. But he had to do his best.

Though it went against his every instinct, he did not allow himself to shred any of the piles and piles of seemingly useless and unnecessarily flowery missives and requests that he still needed to look at before dinner. He did not allow himself to throw them into the fire either, though the dancing flames teased at his inner impetuousness with their dancing, teasing light. Nor did he allow himself to scowl and snarl at every messenger or page who was unlucky enough to be bringing him more news that he was not interested in hearing. He did not shout his annoyance to the ceiling with a purpled face and trembling hands released into sharp gestures when the coil of his temper finally snapped and unraveled.

Nolofinwë’s temper would never have snapped. The Nolofinwë of old was cool and collected always. He always knew what to say and what to do. He always knew how to manipulate and flatter his way into good graces and leave everyone pleased and relaxed. And he also always knew how to send on their way those he did not wish to speak with without offense being laid to the rejected party.

The Nolofinwë of old had been a politician, born and bred. This new copy, nearly completely the same in face and form, was anything but identical in spirit and temperament.

The strain was just one more thing on the stack of things that he didn’t want to have to deal with but which would not diminish and fade into nothingness. Who would have known that being High King required so much patience and fortitude, so much extra time dedicated to papers and meetings and authorizations?

If it was only this weighing down upon his mind, he thought he might have been capable of handling the responsibilities and the strain on his time and patience. Maybe.

But this was but the snowy cap of the mountain resting heavily upon his thoughts. The very outer layer of the problems which swirled within his mind, clawing at the edges of his thoughts as constant reminders that he tried desperately to ignore.

Maybe if he could have looked his siblings in the eyes…

_But Findekáno was turned cold and nervous. The comforting and friendly older brother he recalled fondly in the memories of his youth and young adulthood would have greeted him each day with a clasp of forearms and a laughing kiss pressed to his cheek. The older brother he thought he had known was always so very happy to listen to his problems, so very happy to offer him advice or a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen without judgment to his woes._

_The first time Findekáno had greeted him with a distant “Atar” while standing almost on the other side of the room… it had been shocking. Like being struck with a whip across his soul._

_He was reminded that he was no longer Arakáno. That he was no longer the little brother. That he was no longer_ himself. _And that Findekáno would no longer treat him like Arakáno, though they both knew the truth of his identity. Findekáno would no longer be friendly and welcoming and comforting, because it was not the job of the son to support the father as an emotional pillar. Because ever had Findekáno both loved and hated their sire._

_There would be no more welcoming greetings and sun-glazed smiles._

_It was the first time Arakáno had felt truly alone._

_And then there had been Turukáno. The ice-cold older brother who he had always thought resembled their father the most. The emotionless, stern-faced stickler for the rules who frowned at the younger brother’s antics and shook his head at the younger brother’s irresponsibility._

_The older brother who had huffed in annoyance at child-Arakáno whenever he came in crying with scraped knees or bruised pride. The older brother who was not warm and full of hugs like Findekáno, but who would deftly bandage his injuries and lecture him in a soft, crooning voice that revealed a melted inner core beneath the icy façade._

_The look upon Turukáno’s face when he had first beheld Arakáno in Nolofinwë’s place had been strange and horrifying to witness. Clearly, Findekáno had not told their other siblings, much to Arakáno’s immediate annoyance and terror. Because Turukáno knew their father well enough to see the minute physical differences immediately. No doubt, even had he not_ seen _the difference, he would have noticed the switch as soon as Arakáno spoke._

_“Is this some sort of joke?” Turukáno had snarled._

_And Arakáno had broken momentarily his veneer of king, almost crumbling beneath the accusation in those darkened eyes. “Atar is dead. His last order was for me to take his place. To prevent panic and loss of morale in the people.”_

_“Atar is_ dead…? _And thou hast taken his place…? What didst thou_ do, _Arakáno?_ What didst thou do?”

_The bloom of half-forgotten guilt had been terrible. Its strangling hands had closed his throat against the rage and accusation in Turukáno’s voice. It kept him silent against the tirade that followed, the emotional blows that crushed the little hope he had had of being accepted and not condemned for his part in their father’s death and for hiding it from the people._

_He doubted Turukáno would ever forgive him. The second oldest brother had never been good at forgiveness._

_And Írissë… Arakáno had ever been the brother most accepting of her wild and un-womanly ways. He had ever been willing to support her in her hunting endeavors and her adventures beyond the isolated world of sewing and weaving and jewelry and clothes. When she had stowed away with the Exiles, their father had been so furious as to almost be moved to shouts of rage, but Arakáno had been glad in his heart. For his sister was_ made _for this life of_ doing _instead of_ watching. _For feats of bravery and daring rather than boredom and waiting at home for the menfolk to return._

_But there now formed a gulf between them. As with Findekáno, Írissë could not treat a shadow of Nolofinwë as she had treated her younger brother. Affection was stilted, cursed and overshadowed by the memory of Nolofinwë’s harsh disapproval haunting them from the grave._

_She tried. She tried very hard. But, in the end, she had to treat him as her father first to keep up their charade. And that meant sacrificing what she had had with the brother._

_Arakáno felt as though he had lost everything. As though he had lost Findekáno’s smiles and Turukáno’s softness and Írissë’s laughter. As though he had lost all their hugs and their kisses, all their reassurance and all their camaraderie._

_He felt the cold strikes of their distance and their bitterness and their resentment and their accusation as brands upon his soul._

_It was no wonder Nolofinwë had been so cold. Because numbness was the only way to deal with the pain that sliced through his heart. Emotional distance was the only way to separate himself enough from the brother to keep the façade of the father from cracking and shattering beneath the pressure like a mold of thin glass._

_It would be the end of him, but…_

But the new Nolofinwë had to hold everyone at a distance. He had to be the father that had been, not the young brother who still—somewhere deep inside—was.

Despite this resolution, he still lay in bed at night, sleepless and tormented. He still thought of the dead, flat eyes and their image burned into the back of his eyelids, staring and staring and staring, blaming him for their death and punishing him for his sins. He still thought of the resentment that bubbled noxiously in his siblings at the very sight of him, eating away at his conscience like acid upon meat. He still thought of the loneliness of having no one to turn to for help, of having no support at his back to get him through his long days of duties and longer nights of vivid, dark dreams.

That mountain of frustration, it was not only the duties of the High King. It was the unforgettable guilt of being responsible for the death of his father by means of his own recklessness and foolishness. It was the emptiness of the loss of siblings and friends who now acknowledged him coldly as their leader rather than warmly as their brother. It was the helpless anger and terror and betrayal he could not help but feel at having all he loved turn their backs against him and leave him stranded out in the blizzard of life’s hardship to fend for himself.

It was everything. A mountain that rested now upon his ribcage when he lay in bed silently, the pressure pushing down and down and down upon his ribs trying to force out the cries and the sobs and the screams that vibrated in the back of his throat. The pressure that made his limbs tremble uncontrollably with the need to pace, to grasp his sword and demolish, to rip apart his rooms and his clothes and his _life_ and raise his hands to the sky and curse the name of the One and ask _“Why is this happening to me? What did I ever do to deserve this fate?”_

Holding aloft that weight—driving away the fury which rose in response to helpless regret and despair and resentment—was all that kept him from unraveling into the very atoms from whence he had been made. It was all that kept his spirit from bursting forth from his flesh as a vengeful ghost in search of retribution for the pain heaped upon it by brands of betrayal and heartbreak.

It was a careful balancing act of _forgetting_ which allowed him to sleep each night. It was the careful lifting of that mountain of frustration, tucking it upon a shelf in the very back corner of his mind, which kept him from falling completely into madness.

It was all that was still Arakáno. It was all that he loved and all that he hated.

Sooner or later, it would need to be sacrificed on the pyre of his terrible secret.

And, as much as he wanted the pain to go, he did not want to lose the memories either. The smiles and the laughter and the warmth of the regard of his siblings. The shared hugs and the comforting lullabies and the bandages upon scraped knees. They kept him from throwing it all away. Kept him from forgetting entirely despite the agony of remembering.

There could not be one without the other. Good without bad. Pleasure without pain.

But perhaps, he would think as he lay alone in the darkness of night, sleepless and trembling—perhaps it was better to discard both the good and the bad. To be cold and indifferent. To burn it all away so that the pain might _stop._

And then the mountain trying to crush his spirit into oblivion might disappear. And he would be another person in truth. And Arakáno Nolofinwion would finally be dead.

And then he would no longer wish to be able to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father  
> Nolofinwion = son of Nolofinwë


	354. River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Age of Men begins and proliferates, the elves who stay behind must adjust to a world that changes as quickly as the Aftercomers are born, age, and die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 9, 2016.
> 
> Random monologue. No dialogue at all in the whole thing. Written from Celeborn's POV. Basically, this is just trying to get a perspective on how some of the elves might deal with how the modern world begins to develop out of a series of shorter civilizations. This is also something of an explanation for how elves in the modern AU have avoided "fading".
> 
> Warning: Some death (nothing violent or gory, just sad). Perspective-heavy. Environmental implications.

It was easy to forget the flow of time when ensconced in paradise.

Lothlórien had stood as a pillar of elven beauty and power for thousands of years, untouched and untainted. With the coming of Nenya, the Ring of Power, it seemed that time itself was frozen in place and left the lands a reflection of Aman. The trees grew to impossibly titanic heights, their bark seemingly forged of rippling silver. The only indication of the passing of seasons in these enchanted woods were the change of the silver-backed green leaves to pure gold, but these golden leaves remained through the mild winters until they were fallen and replaced again by greenery in the spring. It was warm and soft and filled forever with light that mingled into the sky as a veil over the twinkling of the stars.

It had been millennia since Celeborn had experienced true cold. Millennia since he had seen trees turn red in the fall and barren in the winter. Millennia since he had seen rivers frozen and grass turned brown and dead.

The first year without the Ring of Power to halt the flow of time had been an awakening.

At first, the mallyrn grew dull. The glistening luster of metallic glory faded into the pallor of birch. And then, when the fall arrived, there was a great chill in the air that made the skin crawl. The leaves turned yellow and gold, but they did not remain upon the trees when the first snows—the first snows which had fallen in over three thousand years—arrived to blanket the grassy, flower-dappled hills with white and freeze over the tops of the Celebrant and the Nimrodel.

For the first time, one could not walk barefoot in the coldest months. Leaves dried and crackled beneath the feet of the remaining warriors and women. The glow of the trees, diminished as it was, did not light the realm as it had previously in the darkest days of the year. The nights seemed so very long and dark, as though the very world were turning its back on the immortal people, showing them that their timeless empire was toppling and that the age of the younger, briefer Aftercomers had arrived at last.

But Celeborn had no intention of leaving the Hither Lands. He had no intention of sailing to the golden paradise of Aman, that far-off land full of opulence and strangeness. He was a prince of Doriath, a child of the dark forests of Neldoreth and Region, and he had been born in a world without the sun and without the moon. While the younger elves—those who had never known anything but the ever-golden spring of Lothlórien—were drawn away by thoughts of the evergreen beauty and splendor of Aman, Celeborn instead remembered with fondness the days when the darkened skies were lit only with stars.

When many left, he stayed behind beneath the comfortable gaze of the stars. And, at first, it seemed that the river of time was visible only in the passing of the years through cycles of light and darkness, of life and death and rebirth in the spring.

Life went on. All three of his grandchildren began to have children of their own. Imladris still stood on the west side of the Hithaeglir, though it had lost the protection of the ring Vilya and thus had lost some of its otherworldly beauty and timeless resplendence. Gondor recovered from the destruction and mayhem which had proliferated beneath the shadow of Mordor, now growing in its wealth and power through trade and alliance. The world was slowly recovering.

And then, one hundred and twenty years into the Fourth Age, Arwen came to Lothlórien with tidings of her husband’s death.

Celeborn had not known what to say to comfort his grieving granddaughter. Estel had been a mortal man. Long-lived from the remnants of the blood of Númenor, but still mortal. Yet, it seemed but the blink of an eye since the man had been born, but a few breaths since Arwen had bound herself to him in marriage and their children had been born. In the space of a fraction of Celeborn’s thousands and thousands of years, the man had been born, had lived, and had died.

Elladan and Elrohir—and their spouses—were still in the prime of their lives, still having children and building their families. But Arwen was old and wrinkled, an aged woman with silver threaded through the mane of hair once dark as the locks of Lúthien in the twilight of the world.

Though she was hardly what a human would have called _elderly_ , Arwen’s hands were still strange things in Celeborn’s palms. They had deep creases, and the veins stuck out with prominence. They matched the crow’s feet that rested at the corners of her darkened silver eyes and the deep lines that rested about her full lips.

In a matter of days, she seemed to age centuries. Faster even than did men age, she turned white in the hair and the energy in her limbs seemed to slip away. No comfort did she find in the faded beauty of the home of her grandparents. The paradise of her childhood and immortality was gone.

Like the beauty of Lothlórien, Arwen laid down upon the grass and was lost to the river of time.

And time continued to pass. So very quickly.

For ages, Celeborn and his remaining people—the remnants of Lothlórien and, eventually, Imladris—remained as a rock sitting stationary in that river. In vain, they pulled away from the constant change and evolution of the world of Men and lived quietly in the deepest parts of the forests. They withdrew from the outside world, still trying to maintain the timelessness that embodied their spirits. Still trying to deny the flow, to remain fixed in place as the water seeped around them and smoothed their edges away gradually.

But, eventually, time could no longer be denied.

Celeborn had seen many ages of the world through his ancient eyes. He had seen the days before the sun and the moon, the days when the stars were the guiding light of the world and the immortal peoples were at the greatest heights of their power. He had seen their declining years, years when the world was gifted from the hands of the elves into the care of the children of the sun, the mortal men doomed to die.

He had seen the birth of industry. He had seen the beginning of pollution and deforestation. He had seen the loss of reverence for nature and the beginning of the leeching of the world’s resources until there was nothing left. He had seen the rise and fall of empires in terms of centuries rather than millennia. So very quickly did the might of cultures rise to its pinnacle and then collapse beneath the overflowing and raging waters of change, the unforgiving and ever-changing balance of human power and nature’s fury.

Part of the ancient prince—a creature raised in the dawn of the world to respect the natural world, giving back in return for what was taken— _hated_ the cultures of Men. The humans. He wanted nothing to do with them, and pulled his people further and further back as the mortals encroached further and further upon the wilds.

When next his people had been discovered by humans, there were no memories of the elves. These men did not even realize that the peoples living their simple life in the forest were not actually of the same species. And, no longer able to hide from the modern world as all the land was explored and all the resources taken and consumed, the elves assimilated themselves into the human society.

Before immortal eyes, the world spiraled on by. And even those who sought to remain apart from the ever-changing flow were finally swept away as the society of humans advanced to an extent beyond which it had ever managed before. Until technology had reached a point where it could battle against the natural defense of disease and proliferate the human race to monstrous populations as the natural limitations of food resources were circumvented through the swiftness and ease of transportation.

And Celeborn had to yield finally to the river of time or vanish into nothingness. Conform into the new reality of the world or fade away and be forgotten entirely.

Though part of his spirit wept and writhed in horror, he joined the world of men and left behind any and all timelessness. There was no more space in the world untouched. There was nowhere left to hide.

But there was some comfort to be had in the wake of such seemingly insurmountable force. After all, the humans were no more immune to the change brought by time than their immortal counterparts. This massive world empire—this wasteful and destructive network of trade and consumption and trade and consumption—it would run dry in the blink of his immortal gaze. What were centuries to such an ancient creature as he? What were millennia?

He could be patient. He could wait.

Eventually, this empire would topple into oblivion. As would the next and the next.

Because, though time ever brought change to the world, the river was not powered by the turning wheel of the culture of men. Rather, in the end, it was powered by the might of the natural world. And nature would take back what was taken from her. Yavanna’s wrath would be terrible, but her grace in its wake would be as a soothing hand stroking over the weary soul.

Celeborn had learned that better times would always come. Change would make it so.

He could wait.


	355. Sublime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor meets Annatar for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 10, 2016. 
> 
> Part of anything related to Sauron/Celebrimbor. Basically just internal thoughts coupled with a tiny bit of dialogue and flirting. Surprisingly light for something that has Sauron making an appearance.
> 
> Warning: Some sexual context but no outright sex. Flirting.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Annatar = Sauron  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

When Celebrimbor first laid eyes upon Annatar, he was stricken by the pure, intrinsic natural beauty of the maia.

The first thing he noticed was the sheer height of the stranger. Among the Eldar, Celebrimbor himself was of very tall stature, second only perhaps to his uncle Maedhros and King Elu Thingol. But this being made him feel so very small and dainty, almost overshadowed and delicate in comparison. Broad of shoulder dwindling down to a tapered waist, it was easy to see muscles rippling underneath the fine material of a pale ivory tunic. A warrior’s build and stance, straight and tall and filled with unwavering confidence even in the face of an unknown place and unknown people. A smith’s arms, flexing with each movement and sculpted such that the temptation to run his fingers over such finery itched at the back of the elven smith’s mind.

Surprisingly elegant hands. They looked almost soft, lacking for calluses upon the fingertips and palms. But they were broad and long-fingered with healthy, manicured nails. Absent of burn-scars as had most smiths. But then, this was one of the maiar, and they were shape-shifting creatures by their very nature, not so easily scarred in body.

Physical perfection had once been used to describe Maedhros in the days before Angband had ruined his handsome physical form, but even the one named Well-shaped One could not compare to the planes of symmetry and the painfully gorgeous features of this creature. This body was _true_ physical perfection.

Then Celebrimbor noticed the blue eyes. He had seen thousands and thousands of blue eyes of every shade before. He had seen the darkened sapphire common in the Vanyar, the eyes that he associated immediately with Glorfindel, the warrior returned from the dead to serve the House of Eärendil, and with his sister Elenwë, the wife of Turgon. He had seen the palest shade of blue, just a few flecks of the softest powder blue shy of white-gray. Those were the eyes of the House of Fingolfin, cold and distant, sharper than broken knives of ice and more bitterly harsh than the howling winds of the farthest reaches of the North. He had seen, too, eyes the shade of the sky at midday. These, admittedly, were mostly set upon the faces of the Teleri and the Sindar. They were the eyes of Finrod Felagund, so filled with laughter and so very gentle and playful, alike in temperament to the breeze rippling through a field of tall grass and dancing through the leaves in the heights of the trees.

But these blue eyes were something unto themselves. They were all at once a combination of the darkest shade of blue that struck just as the last rays of Anor were disappearing beyond the horizon—just before the blanket of Varda’s dome turned to the pitch of black—and the brilliance of the mingling of the Two Trees cutting through that unspeakable blackness to give light unto the world. In those depths, he could see the echo of Laurelin in the faint hint of green and the shadow of Telperion in the flecks of molten silver and the twinkle of the stars in the gleam of aliveness and sharp intelligence inherent in that gaze.

For a moment, the sight stole away his breath. And Celebrimbor thought that, if ever he could craft a gem half so beautiful as those eyes, men and elves and dwarves would fight to the death over its glory for the next ten thousand years.

At first, the pull was purely aesthetic. This being—Annatar Aulendil—was a work of art beyond anything that even the best craftsman among the Eldar could ever hope to achieve. And none appreciated such beauty more so than a connoisseur of Celebrimbor’s caliber.

But then the maia turned towards him, locking their eyes and holding him affixed in time and space.

And Annatar filled the whole of the room with his presence without even trying. His liveliness seemed to warm the very air and his outer golden glow filled the darkened hall with light. His smile thickened the oxygen in Celebrimbor’s lungs and filled up his stomach with the tiny beats of butterfly wings.

The burnished silk of his hair fell and curled around his shoulders in molten waves, contrasting sharply with the alabaster smoothness of flawless skin. Crafted of the riches of the earth was his body. But his spirit was formed of condensed flame and passion. Just being so near to him, feeling the brush of all that harnessed power and energy up against his fëa, sent shudders across Celebrimbor’s body and rose the fine hairs upon the nape of his neck.

Celebrimbor was a spirit of fire, a son of the House of Fëanor, and he had grown into maturity surrounded by men who embodied that name. White-hot spirits who burned themselves into rage and wrath as a wildfire eats at dry wood, whose inner flame became a steady fuel for their stubborn pride and their will to never give in and never give up no matter the obstacles standing in their paths. All flash-fire tempers and vehement silver tongues and eyes that burned through the night like stars shining out of the darkness with unholy, untamable brilliance.

Long since had he become accustomed to the comparative coolness of other elves. It was not that their spirits were _less_ , but that they somehow were softer and gentler, containing less violent energy and more fluid, tranquil movement.

But this maia was not cool and serene. This maia _burned._ This maia _scorched._ Even Fëanor at the height of his madness, filled to the brim with the lust for blood and vengeance, his fey laughter echoing as a haunting melody across the black waters reflecting red and gold flames of sin, did not burn so _hot._

Celebrimbor wondered if his hand would blister should their naked skin meet in touch.

He knew suddenly that he desperately wanted to find out.

Like a small spark in a thicket churning into a blazing inferno, the Lord of Eregion felt the pit of his belly turn molten, filling with the unimaginable heat of the viscous blood of the earth. Never had he felt such immediate and overwhelming attraction to another being as he did to Annatar. And they had not even _spoken to one another yet!_

Then those lips, caught at just the right amount of peachy-pink fullness, parted. And a voice made from the softest of velvets issued forth, swimming around Celebrimbor’s body like the rushing of the waves of the sea, sweeping him away upon the rise and fall of its pitches, upon the trailing end of its cadences. Barely did he even register that intelligible words were being spoken in a lilting Quenya-accented Sindarin, for he could have listened without comprehension to that voice speaking for hours—for days or for years or for _centuries_ —and been perfectly content.

“Greetings, Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion,” that voice said to him, caressing him from head to toe with the utterance of his name. “I am Annatar, a servant of Aulë. I had heard that the legacy of Fëanáro, greatest of elven smiths, rested here amidst the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and I sought to bring forth my knowledge of craft as an offering in payment for his friendship.”

The maia bowed deeply, and those blue eyes looked up at the elf from beneath long, deep golden lashes. “But no one told me that his beauty surpasses that even of his forefathers.”

The tone had started soft, but had turned seductive so quickly that it left the elven smith feeling unsteady upon his feet. Heat burned its way up from the core of his body, flushing through his skin as blood surged in an unstoppable tide to the surface. Much to his mortification, his cheeks blazed hot and red at the secret satisfaction of the compliment. No matter that such words should have seemed so very inappropriate upon a first meeting. No matter that the flirting was so unsubtle that Celebrimbor’s students and friends lowered their eyes as though viewing something too raw and intimate for voyeurism, as though to preserve his modesty.

Helplessly, he smiled back at the newcomer, hopelessly charmed. “So very forward thou art, Lord Annatar. One might think that thou wert trying too hard to worm thy way into my good graces with such words.”

“Forward though such words might be,” the maia replied with a smirk that turned Celebrimbor’s knees to jelly, “But that makes them not any less true.”

And the maia approached him then without bidding, towering overhead. One of those hands, so very large and so very strong despite their apparent untouched state, so very warm and welcoming despite the cool undertone to the white flesh, grasped at the rougher smith’s fingers, stroking across the sensitive flesh of a toughened palm. And it tingled as though the sensitivity of the bare skin were amplified tenfold and again.

They did not clasp hands as did warriors greeting one another. Instead, Annatar raised Celebrimbor’s hand to his lips, breathing the softest of caresses across his knuckles.

“Well met, Lord Celebrimbor.”

This being was glorious. This strange, fiery creature was _sublime._

And all Celebrimbor’s common sense and rationality turned to vapors and floated away. He was caught in Annatar’s web, and he had no desire to escape. Beneath him, his legs nearly collapsed at the sight of that smile up close, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“Well met, Lord Annatar.”

And he was lost forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> maiar = lesser holy beings (pl)  
> Eldar = elves (lit. People of the Stars) (pl)  
> Vanyar = fair elves (pl)  
> Teleri = sea-elves (pl)  
> Sindar = grey-elves (pl)  
> Aulendil = Friend of Aulë
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Gwaith-i-Mírdain = People of the Jewel-smiths


	356. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon doesn't have one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 11, 2016.
> 
> Companion piece to Sublime and to Breakable and to the Grace Arc. Basically, though, it is the meeting of Celebrimbor and Annatar from Annatar's perspective and what comes afterwards. I guess it's sort of an exploration into the divergence between the Sauron who is heartless and the Sauron who is desperate to have Celebrimbor at his side.
> 
> Warnings: Sexual content. Not quite what I would consider to be outright erotica, but pretty damn close. Mentions rape. And torture. And sexual sadism and slavery as well (though there is none actually in the story).
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon = Annatar  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Angrod = Angamaitë

Mairon—in the guise of Annatar—had not lied when he had claimed that Celebrimbor was a unique beauty, something brilliant and special even among the greatest of the Eldar. There was a strong resemblance to Fëanáro, but the grandsire did not overshadow this child of his House. Those eyes that stared out of that heavenly face were of the richest verdant, a purer color and clearer luster than even the most pristine of emeralds, and their fire was warm with passion and welcoming rather than scalding.

They reflected so perfectly the spirit within. Just being around the smith was as languishing in a bath of lava, the heat suffusing the entirety of his being, sinking down into the deepest organs and bones of his physical raiment and seeping into the pores of his innate, metaphysical form.

Mairon had known impossible heat—the destructive kiss of Melkor’s hand upon his face, stripping away his flesh and melting away his muscles. He had known blistering hatred—the eyes of Fëanáro upon his back in the Mansions of Aulë, following him with malignant scorn born of jealousy. He had known the strength of softer embers—the steadfast and continuous flickering of Angamaitë’s inner fire despite all attempts to extinguish it through pain and suffering.

But he had never known something so safe as Celebrimbor’s warmth. It felt like an embrace, like a blanket of the softest wool draped across his shoulders to drive away all cold in the world. It felt as though he had been pulled deep into its folds and was cradled like a child, his face stroked with tenderness he had never experienced in the flesh. It felt as though he _belonged_ within the depths of that warmth, as though he fit into its edges and corners so perfectly that it could not be denied that this was where he ought be.

It felt…

It felt as close to home as Mairon had ever known.

And it was terrifying.

At first, Mairon had only known his own lust for the body of the object of his desires. Finding his way into Celebrimbor’s bed had not been a difficult task, for the elf had felt the immediate attraction in return from the very first moment that those emerald eyes had been laid upon his body and taken in his beauty. Carnal passion was not something that Mairon felt often—indeed, rarely ever at all, and before only during the affliction of torture upon another—but he had resolved to see his seduction through if only for the benefits the rapport of his lover would offer.

He had not expected to enjoy something so comparatively gentle. Where he was used to blood and screams and the jerking writhe of the body beneath his own, the smoothness of oil to ease the way and the long-drawn moans of pleasure resonating through the other body and the welcoming cradle of hips and thighs were a strange and pleasant surprise. 

The touch of the other’s hands were worshipful upon his skin rather than clawing and painful in rejection. Kisses were layered upon his throat as he drove himself into the other’s body in deep waves, conjuring an adjoining symphony of breathy cries and pleas. Fingers gripped upon the back of his shoulders in desperation to pull him closer rather than pushing and shoving at his chest to drive him away. And heels dug into his flanks to urge on his attentions rather than kicking and flailing in an attempt to escape.

It was the first time Mairon had ever considered the pleasure of the other party. The first time he had purposefully repeated touches and angles which made his lover sing his name in reverence and clench tightly about him in waves of bliss. The first time he had felt the surge of arousal in his blood when he watched another reaching the climax of their bodily pleasure.

He had never felt pleasure as strongly—as wildly and vividly, with the burst of a thousand colors behind his eyes and the echo of the Great Music in the raised pitch of his partner’s voice—as he did when he finished between Celebrimbor’s thighs.

And he had never felt such tranquility as when he laid in those strong arms afterwards. As when kisses that had been hurried and heated during coitus turned into a soft joining of lips and breaths. As when fingers had stroked through the messy tangles of his golden curls and tucked them behind a pointed ear. As when his lover had smiled upon him with the kiss-swollen bow of his mouth, both tired and glowing, eyes glistening from beyond the veil of long, dark lashes.

It was closeness for the sake of closeness. Company for mere enjoyment in another’s presence without payment or reason.

And Mairon temporarily lost himself in that spell.

(If he was honest, he never quite found his way back out of that net of enchantment.)

From the very moment he awoke the next morning—his physical raiment still deeply relaxed and buzzing with the soft echoes of his pleasure but his mind shockingly clear of the haze conjured up by Celebrimbor’s smile and the softness of his touch—Mairon knew he had a problem.

Because he was the former Lieutenant of Angband. The future Dark Lord and ruler of all of Middle-earth. A sinner of the most evil intentions. A fallen maia whose back was turned upon all that was holy. He had long ago given up on grace and on tenderness. Long ago given up believing that there was any form of salvation but for that which he created by his own hands. 

He did not belong among Ilúvatar’s Children—not the Ainur and not the Eruhíni. He did not belong with Celebrimbor.

All that he imagined he felt in the elf’s embrace—in the brush of their spirits against one another as their bodies came together in the most intimate of embraces, that feeling of welcome and belonging, that burn of affection beneath the blazing fire of lust—had to be a lie.

_A lie._

(And yet, part of him could not help but wonder how Celebrimbor could hope to offer anything but the truth when he knew not the identity of the deceiver in his midst.)

For all that he continued on, Mairon now tried to keep himself detached from the lure in each smile and word offered by his lover’s smooth, resonating voice. He tried to drive away the helpless rise of heat in his loins when he watched the graceful movements of that tall, well-muscled and lithe form bending over the forge, layered in the shadow of dancing of flames. He tried to lock up the fondness that made itself known each time he caught the awed look of wonder in his lover’s face when those eyes caught on his form entering the room.

He still laid with the elf and took pleasure in the wild and sensual way that body twisted and writhed beneath his touch. And he reminded himself that he was in control, that at any moment he could have chosen to take all that pleasure away and put pain in its place, and that the seductive lie that was the homeliness and encircling warmth of that spirit had no hold over his mind and heart.

After all, he had no heart. The true love of Mairon the Admirable was in his craft. In creation and destruction. In the works of his hands conjured from the depths of his mind. In industry and metallurgy and the entwining of the physical realm with the power of the Music.

To that, how could a mere elf compare?

(And yet, that traitorous part of him often whispered, were not the Children the culmination of all of the good and evil, all of the dissonance and consonance and complexity and simplicity of the Great Music combined?)

As Annatar, he continued to smile and press molten kisses unto familiar, sweet lips until they parted beneath his forceful insistence. He continued to whisper of heated fantasies into gracefully pointed ears if only to see the rise of blood into high and noble cheeks. He continued to run his hands down the long curve of that back until Celebrimbor shuddered and turned ’round and lifted that glorious face to offer the slender line of his throat.

He continued to pass on the secrets of his craft, watching as his lover created the glorious tools of his own destruction and the destruction of all of the free peoples of Middle-earth. And he felt no guilt in his spirit at his deception, for Celebrimbor—in all his great power and his great beauty, the culmination of all the perfection and imperfection of the Great Music—was nothing to him except a means to an end. Nothing but one more step forward in his great plan.

(And his mind murmured that he could delude himself all he liked, but that the tightness in the back of his throat whenever he thought of Celebrimbor’s death was proof of his own lies.)

He allowed the elf to bind their spirits together. Allowed them to be joined in the way of the marriage of the Eldar. And he basked arrogantly in the bubbling heat of Celebrimbor’s affection, in the embraces in the morning and in the greeting kisses when they crossed paths in the daylight and in the secret smiles that they exchanged in the falling of the evening into darkness. He continued to enjoy the pleasure he found in their shared bed, in the carnal bliss and in the aftermath where they curled together with their fingers tangled and their legs entwined beneath a cover of serenity and silken sheets.

There was no reason to forgo such benefits whilst they lasted.

(Never mind that the thought of losing all these things—these precious gifts—left part of him feeling cold and barren.)

And time was growing short. Soon, the One Ring would be complete. Soon, his power in Middle-earth would be consolidated. Soon, all would bow before him or die.

And it came eventually into his mind that, perhaps, he could keep what he had with Celebrimbor. That—be it by the elf’s will or no—he could have his lover as his mate or as his slave, a permanent fixture within his bedchambers or perhaps even as an ornament of beauty and symbol of his power ever-resting at his side beneath the public eye.

Secretly, he had imagined Celebrimbor draped in black, the fabric emblazoned with the symbol of his empire proudly in gold and red, that tall form standing straight and proud at the right of his throne. A loyal and faithful servant.

(Secretly, he imagined having Celebrimbor sitting at his side in a second throne of obsidian and iron and emerald gems. And smiling at him still with those warm green eyes and that enfolding inner fire despite knowing the truth of his horrible deeds and his tainted spirit. Loving him still, despite knowing the truth of his evil.)

And Mairon planned. He lusted and he desired. He eagerly awaited the fruits of his labors, hungry for the day when all bowed before his feet in supplication and terror. Burning with longing for the sight of his lover murmuring his true name in worship against his ear.

But he did not love.

He had no heart with which to love.

(So he told himself in the dark of night when he stroked locks of woven obsidian back from a beloved face. So he told himself when he stroked the softness of lips parted in sleep.

So he told himself when he doubted.

And yet he knew it to be false in the end. For Celebrimbor had captured what was left of his heart. The parts of him that had escaped torment and corruption and despair. The part of him that still remembered how to feel joy.

And Mairon doubted that it would ever be reclaimed.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eldar = Elves (lit. People of the Stars)  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> Eruhíni = Children of God (pl)


	357. Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the illusion of mortality being immortality. And on the illusion of immortality being mortality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 12, 2016.
> 
> Basically, this is me being semi-conscious and writing the first thing that came to mind with the prompt. Some more Valarin strangeness. But, in this case, I think it's the strangeness of all things rather than just the Valar. Some exploration of Námo and Irmo, though.
> 
> Warnings: Tolkien belief system. Potential religious context.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Mandos = Námo  
> Lórien = Irmo  
> Morgoth = Melkor

There are some things which exist outside of the realm of time.

The Ainur were amongst these things. Though they could temporarily envelope themselves within a material fold, building from the ground up the complex inner workings of a raiment that mimicked a physical body, their natural and true forms were metaphysical. Their very creation had happened before time had begun ticking away, and they were not defined by its ravages.

Mortal creatures, on the other hand, were subject to its cruelty and wrath.

It had come as a shock, at first, that beauty in the realm of Eä was not timeless. Flowers bloomed into glorious and delicate spreads of the most vibrant colors and the most enticing scents, but they quickly withered away and died with the passing of the seasons and the cooling of the weather. Plants grew from the soil in brilliant and infinitely varied shades of green, the shapes of their leaves each a different work of art unto itself. But all too quickly did these leaves turn golden and scarlet upon the limbs of their host plant—a strange and foreboding form of beauty in their waxing to be found—before they fell away and grew dry and brown and crackled beneath the feet.

Animals, too, were strange to the Ainur. The concept of birth and youth had been new to ageless beings who had never known anything but their current incarnations. The immortal beings were fascinated by the smaller, cuter miniatures that huddled beside their adult guardians, miniatures which slowly grew and transformed into the guardians and then themselves produced more miniatures. There had never been such a thing as a baby ainu, for they had been conceived with their minds infantile but their essence complete and coherent, and they could not help but wonder at the way time cultivated these creatures of flesh and blood from a state of helpless infanthood to the vitality of a fully grown and realized being.

The concept of death, too, was new. For creatures as fleeting as rabbits and birds were born, grew, procreated and died so quickly that it was hard to understand how they could have existed at all. Time swept them away like a flash of light too fast to see properly, only an afterimage in its wake quickly replaced by the next generation. Even things that lived longer—beings such as trees which could last for hundreds or thousands of years—still eventually came to a close and disappeared into time.

The Children of Ilúvatar seemed no different.

To one focused on physical matters of the world, the Firstborn were both of time and not of time. They procreated as did animals, birthing their youth and caring for them into adulthood. Small elves grew and matured over time into their fully-realized potential, changing from something cute and enthralling and endlessly curious into something beautiful and graceful and flawed. Once they reached adulthood, however, they ceased to age.

It was only upon finer examination that one might still conclude that these pseudo-immortal beings were under the influence of time. The Ainur were shape-shifters, and no physical form of memory—no tangible reminder of the past—could be imbued into their flesh. They could not maintain piercings nor could they scar from physical injury nor could they stain their skin with ink. Briefly only did such altercations remain; but the moment their physical form was shifted—blasted apart into billions of atoms and pieced back from the very foundation to together to form something anew—they lost scars and marks that were permanent upon the flesh of the Firstborn.

Elven smiths had burns marring their hands. Artisans developed calluses from work. Shipbuilders had scars from splinters. Those who carved wood or pearl or shell often had small cuts littering their fingers. And those who suffered from injury sometimes had even greater decorations of scar tissue staining their skin or embedded into their muscles and bones.

And, the Ainur slowly began to realize, elves still showed signs of advancing age. After a certain number of millennia, their faces seemed a little less youthful. Their bodies lost none of their limberness and flexibility and speed—not yet, in any case—but one could count their years in the millions of flecks of memory dappled in their endless eyes alike to the stars swirling across the night sky. Even these supposedly immortal creatures were not static.

And they could die. As Míriel Serindë had proven, elves were not infallible. Were it not for the care taken by the maidens of the Gardens of Lórien in the keeping of her body, Míriel’s mortal cage would long ago have rotted away into bone and mulch. Those bodies of the Quendi could last for countless millennia alive, but in the end they were of the same make as flowers and leaves and rabbits and birds. In the end, they would perish.

And, later, this was further proven by the thralls of Angband who withered and faded beneath the tortures their bodies endured until their mortal cage lost all beauty and vibrancy, growing withered and gray and dead before falling apart entirely at the seams. It might take time tens of thousands of years to age an elf born beneath the light of the stars to Cuiviénen, but it took less than a century of Melkor’s wicked ways to melt away that impermanent cage into nothingness, revealing the true fragility that was hidden by the façade of immortality.

Compared with the seemingly immortal Firstborn, the Quendi, the Aftercomers were even swifter to grow into their prime and swifter to decline into the gray of old age. They did not live “forever” like their older “siblings”.

The Ainur knew of death and age. It was something that they had seen in animals before. But they had never imagined they might see it in the faces of the Eruhíni. They had never imagined they might see faces grow weathered with years, skin becoming stretched and wrinkled over muscle which slowly deteriorated until it left but a stooped form of white and gray in its wake. Nor had they ever imagined that it could happen so _fast_ —in _less than a century_ , a single human would be born, would grow and start a family of their own, would age and then, finally, would die an antique and pale thing with gnarled hands and raspy voice as broken in body as any tormented thrall of Angband—that it seemed but a tiny moment in the annals of time before the fleeting creature was gone forever. Carried away by death, their energy returned to the earth and their atoms and molecules fell apart to be used anew by the soil which breathed them into its bosom.

Even more so than the Firstborn, the Aftercomers were subject to time. Were _consumed_ by time, disappearing into its folds to be lost.

But there were some things which existed outside the realm of time. 

Some Ainur had, in the beginning, dealt in the purely physical matters of the world. In earth and water and airs and fire. In light and darkness and the material make of living things. But there were a small number who had dealt in matters that transcended such physicality. 

The Fëanturi were two such creatures.

Two sides of a coin were they—Námo and Irmo. And they were creatures whose voices had ever sung outside the realms of time. Never had their melodies or harmonies been constrained by the strictness of meter or tempo, though they had still woven seamlessly with the greater whole driven by the throbbing heartbeat of the world. Never had they been rushed or driven on by the frantic pacing of their siblings, choosing instead to exist beyond such boundaries. For there were some things that would not come to a conclusion and vanish into the netherworld of the universe as did the bodies of dead things absorbed back into nature to be recycled again.

The Fëanturi were creatures who sang of the Soul.

And, though the soul might be subject to the influence of evil from without and from within—though it could be corrupted and twisted and changed—it was not the same sort of aging. It was not finite. It was not material. A soul which was tormented and darkened might still have the capacity to be healed and be reborn anew. It might be wounded, but its scars could be washed away where afflictions of mortal injury would always remain unhealed.

One might have suggested that a soul was not scarred or marked by their experiences at all. Rather, it absorbed experiences into its whole and became something new. Layer upon layer of complexity built upon that which had been before and yet still rested underneath. An amalgamation of experience and suffering and healing growing ever more beautiful in the wake of destruction. Like a pearl in the bed of the cosmic oyster. 

It was all at once such a delicate jewel. And, yet, in some ways it was indestructible. In some ways, it transcended even the seeming perfection of the Ainur.

It was the part of the Children which so closely resembled the otherworldly and angelic brethren as to nearly be identical in its make. The same supernova of energy and heat and strange substance coalesced into the resplendence of a million stars and condensed into something which fit into the glove of a mortal cage with such natural ease. The souls of these lesser beings perhaps were weaker in pure energy than that of the ancient beings who had Sung the realm of Being into existence, but they were a million times more complex. A culmination of all that was within the Ainulindalë and more, they were a prism that split and reflected strands of color into such a fine kaleidoscope of unique flavor that it rested upon the tongue more heady and full than rich wine.

Bodies could be broken and destroyed. Physical forms could be burned away never to return. But even the mortal man—the youngest unborn child dead in its mother’s womb—had this innate spark within their breast. Even when their lives were cut short and entropy reclaimed their bodies back into the nature chaos of the universe, some part of that which had been _still was_ in this strange form that could not be touched by such a thing as time.

For the Quendi, the Fëanturi were tasked with the guardianship and healing of these strange things called souls—fëar in the tongue of Quenya—which never left the planes of the physical realm. And, within the realms of Mandos and Lórien, there was no need for time. There was as much or as little time as was needed for purgatory and healing. 

For Men, souls traveled beyond the outer edges of the world and entered into the Timeless Halls to be with their creator—the One—in a world where such a thing as time was moot and impotent. They were beyond all influence of the material world then and ever-more.

In a way, the wise ainu might come to realize, all of the Children of Ilúvatar—from the tiniest and most innocent of unborn babes to the harshest and blackest of tainted specters—were every bit as immortal as the Ainur who stood watch over them in the dawning of time. Their bodies would disappear in the constant cycle of life, death and rebirth that governed and dominated the mortal plane of existence, their death giving the illusion of a finite conclusion to the short span of time that was their life. But even when the world finally came to its close all was Ended—even when time itself was unwoven and space crumbled into a memory of a construct by which all had been defined before its immateriality was fully realized—the Children would still remain.

And their souls would join the Ainur at the feet of their creator and Father. And they would all Sing together in a harmony greater than anything even the Ainulindalë could have hoped to have birthed. And the Fëanturi—one or the other or both at once together in their like-mindedness—might have wondered if such a thing as meter would exist for even those who had defined their very beings by the count of time.

They wondered if, perhaps, the next world Sung into Being by the heavenly choir of Ainur and Eruhíni would be a strange reality indeed, one where time was immaterial. A heaven or a paradise where all things were made of the matter of the soul and lived on forever in the hearts of all who beheld their beauty.

There was no answer to these questions yet. But there was time yet to spare for wondering. In the end, they had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> ainu = holy being (s)  
> Eä = Realm of Being (lit. Be!)  
> Quendi = the Elves (pl)  
> Cuiviénen = Waters of Awakening  
> Eruhíni = Children of God (pl)  
> Fëanturi = Masters of Spirits (pl)  
> fëar = spirits (or souls) (pl)


	358. Tear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor is not dealing well with Glorfindel's death. Not well at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 13, 2016.
> 
> This is a companion and follow-up piece to Give. I actually sense that this arc is developing plot. Kind of scary, that. We'll have to see if it actually goes anywhere. Anyway, basically just me being my normal depressing self. No surprises there.
> 
> Once more, a reminder that Erestor is a Maglorion in this AU. Just so it doesn't catch anyone by surprise. I also decided to put everyone's names in Sindarin. Partially out of laziness, but also because I think Sindarin (or a Sindarin-Quenya mix) would have been spoken colloquially in Gondolin, so Erestor--who likely wasn't close to any of Fingolfin's people before the incident with the burning ships at Losgar--would have learned everyone's name in Sindarin and would have spoken to them and addressed them in Sindarin. For the ease of reading, I have therefore made the Fëanorion names also in Sindarin, though I think Erestor would likely think of his uncles using their Quenya father-names.

Glorfindel’s absence was a tear straight down the center of Erestor’s world.

One would have thought he would be used to loss and horror. To despair and heartbreak. To betrayal and bloodshed and horror. After all, Erestor was a son of a cursed people. One of the Dispossessed. A son of the House of Fëanor. A Kinslayer.

One would have thought he would remember the sinking feeling of mixed guilt and resentment weighting his stomach down to his toes at the way Celebrimbor had spat upon their family and turned his back on their cause. One would have thought he would remember the stabbing, gut-wrenching, twisting pain of being abandoned by his own older brother without so much as a word or a reassurance, leaving him to face the horror of watching the Second Kinslaying unfold alone.

One would have thought that he would remember how his own heart trembled seeing the beloved faces of his father and surviving uncles decorated in war-paint of blood. The wane dread on his father’s features. The blank stare of Amrod’s sightless eyes. The surrender and fatigue on Maedhros’ face. One would have thought that he would remember the shocking jolt to his heart when he realized that the remaining three of the six brothers who had all withstood the trials of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and survived now lay dead and cold as stone, their bodies ultimately left to rot without proper burial or cremation.

One would have thought that he would remember the fear of abandoning all he knew, too sickened to stay knowing the bloodshed would never end. Of fleeing the only home he could recall and the only people he had trusted—who had broken his trust and left him shattered in the wake of their wickedness and terrifying faces and empty words—to a place of strangers. Of changing his own name and leaving behind all that he had been.

One would have thought that Erestor would have grown accustomed to tearing down his own world and beginning anew, of rising from where he knelt among the ashes of all he held dear in order to keep moving and keep striving and keep fighting for some small measure of happiness.

But now he was so tired. _So tired._

It was not the walking. It _could not_ be the walking. For Erestor had known the march to war. He had known long hours under the heat of the blazing son or the chill of frost and snow. He had marched for days on end, his body unceasingly ready at the peak of vitality, trembling with nervous readiness for battle.

Yet now, as the refugees of Gondolin trudged down the River Sirion towards the sea—as they were assailed on all sides by enemies, living in terror of each night and scrambling to escape further and further from the shattered safety of the Echoriath to the perceived sanctuary of the Havens of Sirion to the south—Erestor simply felt _tired._ More than anything, he just wanted to lie down and close his eyes and sleep. And sleep and _sleep…_

Listlessly, he sat and stared off into the darkness at night. Food held no interest to his turned stomach, for it seemed to have no taste upon his tongue and sit heavy and rotten in his belly. His lips tingled and burned with the echo of a last kiss, his palate still stained with the metallic taste of blood and the heady flavor of his mate all mixed together as one.

The look in those blue eyes haunted his waking moments and dominated his nightmares. The shape of lips bending into the words _“Melinyetyë”_ as their hands were pulled apart. The sight of golden hair blown back by unholy, fiery wind as a demon arose from the abyss in curls of shadow and flame.

That was the last time he had seen Glorfindel alive. 

The next time he beheld his beloved, that body was scarred by whips of fire torn through cloth and flesh. It was broken and battered from the tumble to the sharp rocks at the bottom of the great precipice of Cirith Thoronath. The sight of a desperate and determined sky overlaid with the flat, glassy sheen of death. The splatter of blood marring the rosy softness of lips that so often had whispered his name. The unnatural bend of the arms that had held him close and safe from the cold darkness of the night.

The hole where he reached out with his fëa, searching for the feeling of his lover’s vibrant summer-sun warmth, and felt nothing but empty blackness. The shattered train of thought in the back of his mind where always that beloved voice had whispered words of comfort now silent in the wake of its vanishing.

The whole world was warped and twisted before his very eyes. Everything was gray in despair or black with death. The shadow of a memory of brief happiness—of his short and beloved years in Gondolin where the people had become his home and the city had become his refuge—only serving to make the agony more intense and the hopelessness more potent.

But Erestor had no energy for tears. He had shed them only upon seeing the ruin of his lover, watering the cairn of his beloved with his grief—the proof of his love and his longing.

Now he did not sleep except when such exhaustion overcame his body as to drive him into the realm of dreams against his will, tormenting him with the bitter remembrance of bliss slipped through his fingers, turned into horror and fire and broken bones. Now he did not talk except when directly addressed, and only did the minimum number of necessary words depart his lips, for he had no desire to share his thoughts nor seek pity from others. Now, he did not eat except when food was placed in his hand and he was ordered to consume, for the smell of it made his throat tight and the sight of it left his tongue feeling swollen and gross in his mouth. 

_“Please eat,”_ Idril would beg in her silvered voice, the timbre of bells ringing with her worry and her pity. And he would feel her words like needles. _“Please. We worry for thee, Erestor. Please eat.”_

Or Egalmoth, with his stern face and his ancient eyes which had seen too much death and carried too much burden. _“Glorfindel would not want thee to starve thyself, nor to live in despair. The least thou couldst do is honor his wishes!”_ the ancient elf would chastise. And Erestor would feel a brief flash of resentment bloom in his chest before the wilting feeling of guilt.

He would nibble at his ration if only because he knew those words to be true. And then he would feel sick and gag a bit in the back of his throat. Quickly, he would hand the rest off to one of the orphaned elflings.

They, at least, had something left to live for.

Erestor had nothing. All that he had loved was toppled and destroyed beyond repair, leaving him with only those who cared for him out of pity or burden. All the happiness with which he had been blessed was now a curse, serving only as a taunt and a device of torture to further rip open his mind. All the memories that he thought he would cherish now branded his spirit as harshly and deeply and permanently as had the whips of the Balrog branded the skin of his mate.

Nothing could fill the empty space where Glorfindel should have been. _Nothing._ The tear could not be mended nor forgotten, for it slanted across Erestor’s vision and ripped through his body and slashed across his fëa and tore through his mind and left everything shredded around the edges.

The world was a desolate place. There was pain. And there was despair. And there was fatigue.

 _“Thou wilt feel happiness again someday,”_ his princess would say to him, her hand stroking the slant of his shoulder in comfort he neither asked for nor desired but did not push away. _“Thou hast to be strong. For Glorfindel. Thou hast to endure.”_

 _Easily said for one who did not lose her mate in the Fall_ , he wanted to reply, though he always kept silent. _Easily said for someone who still has comfort to fuel her body in the wake of grief and loss._

But there was no energy left in his breast even for scorn. The stifling blackness where Glorfindel’s light should have been was now lying over his inner flame, choking out the one-brilliant burning center until it sputtered and flickered, strangled.

He did not know if he could be strong enough to endure this gaping hole in himself. The divide where he had once been One. Now two again.

Raw and open and sore and bleeding and festering and _rotting…_

 _“It will heal,”_ Idril had said. _“Give it time, meldonya. Give it time.”_

Erestor did not think even time had the capacity to stitch his world back together.

Day by day, the urge to lie down where he stood and rest grew stronger and stronger. Day by day, the thoughts of Glorfindel’s dead eyes overshadowed more and more of his waking moments. Day by day, he reached out and felt nothing, and the despair washed over him as acid anew with each failure.

Day by day, he died a little more inside. And his body grew a little thinner. And his face grew a little paler. And his eyes grew a little duller.

The tear widened.

And Erestor sat and stared up at the sky when night fell over camp and all was quiet. He stared up at the cold and distant stars. At the glimmering lights of hundred thousand unanswered prayers dappling the emptiness of the darkest night.

And he silently asked Elbereth if it would ever cease to widen. If it would ever stop _hurting so much._

And there was no reply from the white lights above. There never was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Melinyetyë = I love you (mel + -nyë + -tyë)  
> fëa = spirit (s)  
> meldonya = my friend (meldo + -nya)


	359. Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hardest decisions in life are often the most important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 14, 2016.
> 
> So I watched BotFA again today. Despite the sometimes horrible CG, the terrible inaccuracies, the engineered backstories and the physics-defying feats of battle, I always find myself captivated anyway. As a result, today's fic is 100% pure Hobbit fanfiction.
> 
> Warnings: Madness. Contemplation of death in various ways. Fear of drowning. Fear of war. Betrayal.

Bilbo had thought he knew pain.

He knew the stab of rocks into the soles of his rough-skinned feet as he walked for days and days on end. The bite of cold upon his toes, tiny teeth locked into flesh, stinging and burning as it struggled to freeze him still. The feel of hunger, the gnawing hollowness in the pit of the belly when food was short on the road. The lick of flame at his tail, singing his clothes and shriveling the ends of his golden curls as it made to devour him alive.

He had thought he knew fear as well. 

He knew the horror of the knowledge that he might be cut open and eaten alive by the enemy, lost forever in the depths of the Misty Mountains or the tangled and rotting decay of Mirkwood. The agony of sitting terrified and alone in the dark with no one to speak with and no one to turn to, desperately searching for signs of his friends in the twisting and turning labyrinths of the Elvenking’s Halls. The heart-stopped bursts of adrenaline-fueled strength as they made their escape into the writhing depths of the river’s rapids, sucked away upon the white crests and bashed against the rocks in the chaos and violence. The feeling of staring down into the swirls of blue and gray fading into blackness and knowing that, if the slippery edge of the wood was washed from between his fingers, he would never make it back to dry land.

But he knew now that those things were nothing. They were mere itches, little irritants vying for his attention but ultimately beneath his notice. They masqueraded as pain and as fear, trying to set him astray and lead his heart into the pale doppelganger of despair.

_They were nothing._

Nothing compared with _this._

For now, within the safety of the great fortress of Erebor—surrounded by the echoes of death in the shape of dead bodies long since rotted away, by the destruction of once-beautiful halls turned now to rubble in the wake of the dragon, and by the marring scars of flame that scorched across the walls and floors in a film of ash and dust that seemed to deep a hue to ever wash away—he sat alone upon the battlements. Beneath his eyes, out in the sunlight of the waning day, stretched the desolation between the mountain and the ruins of Dale. Beyond that, the lake upon which rested the remains of Laketown, the tomb of Smaug the Terrible, where smoke still rose in deep gray swirls and clouds from the smoldering of the attack.

What were those frivolous pains and fears in comparison with the despair that ate at his breast now? What were those in comparison to the reality that lay before his eyes now?

Now that the adventure was done and the quest complete—Erebor reclaimed in the name of her exiled King—there was so much more to fear than merely being killed or being eaten or being lost or being burned. So much more to fear. From without and from within.

Bilbo feared war. He feared the armies that rested upon the fortified doorstep of the mountain. He feared not losing his own life—though he did not wish to die—but rather feared for the lives of his friends who had grown so very dear to his heart. It was the fourteen of them against hundreds—maybe thousands. _Fourteen._

The thought of any one of them dying… The thought of poor old Balin, who looked so very tired in these dark days, and of steadfast and loyal Dwalin, who would give his life so easily… or of Bofur, who was usually so cheerful and vibrant now wilted and strained, and Bombur, who had a large family waiting for his return, or for Bifur, who had always been so very kind to Bilbo despite his oddness… or young and shy Ori, who should have been pursuing his dreams and craft rather than dying here before his time, and his brother Dori, who always had the best intentions at heart despite his nagging, and Nori, who was always looking out for everyone while pretending to be heartless… or Óin, who was gruff and stern but who would give his life in exchange for any of their in a heartbeat, and Glóin, who waxed poetic about his wife and young boy so often that Bilbo could recite his stories by memory… or Fíli and Kíli, who would follow their uncle into death at the drop of a coin because their souls were so loyal and true, who deserved so much better than an early death at the hands of the madness of their uncle…

The thought of _Thorin…_

The thought of any of them _dying…_

Bilbo felt his throat close up, his eyes burning sharply with tears. His fear was strong, a living creature writhing within the depths of his spirit, eating away at the rational thoughts in his mind until panic grew as a gray fuzz clouding the edges of his vision. He was left without options, without any other hope but a mad scheme hatched in the middle of the darkest nights.

He had tried talking to Thorin. He had tried reason. He had tried gentle appeal. He had tried playing to the King’s honor and pride, to his guilt and conscience, to his duty and responsibility, to his compassion and love…

He had tried _so hard…_

And all he could see was the unholy gleam in those eyes, a rainbow reflection of glistening white light flashing against endless mountains of burning gold. All he could hear was the scoff, the dismissal in that deep, resonating voice, as Thorin dismissed his own mercy and compassion in the wake of greed and madness.

And he could see were those fingers now encrusted in jewels and that brow now circled with the heavy crown of the King Under the Mountain. Thorin looked every bit the King that he should have been, but his eyes were distant and glazed and his face was wane and pale with fatigue. Like a ghost of his previous majesty and tragic beauty.

It was wrong. All of it was _wrong._

When had things begun to spiral so far out of control?

The hobbit reached into the folds of his jacket, tickling his hands across the heated surface of stone and facet. He could see the flash of light glowing upon his own skin for but a moment before he withdrew again. The fire underneath that resplendent façade still sizzled and lapped at his fingertips like a welcoming voice and a coaxing touch. Seductive and tantalizing. Trying to lure him in with its pure and holy sheen. Calling with a soft and deep voice.

Yet, even touching the Arkenstone made him feel sick. Thorin loved this stone more than his honor and pride. More than his hopes and dreams. More than his people and his friends. More than his nephews.

More than Bilbo.

More than _life._

And, though it made his heart ache to even think of putting Thorin in such a horrible position, the thought came into his mind in the night that, perhaps, Thorin loved this stone more than _gold._

Looking out across the open, rocky plains towards the camps of elves and men, Bilbo’s mind wandered in constant circles of nervousness and emerging, traitorous hope as a star resting upon the horizon of the new-fallen night sky. Though it stunk of betrayal and heartbreak to think of what he must do, Bilbo loved Thorin more than he loved having Thorin’s friendship and respect. Enough to do the very thing which he knew Thorin would never forgive.

Enough to do what needed to be done to save them all.

Biting his lip until it bled, the hobbit resisted the urge to reach into his coat and touch the stone again. _There is no other way_ , he reminded himself again for the thousandth time. _If I can bring us all through this alive… if I can prevent further bloodshed..._

_If I can make certain that Thorin lives… That_ all of them _live…_

_It is worth the sacrifice._

The fear was rattling and screaming at the prison bars of his ribs, pounding, pounding, pounding at the locked door. The pain was the throb of his bitten lip and the threatening burn at the corners of his eyes and the taut knot in the back of his throat. The despair was the heaviness of his heart in his chest, weighted down with the consequences of his actions, pulling his spirit along with it down and down and down…

_Tonight_ , he decided. _Tonight…_

Then maybe he could halt the downward spiral towards destruction. Maybe then they would all live to see the next dawn and the next.

Maybe then he could go back to the Shire—to his books and his armchair and his garden and his full belly—and he could be content. Never happy. Never complete. Never the Bilbo Baggins he had been before he had entangled himself in such peril and such love and such pitiless fate. Too heartbroken. Too alone.

But content. He could be content.

_I will bring us through this alive. Even if it kills me._

And he pulled away from the battlements, his fate decided. And he left behind a rope.


	360. Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Argon starts to realize that he's on his own in his struggle to become the High King his people need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 15, 2016.
> 
> Continuation of the Pretend Arc, therefore also closely related to Flat and Mountain. This is also actually pretty closely related to Darkness, just in case the reader wants to catch some of the less obvious references scattered throughout.
> 
> Warnings: Secret identity. Disfunctional family. Crisis of faith.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Amrod and Amras = Ambarussar

Arakáno had looked up to others all his life.

In the long-past days of innocence and the golden summer years of Valinor, he had had countless male role models to emulate. Uncles and cousins and brothers in excess. And his grandfather. And his _father._

Now, Arakáno has no role models. Now, he _is_ the role model.

It is a strange thing to look in the mirror and see himself staring back from someone else’s face, someone much older and much wiser. Someone whose reputation rests now heavily upon his shoulders whose crown rests heavily where it encircles his brow, both weighty for their unspoken meaning. It is a strange thing to know that people see that face staring back and they think of wisdom and security and leadership rather than young stupidity. To know that the people see those pale blue eyes and take heart from their frigid strength, and that they see the circlet upon that brow and find comfort beneath its banner.

It is a strange thing to realize that all those he used to look up to now were looking towards _him._ Young and old. Noble and common. From the lowest blushing stable-boy pleased at his praise to the councilor with the oldest starlit eyes graciously accepting his compliments.

It was all strange.

The first time Findekáno came to him for advice, Arakáno wondered if his older brother— _thy eldest son_ , his mind reminded him, _thy eldest son_ —had gone completely mad. After all, Findekáno _knew_ that he was not Nolofinwë. Findekáno had _been there_ when their father had taken those last blood-stained breaths and expired. It had been Findekáno’s very hands which had braided the circlet of the High Prince into Arakáno’s hair on that day, which had thrust into his palms the hilt of his father’s blood-slickened sword and told him that no one must ever know what had happened.

Yet there he had been, knocking hesitantly on the study door. Shuffling in like a child preparing for a scolding. So very unlike the Findekáno that Arakáno thought he knew.

Arakáno was used to the confident Findekáno. To the vibrantly lively Findekáno. To the older brother who pulled him away from his work when he studied too long, who taught him the power of good cheer and well-intentioned pranks. To the older brother who showed him the merits of spending a night in the cups every once in a while to lessen the burden of family duty and find relief from the constant build of tension. To the older brother who taught him how to climb a tree and how to ride a horse and how to wield a bow and how to sneak back into the house at night to avoid getting caught making mischief.

He was not used to the furrow of those brows steeply upwards, caught somewhere between worry and nerves. He was not used to the change in stance, the diffident pose and rigidness of the spine. He was not used to the flicker of those pale gray eyes, the way they refused to fully meet his gaze no matter how hard he stared.

He was not used to such… weakness. The man he had looked up to as a boy would never have wavered like this before anyone—or so he had imagined as a naïve child before the reality of the world was ingloriously thrust upon him—and would never have so openly displayed worry and concern and uncertainty.

Findekáno had been the most certain, least hesitant, bravest and most confident individual he had known. Someone to be admired. Someone to look up to as an example.

How strange it was when the tables were turned.

For Arakáno quickly realized that Findekáno was seeking approval. _From him._

That the words “I am uncertain what path I should take from here, Atar” were a plea for guidance. That the words “I did not realize that running a kingdom could be so very complicated” were an attempt to gain advice from a more experienced party. That the words “Dost thou think I made the correct choice?” were those of a son looking into his father’s eyes expecting to receive scorn for foolish decisions.

Had Findekáno forgotten who he _really was?_ Or rather, did Findekáno simply _not want to remember?_

In either case, Arakáno was left with little choice but to play along. As if he knew better how to manage great kingdoms in foreign lands. As if he had more experience juggling his duties to the state and to the people with his personal life and private agenda. As if he knew better how to soothe the sore tempers of his allies and his councilors, searching for the way which would appease all parties.

Arakáno was no politician. He was not even raised and educated as an heir. He was the third son of a second son, hardly likely to ever come into a position of real power, especially when their race was supposedly immortal.

Once, he would have gone to Nelyafinwë with questions of negotiation. The silver-tongued firstborn son of the Crown Prince Fëanáro was a master in the field of politics. As a playmate of the youngest sons of Fëanáro and common guest in the household of his half-cousins—the Ambarussar were just a few weeks his youngers and thy had been clumped together for all of their childhoods—he knew better than most outside the tightly-knit House of Fëanáro that Nelyafinwë was also a terrible mother-hen, a worrywart who liked to take care of everyone else. He knew that Fëanáro’s eldest son would have been all too eager to share his skills and wisdom in such matters with his younger cousin.

Now, Arakáno could not just waltz up to his cousin—his cousin who had abdicated the throne and given it to him!—asking for advice. If the Nelyafinwë of now was even the same man as he had been before—and Arakáno had his doubts, for he knew how tragedy and shock could change a man all too well—he still could never have risked lowering himself by admitting that he was out of his depth.

Because Nolofinwë would not have been out of his depth. Nolofinwë had been nearly as prolific in the circles of Court as had been Nelyafinwë and Fëanáro.

Nolofinwë would have known what to say. Nolofinwë would have known how to sooth Findekáno.

But Nolofinwë was dead. There was just Arakáno now. A pale imitation. A _pretender._

But it would have to be enough.

It would have to be enough that he nodded along to Findekáno’s litany of words, to his long-winded explanations in defense of his actions and to his complaints about the difficulties of managing a kingdom of people who did not always agree. It would have to be enough that he listened to his brother’s— _his son’s_ —questions and gave answers to the best of abilities, hoping that his meager wisdom was enough to steer them true in their quest to do right by their people.

It would have to be enough that he tried to soften the façade he wore like a mask, to remove some of the ever-present ice that lingered in his pale eyes and froze in place the stern lines of his face. That he tried to be a little more of the supportive and guiding father than Findekáno actually needed and a little less the ice-cold High King whose wisdom was necessary but whose words were bitterly chilled.

It must have been enough, because his words and assurances soothed away the crease between his brother’s— _his son’s_ —brows, leaving the older— _younger_ —elf more relaxed in body and in spirit. It must have been enough, because the tap of his brow against his brother’s— _his son’s_ —made Findekáno light up as though he had been given the greatest of gifts, his father’s approval.

Arakáno wondered how rare a treasure such approval had been before _the switch._ And then he thought that he did not want to know. That it did not matter one way or another.

He would try to make it a more common gift. If only because he knew not else what to do.

He watched his brother— _his son_ —leave with a new tiny spring in that step and a tiny matching smile upon that tired face. And then the High King sat at his desk in contemplative silence for some time. He sat and thought about role models and willful blindness. He sat and pondered whether or not he was following the right path and whose advice he might ask without seeming the fool.

But, in the end, there was no one he could turn to. Arakáno was Nolofinwë now. And Nolofinwë had _been looked up to._

Sighing in growing fatigue and half-hidden frustration, Arakáno arose from his chair and made for the balcony. The air of the fallen night was cool on his face, damp and misty from the haze rising off of the lake below. The surrounding land was hardy and rocky, the grass sparse and yellowed, and the trees were formed of deep green needles that never colored and fell off from the cold. Hithlum was a cold and dreary land walled in by mountains on all sides, but Lake Mithrim was at least a lovely sight regardless of the autumn chill blanketing the realm.

Distantly, he could see the reflection of the stars off the surface of the water. Their glimmer drew his eyes towards the sky, catching the little sparkles of faint red and yellow and blue laced through the white gems strung across the black expanses.

The loneliness was bitter upon the back of his tongue.

Who did a High King look up to? Eru? The Valar?

Yet, he found himself not desiring the advice of Manwë, who, he noted with some resentment, obviously could have interfered and helped their people in their times of great need but chose to abandon them instead. Nor did he desire to weep or pray to Varda, for she seemed just as indifferent to the plights and suffering of his people as her silvered creations resting in their constellations across the dark heavens.

Instead, he looked up to the stretches of darkness between the brief and blinding pinpricks of light. And he thought of the sea of despair between brief droplets of joy, the endless agony and heartbreak and burden that stretched on and on into the distance beyond the furthest reaches that his elven eyes could see. He thought of the strange horror of seeing Findekáno flinch from his eyes, of the inadequacy that ate as his innards like acid when he tried to be wise, and of the weight that rested upon the crown of his head and seemed determined to drown him beneath the ravages of duties too large and too lofty for his inexperienced mind.

He thought of perseverance. He thought of sorrow. He thought of rising beyond grief to find a greater joy then yet had been possible before.

Could such a thing really be possible? Even now?

Did he even dare hope that a prayer might be answered? That, in some mysterious way beyond his ken, some dearly-needed guidance might come?

_Lady of Mercy give me strength_ , he thought then to himself, looking up at the empty space between the stars. _Give me strength to be the High King my people need. To be the father that my siblings—_ my children _—need. To be the wise man that_ I _need._

Did he even dare hope that Lady Nienna might hear and heed his words?

Arakáno shook his head faintly at his own foolishness. Tired and feeling like a wrung-out dishrag, he turned away from the sight of the stars in their distant and unforgiving heavens. Tomorrow would be just as long a day as this one. He needed his rest.

He needed the strength to endure.

And he would find it. With or without the Valar. With or without help and support.

Because that was what he needed to do. 

Because that was what Nolofinwë would have done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atar = Father


	361. Lugubrious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the Ainur do not escape war unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 16, 2016.
> 
> So, another POV that I've literally never written from. But you've gotta start somewhere, right? Anyway, this is something of a companion to Free--that Sauron-centric story that was written literally ages ago now--but from Eönwë's POV instead of Sauron's. Same dialogue and everything.
> 
> Warning: Some mention of war and death, but nothing explicit. More about vindictiveness and personal corruption than about actual violence.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Morgoth = Melkor

Eönwë might have been a forgiving creature by his very nature. But forgiving was not synonymous with stupidity, no matter what the enemy might say. He forgave those who felt remorse for their actions with ease. He could not say the same for those who felt none.

He was not fooled for a second by the acting of Mairon.

The maia who he had once tentatively called friend had changed much from the days of the Spring of Arda. Eönwë remembered flowing hair the color of wheat in the sunshine and eyes of blue run through with golden light. He remembered quiet, contemplative silence and soft, tentative smiles curving stern lips. He remembered passionate words and waving hands when Mairon spoke of his craft, and he remembered the hint of excitement and wonder in that gaze when met with the glorious and vast natural treasures of the world.

He remembered something beautiful and curious. Something wild with the youth of the earth but uncorrupted by its taint. Something not like this… thing… before him.

It was clear that Mairon was indeed corrupted. The maia was no less beautiful for all the wickedness and sin that lay heavy upon his spirit, but the change was still as undeniable as Anar’s course across the sky from east to west.

Looking upon the creature kneeling at his feet, Eönwë saw that the softer tones of that hair were now as golden as the veins which ran through the deep places of the earth, and that eyes which once had been blue were now as the depths of a forge’s fire, all glowing orange and yellow with molten heat. The face still comprised plains of perfect, smooth symmetry, but the cool wisdom had given way to something fey and sharp and cruel, the set of lips all sneering and twisting, and the downward slash of brows so very hateful and marred with scorn.

That voice hadn’t changed. It could have serenaded any maiden to ruin with its rolling, smooth depths. But Eönwë was no maiden to be tricked by velveteen tones and pitiful acting.

Eönwë was not the innocent and accepting creature of naivety that Mairon remembered either.

He would not be tricked by the tears boiling at the corners of unholy eyes, no matter how sincere they appeared at first. Mairon’s face truly was the very picture of desolate sorrow despite its strange sharpness and fiery, shadowed form of light. Had Eönwë not known better, he could admit that it might even have been convincing. Up until the moment when Mairon parted his lips and words issued forth.

“Truly, my brother,” the fiery spirit said in a voice roughened by weeping, “I regret my part in this folly. It was never my intention to cause such harm to the Children, nor to lead the Hither Lands into such destruction. My heart has ever sought to hold fast the beauty of the world, not to rend it apart in darkness. The loss of its beauty and the part I have played in its destruction bring me the greatest pain and sorrow…”

Unblinking, Eönwë met that gaze, and he thought: _Once, that might have been so. Once, thou wouldst have been horrified to know of thy part in this folly._

_Once. But not now. Not now._

He could hear the hint of insincerity at the corners of those words. In the tones of exaggerated lamentation for the fall and the destruction it wrought upon Eä, Eönwë caught a lugubrious air, something foul-scented amongst the sweet smell of purity in remorse.

Still, he said, “While I would not wish to doubt thy sincerity of regret, my brother, thou knowest it is not in my power to pardon thee.”

The flash of burning, white-hot hatred that flashed through the blazing depths of those glowing eyes was all the confirmation that he needed. It was so fast that a less observant, more naïve watcher might have missed it entirely, or might have chosen to pretend it was a flicker of the sunlight reflected and blinding.

But Eönwë was had changed. He no longer believed in the good will of others. He no longer believed in the good will of the maia at his feet. He had learned the guiles of the Enemy. He had learned that trust should be given with care. He had learned that lies were as easily spoken as breaths were inhaled for the servants of Melkor.

In a way, this war had destroyed that trusting, good-intentioned part of him—the rays of his own inner beauty—as thoroughly as it had destroyed the natural grace of Beleriand and the lives of the people who made it their home.

He looked down and watched as Mairon mimicked fear and panic, mixing the vibrant and heady emotions in with his downcast expression of disappointment and grief. That head bowed, golden curls falling over a shoulder and brushing against the ground, stained with the mud and the foul residue of gore that lingered. The moment those locks were dirtied, Eönwë could see the minute clench of the other maia’s fingers where they ground into the soil, the response one of momentary rage purposefully soothed back into calm acceptance.

“Please, Lord Eönwë, my brother,” Mairon cried out softly, almost desperately, “Thou needest to understand! Thou dost not know what he is capable of! I was frightened! I was _coerced!”_

Tears fell. Actual tears. Eönwë wondered if they were made from acid.

Two could play at this game.

And so Eönwë gave his best sympathetic look and knelt beside the fallen maia. His hand rested upon a powerful shoulder, squeezing tightly—resisting the urge to clench until the bones beneath his fingers snapped like twigs, for violent punishment was not the way of the servants of the Valar—and instead he allowed his voice to take on an equally lugubrious tone. As though he were actually sorry that he could do naught to help. As though he actually wept inside that he could not offer Mairon clemency.

His Lord would be much more merciful than he.

“I understand,” he crooned to his fellow maia, to his mirror image of shadow. “I cannot imagine how thou couldst fight against a Power such as he,”— _but I know that thou didst not even try, for thou wert seduced rather than coerced_ —“but nevertheless, I cannot help thee. Only my liege and his brethren may give thee thy sentence, my brother.”

Those eyes looked up at him from between golden lashes. And they scalded.

But he continued on, meeting them steadily with his own gentle and mocking sky blue. They clashed and made battle in the silent space between. “Believe me, my liege is generous. Thou wilt be granted clemency if, in fact, thou dost feel remorse for thy actions. Thou hast nothing to fear.”

_Except we both know that thou dost not feel remorse. Thou dost not lament for the destruction and horror thy actions has brought upon others._

_Thou art a servant of Melkor. Thou art a servant of_ evil.

Disdain and fury and disgust was hidden beneath the diaphanous veil of supposed fear. It was almost as if Mairon were _annoyed_ by the fact that he hadn’t gotten his way. As if he were infuriated by the fact that Eönwë did not play into his little trap.

 _Thou art not half so clever as thou dost believe._ Eönwë resisted the urge to smirk. It was not the way of the servants of the Valar to mock their fallen foes.

But it was tempting nevertheless.

Especially when Mairon conceded defeat. “V-very well… I shall return with thee. To Aman.”

And Eönwë plastered a resplendent and utterly fake smile upon his timelessly handsome face. The pat he gave the dark maia’s shoulder make the other curl inwards upon himself as if in pain or revulsion. Probably a bit of both, for Mairon’s pride must be smarting fiercely. And Eönwë felt his own mind trembling in victorious mockery, the pleasure at his foe’s defeat something slimy and slick and black against his good intentions and forgiving heart.

_Neither of us are truly mournful. Neither of us are truly sorry. Neither of us are sincere._

Were they not quite the pair? Light and darkness. A servant of good and a servant of evil. A dichotomy of principle and nature.

And yet, were they not just so alike?

If there was anything to mourn, Eönwë thought as he walked away—his back stricken with the lashes of Mairon’s hate-filled, fire-opal gaze—it would be the fact that he and Mairon were as mirror images. Two pure beings who were never meant to be so corrupted, ruined each in their own way until they were something beyond repair.

Each a liar. Each insincere. Each feeling hatred for the other.

Each having lost the essence of his self.

At least lamentation for that regrettable fact would not be without sincerity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> Anar = the Sun  
> Eä = the Realm of Being (lit. Be!)


	362. Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the creation of the Dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 17, 2016.
> 
> More Valarin weirdness. Originally, this prompt was going to be an ode to Eä in general, probably from Eru's POV. But, as I was thinking about it further, I suddenly wrote a line that mentioned Aulë's love of bringing things of material nature into being. And it just kinda... went from there...
> 
> Warning: Not much, honestly. Just me waxing poetic. And loving gemstones and elements. Because I'm a chemist and a rock enthusiast...

There were many reasons why Aulë had encroached upon territory not his own. But there was one chief reason for his disobedience.

It was not that he had any wish to overstep the boundaries and trample upon the laws laid down by his Father’s decrees. It was not that he meant to be arrogant and pretentious, thinking himself above the rules that governed the world. It was not even that he sought to show his superiority over his brothers and sisters by making something greater than they could even begin to imagine.

It was simply the innate and undeniable urge to create. To make _be._

It was in the theme that constantly wound its way through his mind. It was in his very nature, to the core of his being. Of this, Aulë had no doubt.

He longed ever to shape the world with his hands. In the ancient days—when Eä was young and yet untouched, an empty canvas upon which to bring to life all that he dreamed—he had reveled in sinking his hands into the molten depths, feeling the fire licking against his spirit and echoing through his blood as he drew that heat upwards. With a mere thought, he sent great pillars of rock bursting towards the heavens, breaking the flatness of the realm and sending tremors bursting and roiling beneath his feet as the peaks of his creations rose to bite and claw at the dome of the sky. With the clench of his hands, he could squeeze with enough pressure to compress carbon into diamond, to send the magma surging through the crusts of the world until it was loosed in great explosions of ash and flame.

But these deeds of shaping were crude, the actions of a child testing his strength for the first time. It was easy to crush when a mere thought could render mountains flat. It was easy to burn when his rage could turn solid rock to viscous liquid.

There were finer arts, he discovered. Aulë moved from the broken and undetailed breaking of the earth’s continuity into something requiring more finesse. More thought. More concentration.

Something which yielded equally more beauty.

For, as he could create a mixture of elements in rock with ease, it was more difficult to create pure element. The luster of veins of gold shimmying their way down through the depths. The long needles of silver shining beneath light in pale flashes. The verdigris-lined russet-red of copper. The rainbow-infused, geometric kaleidoscope of bismuth. The gunmetal darkness of heavy, powerful iron. And the unimaginably strong yet feather-light elegance of mithril glittering like the arms of galaxies in the blackness.

Aulë crafted gems as well. He brought forth from his thoughts the royal purple of amethyst lining the inner walls of geodes. He conceived of the deep blue of sapphires, the color of the gold- and silver-infused open sky of Almaren. He brought to life rubies, their hue echoing the violent scarlet of spilled blood. He carefully mixed the softness of opal, speckled with the iridescent tourbillion of a thousand shades. He even built the nacreous sphere of the pearl, so very simple and yet timeless and unforgettable.

But still, a thousand gems—the greens of emeralds and jade, the golds of citrine and topaz, the blues of aquamarine and turquoise, the reds of coral and garnet, the many-banded earthen tones of agate and the blackness of obsidian—would not satisfy the need. The _urge._

He wanted to make something greater still than these natural treasures. He wanted to make something greater still than crowns of finely-shaped gold and silver filigree to place upon the heads of his brethren. He wanted to craft something more spectacular than the graceful and breathtaking alabaster architecture of paradise. He wanted to bring into being something which would inspire awe in the minds and wonder in the eyes of all who beheld its splendor.

He thought, in his mind’s eye, of the great vision that had been shown to the Ainur before the beginning of time. He thought of the impossible perfection of the final creations that their Father had wrought through the conduit of their many voices entwined in harmony and dissonance.

He thought beyond the molding of clay and the carving of quartz. He thought beyond the cutting of gemstones and the shaping of circlets.

He thought of the creation of the Children of Ilúvatar.

He _longed_ to make them _be._

And, in secret, he began his craft.

Of course, Aulë forgot that he knew not the entirety of the realm of Eä. Most well did he know the depths of the earth, and he imbued his love of stone and rock and gem and metal into the Children he conceived in his inner thoughts. In nature, he was steady and firm—the spiritual manifestation of the pillars of the earth, the foundations of the flatlands and the mountains, shaken only by the shifting of great plates of cooled crust upon their soft beds of magma—and so his creations were equally steady. They were stout and strong in body, immovable in temperament, and loyal to a fault in intrinsic nature.

He knew they would need water, as did all the living creatures his wife had crafted, and so he made them so that they might drink and feel satiation of their thirst. But he did not think of the pleasure of raindrops upon the skin and the lap of water between the toes, and so his creations had no hatred nor great love of Ulmo’s waters.

He knew also that they would need air, as did all the living creatures need to inhale oxygen in order to survive. He crafted them so that they would take that oxygen into their lungs and be nurtured by its refreshing coolness. But Aulë thought little of the wind’s touch upon his skin and the pleasure of staring up at the open sky, and so his creatures found the heavens overwhelmingly large and frightening, preferring the underground.

Easiest to imbue in these creations were the love of darkness and the love of fire. For these beings would adore most being cradled in the bosom of Aulë’s precious earth, covered and protected from all that was without by thick walls of rock. And they would find the enclosed space and the encircling blackness comforting rather than fearful, taking the greatest joy in the dim flicker of flame breaking darkness, alighting the walls in orange and yellow and red.

But, too, would they need light. And light was easy to love, even for Aulë, whose chief domain rested in the earth. Light was in the stars, yes, but light was also in the depths of the planet. Light was in fire and heat, in the slow movement of lava and the flicker of fire. Light was in the stones that glowed from captured rays, fluorescing in a vibrant array of color. Light was in the reflection of mithril turning, with its mirror-like surface, the darkness into a silver-encrusted net of resplendence.

His creations loved darkness, but they coveted light. As did their Maker.

And, as was their Maker, they were made to craft. They were made to create. They were made to _make be._

He gave them broad hands like his own so that they might have the strength to lift great weight and pound hammers against metal. He gave them fine motor control, for their large fingers would need to be capable of carrying out the most delicate of tasks. He gave them eyesight almost equal unto his own, so that even the faintest of lights could carry them through the dark and even the tiniest of details would not go unnoticed.

He gave them imagination. So that each and every one of his precious creations would look into his mind’s eye and see what could _be_ if only he reached out and made it so.

He gave them desire. For it was the desire to hold these creations in the palm of the hands which would initiate the drive to create them from the resources of the earth.

And so his creations would take the greatest joy in making and crafting. But they would also feel the same insatiable curiosity—to the point of fault and folly—as their Maker. And they would feel the same untamable greed to hold close to their breast that which they had made from their own two hands.

They were his reflection, Children built in his thoughts. They were as he was. Makers in their own right.

And Aulë loved them dearly before they even existed. He was ready to Sing them into Being. 

He carefully laid them out in his mind’s eye, breathing deeply and feeling the heavy pulses of the earth’s blood beneath his feet like a rising tide of power. The cycles of the world were as the slow throbbing of the heart nestled in his chest, pumping energy into his veins with each contraction. The singing of the stone beneath his hands was the echo of his own theme in the Great Music, forever tantalizing to his ears, and it would fuel these precious wonders.

All of these things would his Children know. All of these things would his Children feel. All of these things would his Children love.

Aulë took a deep breath, and his utterance was vast and shook the world down to its core of heavy metal and gravimetric force. It echoed out into the furthest reaches of the realm, rippling through the magnetic waves that split the emptiness of space. It could be felt in all things that rested upon the ground, in the vibrations that shuddered through their bones and rattled their clenched teeth. Such was the depth and breadth of the single word of Power that was born from the endless bass of his voice.

Eä, he had said.

And thus, the Khazâd came to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eä = the Realm of Being (lit. Be!)  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Khazâd = race of the dwarves


	363. Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Helcaraxë is a phenomenal teacher. Even if her lessons are ones no one should ever have to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 18, 2016.
> 
> Depressing as fuck. I'm not even sure how this ended up being what I wrote about today. Maybe it had something to do with my general annoyance and pounding headache. In any case, more Turgon characterization development stuff.
> 
> Warning: Sort of dark!Turgon. Semi-explicit death scene. Fantasies of torture. Mentions of starvation and death from exposure. Not a happy fic.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil

The Helcaraxë was a cruel teacher.

And the Exiles were her unwillingly diligent students.

Before her ravages, Turukáno had believed himself worldly. He had lived through the Darkening of Valinor—that hideous moment when all the light went out and darkness fell in the ever-lit land—and he had thought he knew terror. He had felt the passion of Fëanáro as a lit flame to his skin, as the boiling of his very blood in its veins, and he had thought he knew fury. He had looked upon the burning ships across the vast leagues of water—in that blaze he saw shattered brotherhood, the burning bridges of betrayal—and he had thought he knew hatred.

He had cradled his frightened wife and daughter close in the blackness of Araman knowing those ships would never return, and he had thought he knew helplessness. He had looked over his shoulder, seeing the far-off and distant lights of Tirion forever unwelcoming, bringing to the heart homesickness and longing, and he had thought he knew sorrow. He had looked to the north, saw the far-reaching darkness and coldness, the vast and empty plains of white and jagged ice, and he had thought he knew determination.

But Turukáno knew now that he had known nothing of the cruelty of the world then.

Because the very first thing the Helcaraxë broke was the feeble shadow of determination. She took their drive to continue forth on their journey, their stubborn Noldorin will to never give in to adversity, and she crushed it beneath her sharpened heels.

She bit at their bare flesh with her howling, cutting winds, turning white to broken and blistered red. She made them long desperately for the safety of more layers of cloth and fur as she turned their fingers and toes and lips blue, as she crept upon their camps and stole away the lives of those least protected. She provided them only with the hardness of ice for beds and the caverns of frigid, tunneled snow for roofs to drive away her cruel caresses. She left them with little in the way of food, and so their bellies were more oft than not empty and growling.

It was then that Turukáno learned true wistful longing. He learned to be thankful for every animal hide that was crudely stitched into a glove or a boot and set upon his hand or foot. He learned that he would never complain for the hardness of a mattress again, for any was better than naught but ice upon which to lay his head. He learned that he would never again balk at the poor taste of food upon his tongue, for he knew how it felt to go hungry until the hollow pit of the stomach made him retch from its ache.

It was then that Turukáno learned pain and suffering of the body. Of cold shivering down to the marrow in his bones. Of skin being whipped raw and chapped and bloody by harsh winds. Of hunger and sleeplessness leaving him faint and impossibly tired. 

Still, he and his brethren trudged onwards through the pain of the wind’s cutting blades and the snow’s icy touch, through the sleepless nights and the long, hungry hours of wakefulness. No matter that the wills of their followers faltered beneath the tender mercies of this hideous, barren land. It would take more than physical suffering to break completely the iron wills of the sons of the House of Finwë.

But the Helcaraxë was far from done with her teachings. Turukáno still had much to learn.

For he would never forget hearing the crack of the ice and the shrill scream of his wife as the ground gave out beneath her feet before his very eyes. He would never forget the stab of his heart trying to leap out of his chest through his throat as he saw her falling as if through water. He would never forget the rush of adrenaline that lit fire to his body as he threw himself down and reached for her hands where they clawed bloody marks into the ice, trying to grasp her even knowing that he was far too late to break her fall and pull her up from the darkness.

Ever in his ears, he would hear the echoing horror of his voice screaming her name as her head of golden hair disappeared beneath the surface and went down into the abyss. His dreams would be haunted by the crack of her bones snapping and the death toll of silence as her scream cut short. Those moments of doomed quiet were more painful than any bite of wind or chill of snow could ever hope to be.

In the wake of the most potent terror and desperation, Turukáno learned true despair. Huddled on the ground in the midst of the snow and the wind, shivering and sobbing and tracing the path of broken fingernails and torn flesh with the tips of his fingers, he felt blackness consume his mind.

The Helcaraxë had taken his wife. Had taken his greatest love. His better half. His smiles and his laughter and his _light_.

And he had wanted to lie down and die.

But it had not been his fate. The Helcaraxë was not done with him. Not yet.

The days that followed were a blur of howling, bawling sobs and rivers and rivers of hot, salty tears and the empty pocket of space in the back of his mind where her golden light had been. He sat still and trembled for the feeling of a lost limb where her adjoining spirit had been left him unbalanced and agonized, bleeding out for his inability to bandage the gaping wound.

But the suffering gave way to rage rather than fading surrender. To fury instead of to death.

The injustice of her fate licked at his soul like creeping flame.

His wife was dead. Not because she had done anything deserving of her death. Not because she had earned a horrible and terrifying end. Not because she had sinned enough to be punished with such cruelty.

She was dead because his kin—the very uncle and cousins to whom his father had sworn kinship and brotherhood, for whom they had gone into Exile from their home without question, for whom they had stained their hands with the blood of kin in the name of protection and good faith—had _betrayed them all and left them to die._

She was dead because of the broken trust of shattered familial bonds. She was dead because of the blazing, fey light that scorched all who gazed into Fëanáro’s eyes. She was dead because of the disdain in the eyes of his sons and the cruel twist of their mocking smiles.

She was dead because they had burned the ships and doomed all of the stragglers left behind to a slow and lingering death by cold or by starvation or by Grinding Ice. As surely as they had slaughtered the Teleri upon the docks of Alqualondë with their shining and blood-stained swords, so, too, had the Sons of Fëanáro slaughtered his wife as if they had thrown her down into blackness with their own two hands.

Turukáno had always been stern but calm in personality. His passions were slow to rise, and his fury was sluggish and cold, too easily extinguished by logic and reasoning. He may not have been a very forgiving man, but his temperament had ever been cool and collected.

Yet now he learned fire catching alight the pyre of his mind. Now he learned the heat of true rage trembling through his flesh.

Now he learned the blackness of acidic hatred burning at his heart. And he learned the lust for vengeance as a shadow of evil upon his spirit.

He thought of them—his traitorous kinsmen—and he longed to see their suffering with his own eyes, beneath his own hands. He wanted to see them writhing and crying and begging and pleading, wanted to hear their entreaties and have the privilege of denying them an end to their suffering. He wanted to see them bleed. He wanted to see them _burn._ And not because of his own pain, but because of the pain of those he loved. 

In payment for the blood of Elenwë smeared through the snow and the final wide-eyed look of primal terror on her face as she screamed his name and disappeared forever. In payment for the blank-faced look of Laurefindil as he rocked quietly, knees pulled up to his chest like a lonely child, silent tears frozen upon his cheeks and fingers curled in at the roots of his matted golden hair. In payment for every pitiful sob that left Itarillë’s lips, every soft plea in her wind-chime voice for him to just bring her Emya back—to _“Please, just bring Emya back!”_

It was only then, in that cruel and barren wasteland, that Turukáno understood the madness which had consumed Fëanáro. It was only then that he understood why the Crown Prince would go so far and sacrifice so much in order to chase revenge and three meaningless glowing rocks.

For he would have traveled to the very farthest reaches of Eä in order to make suffer those who had harmed the ones he loved.

The Helcaraxë had shown him the heart of Fëanáro. And Turukáno had learned understanding.

And he trudged on and on through the darkest of sorrow and the long hours of cold and the longer still hours of starvation. He trudged on and on through his daughter’s cries for her mother and his brother-in-law’s silent mourning for his sister.

He trudged on and on with an unholy determination in his breast.

And Turukáno knew that he would never be the same man he was before he had set foot upon the vast wasteland of the Grinding Ice. He would never be that naïve and ignorant man again, whose greatest terror had been the falling darkness of Valinor and whose greatest pain had been the mere sting of betrayal with the flash of burning ships in his eyes. He would never again be that spoiled prince, who thought of his down mattress and his heavy blankets and his wife’s filling meals and the feeling of warmth by a hearth’s fire to be the most humble and rudimentary of comforts. He would never again be able to smile and bask in his wife’s laughter, nor feel the warmth of the memories of her touch, without thinking of the crack of her body being crushed between the ice and the silencing of her screams as her life was cut short.

Suffering. Cold. Desperation. Hunger. Terror. Grief. Rage. _Hatred._

Dark determination. Lust for revenge.

The lessons of the Helcaraxë were well learned. Turukáno, like many of his fellows in study, took them all to heart. _Each and every one._

And they left him forever with a wicked longing for the taste of blood upon the back of his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Emya = mommy or mama


	364. Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord of Dreams pondering on desire and on fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 19, 2016.
> 
> More Valarin weirdness. This should practically be a tag at this point. Anyway, this time the object of my strange introspection is Irmo, whose name is literally translated to be The Desirer or Master of Desire. Thus, I started to think about where dreams actually come from. I am also completely willing to admit that parts of this chapter were inspired by Rise of the Guardians and by boggarts from Harry Potter. Basically, I've taken yet another understated vala and tried to come up with a good reason for him to _be_ among the Valar, even if he isn't among the Aratar.
> 
> Just for reference, I think my favorite artwork of him thus far is MatsumotoSensei's depiction of him on dA. That's sort of where I've drawn some of my mental-image inspiration from.
> 
> Warnings: Some mentions of war. Mostly, though, psychological torture. And some sociopathic outlooks on existence. Ideology.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Lórien = Irmo  
> Morgoth = Melkor

Desire. A creation of great longing and wistfulness. A driving force in the hearts of living things. A necessity and a curse.

Fear. Desire’s cousin and foe. Seemingly they were opposites, yet was not fear desire in its own right—desire to escape and flee and avoid all that was horrifying and painful in the world? 

They were two sides of a coin. The light and the dark. Or vice versa. Or something in between. Forever fighting one another for control of the mind and spirit. For without one, there was no vitality. And without the other, there was no restraint.

They lingered forever in balance, neither overcoming the other.

None knew this better than did Irmo.

For all that they called him the _Master of Desire_ —as though he had some sort of control over the thoughts and feelings of others, he oft thought with laughter rolling on his tongue—it was really more of a _sight_. An _aura_. A _feeling._

But was it really so odd that he could sense his own Song in the hearts of others?

Was it really so odd that he could look into the eyes of all he met and could see the rippling waves of whole-tone scales ascending up into the clouds, carrying the body away from the mortal plane and into something peaceful and tranquil where there was no pain? Was it really so odd that he could hear the whispers of lullabies as dappled silver droplets upon the flesh and hear the sounds of paradise as golden harmonies washing over the skin with shuddering warmth?

Was it really so odd that he could brush that very same soul and feel the jagged, sharp tears in those harmonies, the remnants of broken dreams and bitter experience? Was it really so odd that he caught the echo of the high pitch screeching tones of primal terror as they shivered over his mind and left chills running down his back, or that the soft tones of lenitive melody were disrupted by harsh, bursting chromatic dissonance: the feeling of being haunted and hunted, of feeling eyes fixed upon the back of the neck, blinking out of the shadows beyond all ken?

He felt it all. The deepest of desires hidden in the depths of the spirit. And the darkest of fears layered even further down in the core.

All of these things had been in his Song before the beginning of time. Where his young mind had conceived only of a place of rest for the mind—a plane of existence in which all suffering vanished, in which happiness could be felt if even for the briefest of moments as the body healed its hurts and weariness in slumber—there had, too, been the corruption of Melkor. No theme had gone untouched by its sudden clamor, by its antithesis to order, by its bringing of chaos. Not even the Song of Dreams.

Thus had been born Nightmares.

One might have expected him to reel back in revulsion from this corruption of his own good intent. But Irmo was no one to flee from his own Power. He did not harbor either fear or disgust for his unexpected place in the world, nor for the creations of darkness which had not been wholly born from his own thought but found their roots in his voice nonetheless. He did not shy away from his innate nature—both of the joyful light and the cruel dark—nor did he shy away from that reflection of himself in the nature of dreams and of nightmares.

So it therefore always brought him a niggling, sadistic sort of amusement when he heard prayers for better dreams, for kinder sleep.

Did they not realize that nightmares, too, were the domain of the Master of Desire? That even those most terrible visions, the images that left them clammy and quaking in their beds with their breath caught on a scream, found their roots in Irmo's intent?

But, of course, all they saw was his gentleness. The soft and comforting touches of his hands upon their weary spirits and the dreamy, golden glow of his eyes burning through the twilight shadows. The Children—they who had never seen him as anything but a comforter and a healer of the mind—could not see beyond the handsome and pale visage veiled by soft white hair and accented with the brushstrokes of soft, upwardly-curved lips. They saw beauty and grace and salvation in his face.

So it was as he had intended. They saw what brought their minds comfort.

They had never stood in opposition to his might on the field of battle. They had not seen the visage of horror he had worn in the ancient days when the Valar made battle upon Melkor for the dominion of Arda. 

They had never experienced the true breadth of his abilities. 

It was all too easy to demoralize the enemy, to walk through their minds and pluck from their hidden corners all their fears and worries, to twist their dreams until they found no rest when they slept and their waking hours were long and full of fatigue and unspoken paranoia. As a member of an innately shape-shifting race, it was all too easy to give those fears physical form, to _become_ that which made the heart palpate and stutter and fail in the face of the enemy, to wear fear as a skin and wield it as a weapon all at once. For very few could face the field of battle and hold their legs steady and firm with the object of their greatest terror standing upon the other side, waiting to fall down upon them in their frenetic panic and consume them within the drowning ocean of their own madness. Waiting to send them into the abyss.

In those ancient days, dread was the companion of all who pitted themselves against the Lord of Dreams.

 _Ah, fear_ , he recalled with a heaving sigh. _So easy to use and abuse…_

It wasn’t that Irmo was cruel out of pleasure, of course. But he knew his place in the world. He was not like Manwë, whose entire being trembled with the horror of realizing that his theme was tainted and his spirit was as violent and wild as the strongest and most chaotic of winds. He was not like Tulkas, whose form shuddered at seeing the undeniable similarities between his own Song—his own war-mongering nature—and the theme of the Enemy standing as a dissonant but self-same reflection of might.

Irmo knew that, sometimes, fear was needed. Sometimes, fear could be just as powerful a tool in the works of good as could desire in the works of evil.

And, sometimes, it was the loss of fear in the presence of overwhelming desire which lead to the greatest atrocity.

It was rare, therefore, that he would grant mercy to those who pleaded for kinder dreams. It would not do for anyone to forget that the world could be a truly horrible and cruel place, that dangers and deceptions and creations of horror lingered around every turn, waiting to fall upon the unwary spirit and devour them in darkness. It was not due for anyone to forget that fear—like joy and sorrow and anger—was an integral part of all beings, and that they should heed the wisdom in its call.

If they wanted to be coddled, they should have gone to Nienna. Such mercy was simply not his way.

No. Irmo was a creation made to watch over and maintain the balance of the world, though rarely did it need his intervention in its balancing act. He was of the light by choice, but he was just as much of the darkness in his nature. Neither good nor evil. Just necessary. Just present.

Just walking on silent tiptoe through the dreams of all who shut their eyes.

Just watching.


	365. Grow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the fate of Bilbo's acorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 20, 2016.
> 
> Pure Hobbit fanfiction. Basically, I was sitting around thinking about what would happen to the acorn in a Thorin lives!AU. This is what I came up with. Much more depressing than I had originally intended, but such is life. This is a romance that just didn't work out in the end. And, of course, this has strong movie!verse elements to fill in the spaces between stuff that happens in the book. I have to admit that, if there's one thing movie!verse was good for, it was characterization between the plot.
> 
> Warnings: Not really much other than the passing mention of rotting bodies and some blood in post-BotFA.

The Desolation of Smaug had been a barren wasteland of decaying, rotting gray soil for miles in all directions around the Lonely Mountain. As a lover tender of green and growing things, Bilbo had immediately noticed that something was not right about the land, that the grass barely grew and what did was sparse and weak from lack of nutrients. His toes pressed into the soil, but he felt no welcoming pull from the earth as he would have in his own garden back home. Just emptiness and sickness. 

An evil enchantment of the dragon’s magic, he had assumed, or some affliction caused by dragonfire. Usually it took but a handful of years for the plants to return to a piece of land scorched and ravaged by fire and death.

But it had been more than a century. There should have been more than mere grass. The foothills around the Lonely Mountain should have been dappled in prairies and hardy wildflowers, if not fledgling trees and shrubbery as well. Therefore, something unnatural must be afoot, and who else could be to blame but for the resident dragon?

In the wake of Smaug’s death, this theory had been confirmed. 

In the whirlwind of the Arkenstone incident and the preparations for war and the actual battle itself, Bilbo hadn’t had time to concentrate on much of anything—let alone the state of the soil!—other than keeping himself and his dwarves alive. Now, though, he had time to pause and look.

Much to his initial surprise, the rocky soil on the outskirts of the ruins of Dale was no longer an ashy hue and dusty texture that crumbled dryly between his fingers. Whatever sorcery had been laid upon it which made it barren, Bilbo could not have said, but the soil which had been soaked in the blood of friends and foes alike, which had been trampled beneath the mire of battle and aged in the embrace of corpses unnumbered, was now taking on a deeper brown color of health and fertility.

Bilbo should have been repulsed to press his hand into its mulch and find it cold and moist, likely from the shedding of blood and heat of rot. Not quite as frozen as it should have been in the face of the swiftly oncoming winter. But instead, he found relief in its welcoming embrace. It had been so very long since he had had the time to just sit and connect with the land.

His eyes closed, and he breathed in a deep sigh of the chilled autumn air.

It was then, with his hands buried in the dirt in that long-forgotten gardener’s sacred ritual, that he recalled the acorn in his pocket. With a frown, Bilbo paused, thinking on the tiny, helpless, innocent seed he had ferried all the way from Beorn’s garden. Thinking on the last time he had cradled it in his palm, proudly presenting it before Thorin’s eyes and coaxing a bright and joyous smile out from beneath the hold of gold-sickness on the King’s mind. It had been one of the few moments when Bilbo thought, perhaps, Thorin might be able to escape his madness. That, maybe, there was still hope for a peaceful solution to the degenerating negotiations with the Lakemen and the Woodland Realm.

Of course, it was far too late for that now. Peaceful conclusions were a bygone daydream now that the battle was done and the friendship shattered. The memory of hands wrapped around his throat, holding him over the sheer drop from the gate to the jagged rocky death below, still lingered like a poisonous touch. The whispered words from Thorin’s blanched lips, the begging for forgiveness and the desire to part as friends, sat in his belly like lead.

Bilbo had said he wanted to plant this tree, to watch it grow and remember the good and the bad of this miraculous adventure. All of it.

But now here he was, doubting. He knew the feeling resting in his gut, festering, was neither guilt nor remorse for his deceptive actions. Bilbo still steadfastly believed he had done the right thing in the end. In fact, this strange feeling was more like a roiling burn of anger mixed with the sinking feeling of bitter disappointment.

 _Betrayal_ , he thought suddenly. _I feel betrayed._

After all, had he not trusted Thorin just as much as Thorin had trusted him? Had he not stuck by the dwarves, steadfast and faithful, through all their shared perils? Had he not gone into the lair of a _dragon_ for this man, this King, who then turned around and tried to kill him because he had—in his desperation—found the only way to sue for peace in the face of the madness?

It was illogical to be angry, he had told himself. After all, he had not expected Thorin to take discovery of his deception and conspiring with the “enemy” well. Only a fool would have thought Thorin might be anything short of wrathful when he discovered that Bilbo—of all his companions the one he had seemingly trusted most—was in the end the one to betray his designs.

 _There is no point in being angry now,_ Bilbo had told himself after it all was over. _What good will anger do you now?_

Instead of allowing his negative feelings to show through, Bilbo had spoken words of forgiveness to Thorin when he visited the King’s sickbed, thinking that Thorin would not survive the night. He had not wanted to part on a sour note. He had not wanted his love to think that his affection had turned to hatred.

He had wanted to send Thorin to the Halls of Mahal with the knowledge that Bilbo held no grudge against him.

But Thorin had _lived._

And now Bilbo wasn’t quite certain he was ready to forgive. He wasn’t quite certain that he was ready to have a monument to this whole amazing and terrible affair growing in his front garden, reminding him every time he looked out the window of his dining room that Thorin was somewhere out in the world. That their love had been ruined before it had ever had a chance to spring forth from the shadows.

It might have been a nice consolation if Thorin had died, to have a little piece of a pleasant memory to recall in his aging years. But Thorin was alive. And they were to be parted out of choice rather than the necessity of death. Nothing would ever happen between them now.

Slowly, Bilbo reached into his pocket with his soil-encrusted hands, pulling the acorn forth. It rested in his palm amidst the dirt-filled lines of his skin, so innocuous and yet so damning.

Now, Bilbo was not sure he wanted this tree to grow at all. And certainly not in his garden. Not when it held no comfort. Not when it would be so _painful._

But it was nevertheless such an innocent thing. By no fault of its own had it come to represent the ruins of love and devotion, the tainting of a story which should have ended in victory and celebration now turned to muted triumph corrupted by sorrow. It wouldn’t really be fair to throw it away to rot when it had done nothing wrong.

Bilbo looked down at the soil with its dark brown hue. It would probably be frozen completely by this time next week. Now was the time to be burying the acorn anyway, so that it would sprout in the spring after a long hibernation in winter.

 _I don’t have time to take it back home_ , he rationalized. _It’ll probably rot well before I get back. And then what use would it be?_

And so, on a whim, Bilbo turned the acorn upside down and planted it on the outskirts of the old ruins of Dale within the shadow of the Lonely Mountain. Carefully, with the loving touch of a child near to Yavanna’s breast, he made sure the acorn’s soft bed was encircling and encompassing, surrounding on all sides and protecting. He patted the soft earth down flat until it looked as though it had never been disturbed in the first place.

Then he stood, brushing his hands off on his trousers as he surveyed his work. _Well_ , he thought, _that’s that. It’s done now._

And he walked away.

He never did get to see that tree grow.

\---

There was an oak sapling growing in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain.

 _“It was found on the outskirts of Dale,”_ Bard had said with a puzzled tone in his voice when Thorin inquired casually. _“It’s just a bit odd. There are no oaks nearby to have spread their acorns. But, perhaps, it was carried in by one of the warriors of the Woodland Realm and dropped…”_

No one thought to tell Thorin immediately of this development. There was no reason why they might think the new growth of an oak tree would be of paramount importance to the King. He only knew about it because he demanded frequent updates on the progress of the rebuilding of Esgaroth, the resettlement of Dale, and the state of the lands surrounding his kingdom. The tree was, in fact, mentioned only as a passing note that greenery was once again beginning to grow where once the Desolation had reigned with dark and greedy magic.

It was a sign of the soil becoming healthy. The dragon-sickness was leaving the land.

But, for Thorin, there was little joy to be had in this discovery.

He stood before the tiny seedling and wondered how much of a coincidence it would be if the acorn that had yielded this tiny, frail little plant at his feet had come from someone _other than Bilbo_. He also wondered how likely it was that the hobbit had dropped the acorn by accident and it just _happened_ to fall upside down in a place where it was buried beneath plenty of good soil and had lots of sunlight to nurture its blossoming green shoots.

It didn’t seem like coincidence could stretch that far.

The King Under the Mountain stared down at the seedling, recalling his words imparted to Bilbo upon what he had believed to be his deathbed— _“Plant your trees. Watch them grow.”_ —and felt a sick twist in the pit of his stomach.

Bilbo had given him forgiveness then, but he couldn’t help but wonder…

Yet, he decided, it was all in the past now. Bilbo had gone home. Back to the green pastures of the Shire. Back to his cushy armchair and his warm hearth and his collection of well-worn books. Back to where he belonged. Back to where he was _happy._ If Bilbo didn’t _want_ to remember this whole sorry affair, who could possibly blame him for that?

Thorin doubted he would ever see the hobbit again. Not now. He doubted that Bilbo would want anything to do with him and his kingdom.

And he wasn’t too sure he wanted the reminder Bilbo had left behind either. He was not heartless enough to stomp on the new seedling creeping up from the soil in the wake of the spring thaw—after all, this was Bard’s land now, and new trees would be a good thing, something to rejoice—but neither did he really want to look upon it.

Neither did he want the reminder of what had almost been and never would be. Because of his own foolishness and weakness. Because he had not seen what was right before his eyes until it was far too late.

The King Under the Mountain pursed his lips and closed his eyes tight against the sting of tears that would never fall. And then he turned from the sight. 

And he walked away. 

And he never saw the little tree grow.


	366. Sleepless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twenty to thirty years that Maglor spent as High King in Exile were... pretty unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 21, 2016.
> 
> It's actually been a while since I wrote about one of the canonical Fëanorioni. So here's some Maglor. Because I love him and because I've slept about three hours total in the last three days and need someone to suffer along with me. F-ing insomnia...
> 
> Warning: Mentions torture (non-explicit). Guilt. Dysfunctional family. Unhealthy coping mechanisms.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Makalaurë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë

Nowadays, Makalaurë counted every moment of sleep as a blessing.

There was not much to be found for the second son of Fëanáro. Not now.

Most of his waking hours were spent in a dizzying haze. He served all at once as the leader of his people—their guide in establishing trade, in finding fertile land to occupy, in taking care of disputes between parties, in providing the basic necessities of food and shelter—and as their commander in war—establishing border patrols, setting a watch on the North, and attending and contributing to meetings of strategy—and, therefore, he constantly felted stretched and overwhelmed by the sheer amount of _responsibility_ being so abruptly thrust down upon his shoulders.

There was always something that required his attention. _Always_. Though his fingers ached to strum his harp in a quiet glade beneath the starlight, to drift away from this harsh and cruel reality into something safe and warm and free of burden, he pushed the urge aside sharply each time it rose anew. There were always missives and reports needing to be read. There were always councilors and advisors vying for his attention.

This constant flow of work and duty kept his mind occupied during his waking hours. It that sense, he even considered it a good thing. It served as a shield, holding at bay the blocked and buried feelings lingering in the back of his mind constantly. For the High King, there was no time for mourning and no time for remorse. There was no time to linger long over decisions, for they had to be made with quick efficiency to keep everything functioning smoothly.

Makalaurë would have been capable of handling such burdens were it not for the hours in which he _was not_ occupied.

He hated having time to _think._

For he did not want to think about his past choices and their consequences. He did not want to think about his lack of protest at Nelyafinwë’s ridiculous plan to meet with Morgoth’s forces in good faith, the plan which had resulted in his older brother—his _High King_ —being captured by the Enemy. He did not want to think about what might have followed, what torments his brother might have endured before death. He did not want to think about the treacherous offer of the Enemy—Nelyafinwë’s life in exchange for their retreat from the northern territories and the forsaking of their quest for revenge—and how he had turned up his nose and spoken haughty, harsh words of refute.

He did not want to imagine that he might have damned Nelyafinwë by those very actions. He would have preferred to imagine that his brother had already been dead. He absolutely _refused_ to harbor even the possibility of the belief that Nelyafinwë might _still_ be alive and subject to the tender mercies of the Master of Angband.

He ignored the glares. His brothers were filled with disdain and disgust at his abandonment of their eldest sibling. In their glowing eyes was plainly exposed all the disappointment and disapproval and revulsion. In their scathing voices, he could hear what they really thought of his refusal—that he was a cowardly High King, backing down from the Enemy’s challenge without so much as a struggle. But he brushed the scoffing words and low, harsh timbres aside.

It would have been an expression of paramount foolishness to attempt to go against the might of the Enemy for the sake of one man—one man who, in all likelihood, was long dead. It would have been even worse to give in to their demands—to foreswear a sacred oath sword before the Valar and the One—in exchange for what would likely be a corpse.

Makalaurë did not doubt for a second that Morgoth had no intention of returning Nelyafinwë to his younger brothers alive. He dared not give in to the seductive call of hope.

In his waking hours, he clung to logic.

But when he went to his bed… that was a different story.

When he lay still and sleepless beneath the unforgiving gaze of the stars, he could not help but wonder if he had made the right decision. He could not help but wonder if his brothers were right to look upon him with accusing, darkened eyes and hiss razor-edged words from between clenched teeth, to call him craven and weak-willed.

Searching desperately for reverie as he oft would be, he would try to hum a melody to counter and drown out the endless tirade of his thoughts. He would try to search for some sweet vision to push away the haunting looks and the harsh, soul-grinding words spoken in fury at his denial of a rescue operation. But all songs departed from his lips were tainted with the aura of uncertainty and hope. They always spoke from his heart rather than his head.

And the memories would come.

_“How couldst thou just_ abandon _him? He would have done_ anything _to save thee from this terrible fate!”_

_Morifinwë’s voice, for once, was not shy and soft. Now it was loud and filled to overflowing with indignant passion. His protests at Makalaurë’s dismissal of Nelyafinwë’s salvation had been by far the loudest, and the fourth son had never looked so much like is father as before that passion struck, before his eyes became twin stars to scald the skin and his face took on a veil that hinted at the fey madness of their kin._

_Makalaurë had given in to the passion of Fëanáro once. He would not make the same mistake twice._

_“I would not want him to risk the lives of our people to save me,” Makalaurë replied. “Nor would he desire that we put ourselves and our people in jeopardy to save him, especially when we do not even know if he still lives.”_

_“And what if he_ does _live?”_

_It made Makalaurë sick to think that that might be true._

_“There is nothing to be done now,” he finally answered, his lyrical voice forced into the impassivity of stone and iron. “This discussion is at an end. Thou shalt obey the will of thy King in this matter.”_

_The fury in those eyes overflowed. Like molten rock flowing forth from a volcano, it spewed out and ate up everything it touched in flame. No more words were said, but nothing more than that single devastated, horrified and betrayed look was needed to convey the truth of Morifinwë’s thoughts on this matter._

_The fourth son let out a low sound from the back of his voice, hoarse and rumbling, and then he spun on his heel and exited the room in a flurry._

_Leaving Makalaurë alone with his thoughts…_

His thoughts which never seemed to go away. The weariness of his endless duties set into his limbs, left them feeling as heavy as if slabs of stone carelessly nailed on to his dragging, exhausted body in place of arms and legs. His eyes felt the burn of fatigue, and his mind the light-headed haze of need for rest and recovery, and his fingers trembled so harshly that they could scarcely pluck out a melody upon his harp in those long hours, going clumsy and stiff as his vision blurred in and out of focus.

He needed sleep. His _wanted_ sleep. His body _yearned_ for sleep.

And yet, his mind had never been wider awake.

Round and round and round it went. Conjuring up the ghost of Fëanáro in Morifinwë’s face. Interrupting any lullaby’s melody with a never-ending chant of damning words. Imagining the truth of Nelyafinwë’s fate…

_What if he_ is _still alive?_ The very question made his limbs burn with white-hot adrenaline. His body squirmed upon its bed restlessly, hands clenching into the scratchy sheets. _What if he is waiting for a rescue that will never come?_

For all that Makalaurë knew he hadn’t a hope of imagining the kinds of suffering—the torments conceived of their Enemy’s creative, destructive mind—which Nelyafinwë may have experienced— _may still be experiencing!_ —he could well imagine himself in his brother’s place. Waiting and waiting and waiting. The faith that someone would come growing wane and pale in his heart, dying a little more each day.

Until, finally, the realization would set in. That there was no rescue. That he had been left for dead. That Angband would be his final resting place.

That no one cared.

Makalaurë would clench shut his eyes and see Nelyafinwë’s face—a visage bruised and beaten, a split lip and shorn hair, dull gray eyes filled with despair—looking back at him. He would see a mouth open, lips parting on desperate pleas for salvation, for help that would never come. He would see the horrible light of betrayal at last before eyes went dark and flat in death.

And he was wracked with pain. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. His hands tangled in his matted hair, slicked with sweat, and yanked and twisted.

Guilt. Remorse. Horror.

Doubt.

The words: _What if Morifinwë is right? What if he still lives, waiting?_

No matter how much his body screamed to sleep or how much his mind begged for respite, Makalaurë remained sleepless. His skin crawled and his bones ached and his thoughts ran in circles around themselves until he sat dizzy and nauseated. Overheated and too cold all at once. Weighted down as if with the world and yet shaky with the need to move. He could not close his eyes. He could not play his harp. He could not look at the stars.

He wanted to scream. And even that last outlet was denied.

So he sat in silence.

The knock on his door signaling that the next “day” had come was always a relief. Though his body sobbed in protest as he made to rise from his bed until his trembling limbs, he felt his mind slip out of its frenetic state and back into the focused knifepoint of the High King’s duties. The acid that ate away at his insides was washed away, the nausea departing, and once more he could think logically with sound reasoning.

He set aside all of the emotion. He set aside all of the doubt.

He banished the glaring of his brothers’ eyes and the sibilant lashes of their tongues. He chased away the specter of Nelyafinwë’s broken body and shattered eyes.

He forgot entirely. Just for a while.

Until the day was done again. Until it all came rushing back to choke his spirit with its invisible hands. Until he sat once more upon his bed in his nightshirt, staring off into space as his body warred between utter exhaustion and the need to run and run and never stop.

And the cycle went on. And the cycle went on.

And he wondered if it would ever stop.


	367. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opposing viewpoints of the nature of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 22, 2016.
> 
> Maiarin weirdness. Has Mairon (Sauron) and Uinen talking about water (our lovely chemical necessity), and its nature, through the lense of Númenor and its people at the beginning and at the end. Just me being weird with yet another prompt that has way too many possibilities.
> 
> Warnings: Some death (nothing explicit). Mentions of nudity, human sacrifice and blood-related rituals. Aquaphobia and aquaphilia.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Morgoth = Melkor

Uinen loved the water.

She loved the cool caress of its languid hands upon her raiment, rippling and bending around her body as she parted its heavy weight. She loved the flashes of light upon the waves as the sun set, an endless ocean of golden ribbons as far as the eye could see and, too, the abstract dance of refracted light upon the floor of shallow coves and near beaches, a constantly moving kaleidoscope of a thousand shades of cerulean and turquoise.

She loved to sit on the beach unclothed and dip her toes in the waves that sighed their way up upon the shores, reaching as if with a longing grasp for the land. Loved lying back and letting the tide come in around her until it lifted her back from the ground and carried her away upon its tides, the spray of seawater scattering upon her bare skin, tickling and hissing and curling in misty clouds of white.

But, perhaps most of all, she loved feeling the vast expanse as though it were part of her own body as though it were a massive limb bound irrevocably to her spirit. The currents writhing in the depths as her own veins beneath her flesh. The skimming of boats as brushstrokes upon her skin and the breaching of whales like butterfly kisses. The smallest fingertip’s touch like a breath of warm air and the pattern of children’s feet splashing along the beach tickling over her sides and knees.

She loved the water. And she wanted nothing more than to share her love. Her Song.

Perhaps that was how she found herself upon the isle of Númenórë. Of its beauty, she had heard rumor, and it was indeed a beautiful place in a broken world. The beaches were long and buried in the softest, finest white sands that clung between the toes. The inland was vibrantly green and plentiful in the way of fruits and flowers, a warm paradise welcoming its inhabitants back home. The cities, even, were lovely to behold in all their graceful, sloping white glory, an echo of the splendor of the white and silver cities of Aman.

The people were fisherman for the most part at first. Their boats were of the make of the mariners of the Falathrim, but the people were of the Aftercomers. Short-lived and burning bright. Like shooting stars in the darkest night.

Their joy drew her forth to its radiance. Their earnest smiles and simple lives made her heart embrace them as though they were her own. Ossë, perhaps, favored Círdan’s people on the shores of Middle-earth, but Uinen found her love with the children of the sea. With their short lives. With their plentiful children. With the beauty of their young love and their aging affection.

She often walked among them. At first, unseen in the body of a mortal woman. Just watching. Just breathing in their culture and their aliveness.

But, sometimes, she revealed her true nature. Arising from the waves as a sea goddess before their eyes. Her laughter brought men to their knees, her unclothed form drawing blushing stares of reverence. Her smile was like the open blue sky above a tranquil bay, sending peace into their hearts. She loved them all, but most she adored being amongst the children—so innocent and pure—who delighted in hunting for seashells. Her touch upon the waters would calm the waves, and she would watch the youngest learn how to swim at their parents’ breast with wide, affectionate eyes of coral and silver.

Her knowledge was not in the crafting of boats, but she taught them where to fish in what season and how to take, but not too much, so that they were balanced with the creatures of the sea. Their gazes filled with awe and wonder upon watching the whales make the surface of the sea were dear to her heart. Their smiles when they learned to sail out upon the bays and farther still simply for the delight of the sound of parting water and the sea-spray upon their faces gave her hope that there was still beauty in the ravaged world stained with Melkor’s filth.

She Sang to them, her voice speaking of the bell-tones of raindrops upon the ocean’s surface and the crescendo of waves sweeping inland with a hushed hiss of exhalation. Where her husband was the violence and wildness of the currents and the storms, she was the calm of a cloudless, breezy day, and her voice warmed the skin as the rays of Arien.

Her Song entranced them. Therefore, the Númenóreans favored Lady Uinen above all others—even the Valar—and they were her beloved children. Children of the water.

In the dying light of evening, she would pass inland up the river and rest upon the banks, listening to the sound of benediction rising in a thousand voices from their temples and homes. And, in their voices, she heard the echo of the Great Music. In the off-pitched joy of children just learning their vocal chords, and in the cutting soprano reaching the purest tones, and in the deepest of basses touching the core of the world, and in the raspy tones of the elders, and in the hopeful voices of the sickly and dying.

There was the happiness and the sorrow. There was the beauty and the ugliness. Experience and acceptance and dread and heartbreak and perfection in imperfection. There was _life_. 

And there was _water_. The sunshine’s reflection on the waves as it sank through the sky. The dark and churning depths spiraling ever down into blackness. The throbbing heartbeat of constant movement, of the million currents flickering in and out of existence. Waves screaming their death tolls upon the cliffs and sighing their demise on the beaches.

And she slowly came to realize that the water _was_ life. For, in its Music, she could hear suddenly the beating heart of the final theme, the theme of the Eruhíni.

And she loved to watch the people live.

\---

Mairon hated the water.

His innate nature was one of fire and heat. He was more comfortable bathing his body in the blood of the earth than in the cool slickness of the rivers and the seas. In all its incarnations, water seemed to be the bane of his existence.

He hated the coldness and fragility of snow—the tiny flakes could be exquisite, but they were flawed and faded so fast that they might as well have never existed at all. They landed upon his skin and melted and left cold droplets slinking down his flesh to soak into his clothes. He hated equally, though, the feeling of the liquid itself. It took so little heat to turn it to vapor that he could not even heat it enough to bathe in it without feeling as though he were being caressed all over with cold, slimy hands.

And there was just so _much of it everywhere._ Rain got in his hair and in his clothes and under his armor and wrinkled the skin of his raiment. It soaked into his boots and left them uncomfortably swollen and squishy with wetness. And it was in all food and drink as well, so he had to _consume_ it in order to enjoy the fine taste of rich, aged wine or to savor the tangy flavor of foreign fruits from the south upon his tongue. The very thought of water somehow flowing through his body—not to mention the nuisance of needing to piss afterwards—left him feeling a mite bit queasy.

So Mairon had a strong _dislike_ for water. He made his kingdom in Mordor, which had water but only sparsely. He spent his time in the forge with the company of flame, holed up within Orodruin where other living things would wither and burn. He would never willingly go near to the ocean, nor would he willingly step upon a boat and allow himself to be completely surrounded by the dreadful liquid on all sides.

Until he was “captured” and “held hostage” by the Númenóreans. The experience had been… trying.

It was bad enough that he needed to travel by ship to reach the island nation—it was almost repulsive enough to make him second-guess his plans altogether—but, when he arrived, he quickly discovered that all of their culture—economic and social alike—seemed to center around the thrice-be-damned liquid. At least during the trip back from the mainland he never needed to be within thirty feet of any physical water. But these strange men were fond of _recreational boating…_

Even just remembering how many times he had boarded a flimsy, tiny sailboat while courting favor with the King… it made his raiment shudder with discomfort.

But his plans required social integration. And the Númenóreans—for all that they had come to distrust the Valar and hold the Eldar in jealousy and contempt—still loved the water. They still adored swimming in the shallow coves and splashing about in the rivers. They still took joy and laughter in being doused by water as they perched as the helm of their fast-moving boats. Mairon had oft seen a man with his head thrown back and his hair wild, consumed with the sensation of the spray of the white, foaming waves washing up against his face, leaving behind the most minutely condensed dewdrops.

They loved the water.

So Mairon learned to sail and accompanied many members of the King’s Court on social outings. He went to the beaches and flirted with women and drank wine. He smiled at small children and tried not to wince as they flicked water from their wet hair and speckled his robes and skin. He even put his feet in the water. _Twice._

It was around that low point in his existence that he decided that he needed to do something about this love of water. As long as it remained, the taint of Ulmo—and worse, Uinen—lingered over these sea-farers like a rotting seaweed smell.

But slowly… Slowly, his plans had unfolded…

Slowly, he wormed his way into their trust.

Slowly, he turned them away from the last of their light. Slowly, he tempted them to darkness, the promise of their long-desired immortality resting upon his tongue as a valuable, stolen gem. And they lapped up his lies and deceit as a starving dog devours table scraps, so desperate were they for that gift which was not theirs to have.

Slowly, he worked his way up into a position of power. The advisor to the King.

And then, it took but a passing mention…

_“Thy people once revered Uinen, Lady of the Seas,” he commented lightly, tracing her carven likeness with a single finger. Her outline in silver and her headdress carved from coral and pearl. They were in a temple, one which they had been rebuilding for “new” worship. Obviously, they would need to do some redecorating…_

_Ar-Pharazôn gave him a searching look with those darkened gray eyes. “Many centuries past. As is written in the histories, she once was a friend of Númenor and taught us much water-craft and fishing-craft.”_

_Mairon hummed softly in the back of his throat. “She is a servant of Ulmo,” he said then. “It is said that her hair stretches across all the surfaces of water in the world. That she watches ever those who enter and leave her Lord’s domain. That no one who touches water can go unseen by her watchful gaze.”_

_The discomfort induced by his words was immediately evident. Humans were so terrible at hiding their body language. For all that the King’s face remained impassive, his body shifted ever so slightly in a way that denoted nervousness. A single hand, just beginning to show the veining of encroaching age, smoothed the King’s velveteen robes._

_“And dost thou believe such things?” the King asked._

_“It is but the truth.” And Mairon said no more._

He did not have to.

Though it was slow to take initially, he took pleasure in the new wariness with which the Númenóreans began to look upon the seas and the rivers. The rumor must have spread swiftly from the Court to the common people, for suddenly fewer people took to the waters for pleasure. The instinctive reaction to even the possibility that the Valar—the evil that had cursed them with aging and death, who sat in their haughty halls and scoffed down their noses as mortal men—were _spying_ on them whenever they touched the water, left many disconcerted and paranoid.

Besides, the people of Númenórë had a new deity to worship. They were beginning to forget about the water, instead directing their determination and focus towards the Darkness. Towards worship of Melkor.

Though it turned his stomach to speak reverently of his old master, it was still satisfying to watch the sea-faring nuisances fall apart at the seams. Their society began to crumble beneath the call for war, their craft turning to violence rather than productivity. Their beauty began to fail as he taught them ancient and forbidden black magic, rituals of human sacrifice and spilled virgin blood, rituals which granted all sorts of boons… for a cost. They were so eager for spells and enchantments, for potions that granted them physical prowess, for the promise of extended life by any means necessary, that they would do _anything_ he desired to achieve their goals.

_Anything._

And, in the end, the water they forsook destroyed them.

In the end, Mairon felt the wrath of his Father coming down upon his head in the form of a massive wave. Irony at the peak of its height and breadth. Its shadow bore down upon the island, all-encompassing and ready to devour. It was one of the few moments when Mairon felt something resembling true primal terror, watching as all of that water—tons and tons and tons of it, cold and vicious—spilled down and down in a spiral of destruction upon the isle. Sucking it underneath the waves.

And Mairon knew what it was to drown. He knew what it was to hear the throb of his heart in his ears as he struggled to claw his way back to the surface. He knew what it was to feel the icy, burning agony of sucking water into his lungs, to choke on it as he tried to cough it out only to inhale more and more. He knew the horror that was realizing that his body—filled and overwhelmed with water—was _sinking_ into the depths.

He knew what it was to see the ripple of light above his head—so close and yet so far away—as his world faded into blackness. Into cold and wet and exhaustion and pain. The vision of his raiment had grayed and gone dark. 

He hated water all the more in the wake of his suffering.

Because he knew then that the nature of water, for all that it could be as gentle as raindrops upon blades of grass and the babbling of small brooks through the forest, could equally be cruel and unforgiving. Swift and crushing and drowning.

Water could, too, be death.

And it had swallowed the island of Númenórë back into the depths from whence it had come. As though the white isle and its people had never existed in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Númenórë = Númenor  
> Eruhíni = Children of God (pl)  
> Eldar = people of the stars (pl) (elves of Aman)
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Falathrim = Coast people  
> Orodruin = Mountain of Red Flame (Mount Doom)


	368. Adamant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five glimpses of the Lady Galadriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 23, 2016.
> 
> So I fell asleep writing this. Which is why it's so bloody late. There'll still be another story today, but I wanted to finish this one up and polish it. Actually, it probably turned out better as a result of my _not_ being completely exhausted and sick.
> 
> Anyway, five different POVs of Galadriel (the first and last sections are the same POV with four others squished in the middle). I will blame this idea almost entirely on the gorgeous movie-verse!Nenya, which I simply could not bear to discard simply because Celebrimbor would likely never have made anything so feminine without the direct intent to give it to a female bearer.
> 
> Warnings: War and death. Foresight. Family issues and feels. Brief mention of sex. For the most part, though, it's pretty trigger-free in comparison to the usual.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro = Curufinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Galadriel = Artanis  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

The Noldor were a people built with wills of iron, tried and tested against pain and hardship, strong and true and noble. They were a strange people, a people of knowledge and of wisdom, of endless curiosity and bravery and loyalty. A people who would stand by their King unto death’s door and beyond with blazing silver fire alight in their eyes. But, beneath enough heat of cruelty or beneath enough cool and quenching kindness, they could still be warped and bent and snapped like twigs.

A few, it could be said, had wills of adamant. A few, it could be said, were something greater still than iron fortitude.

\---

The gall of that girl! _The gall!_

If Fëanáro had not been so angry, he might even have been impressed.

It was not often that he found a contender for strength of will. Most simply bent or broke beneath the force of his onslaught, caving to his whims without so much as a struggle. Not only was he the Crown Prince—none had higher status than he within the city of Tirion save only the King himself!—but he had a sort of domineering charisma that both fascinated and frightened all who were placed under its spell.

Rare was it that Fëanáro was denied anything he desired. The last person to outright oppose his will had been Nerdanel, and she had eventually become his wife.

Of course, Fëanáro had no interest in bedding or marrying his half-niece. He had no interest in her face, pretty enough though it was, or her body, which was taller than average but still built with willowy grace and poise. His attention was focused on one attribute and one alone.

_Her hair._

Like the mingling of the light of the Two Trees it was. The lustrous sheen. The radiant shine. The divine _glow._ He would have said that the strands were crafted of mother-of-pearl painted with the thinnest layer of molten gold, woven into the very finest and most flexible of threads. The locks seemed almost to be living things of their own, outshining their owner’s ivory skin and sky-colored eyes with ease.

It brought such great and beautiful thoughts into his mind to see it! Not since he had seen his wife’s nude body for the first time had he felt so utterly _inspired_ by some creation of the material world. He wanted to touch the strands, to feel their make and bend. He wanted to take them beneath his lenses and examine them up close. He wanted to find what it was that made them so beautiful, and he wanted to cage that same beauty within his own creations.

Without second thought, he had asked her for three strands of hair. A meager number, and easy enough to give. Most women would have been happy and flattered, all too eager to give their handsome and wild prince whatever it was he desired.

She had given him one look of contempt and said, “Thou dost presume much, my Lord Uncle.”

And she had walked away.

From _him._

From Curufinwë Fëanáro, Crown Prince of the Noldor.

Infuriated though he was, the Crown Prince could also admit—deep within the shadowy corners of his mind, out of the range of his fury—that there was something to be said for the strength of such a woman. When his temper had cooled and his clenched jaw relaxed, he had been able to appreciate her unyielding and open scorn of his arrogance.

He even managed a faint smile at the thought of her upper lip curled with contempt.

Such strength was rare indeed. She was something special amongst even the headstrong people of the Noldor. And there was something awe-inspiring in that infuriating truth that even Fëanáro could appreciate.

He would simply have to wear her down bit by bit. How hard could it be? She would break eventually.

_Was that not so?_

\---

Artafindë had never seen his baby sister cry.

She had not balked beneath the disapproval of her father and uncles and brothers when she had raised her voice beneath the torchlight of Fëanáro’s wrath, demanding to be heard. She had not flinched back from the dark and foreboding words cursing her and her people to ill fate should she fail to turn back and beg forgiveness for her sins. She had not shivered in wide-eyed terror as she looked upon the treacherous and terrible wasteland of Helcaraxë, knowing what hardship was to come should they set foot upon that unsteady, frozen ground.

When her brothers began to crack beneath the strain of their hardship and despair, she set her shoulders and held her head high against the biting winds clawing at her cheeks and gathering frost upon her brows and eyelashes. When the others came to Artafindë for words of comfort and reassurance, for a haven of safety against the cruelty of the world, she stood aside and watched thoughtfully.

_“Dost thou not wish for comfort? I would not begrudge thee that much, nésenya.”_

_Her blue eyes stared through him. Not cold and distant. But neither were they the glistening, molten pools of fear and desperation that had become so familiar a sight. Rather, they were affectionate with warmth belying the chill of the air around their bodies._

_“I need not comfort, for I linger not in despair. This suffering, terrible as it is, shall end one day. And the rewards will have been worth the pain and the sorrow for many.”_

_“Will they?” Even Artafindë was not certain._

_Yet, her smile was secretive and reassuring, a curl of unsullied petals. A drop of spring in an unforgiving ever-winter. “If it was easy to find the greatest of happiness, dost thou not think it would be a lesser gift than it is? Is not that greatest of joy be all the sweeter for the bitterness and the sorrow found upon the road to that happy end?”_

_He thought of Amarië then. Thought of her tight embraces. Of the sound of her laughter. Of how much he_ missed _her. And of how he had never realized just how much he loved her until she was no longer within his grasp._

_Of how he would love her tenfold as much when next his arms came around her and her lips pressed against his own._

_“Thou art wise, nésenya,” he replied then. “Didst thou grow up whilst I was looking away?”_

_She only laughed._

_And the strength in her eyes gave courage unto his heart._

Now, as they stood upon solid ground for the first time in so long, he felt her presence at his side once more. Beneath their eyes was the open land to the south and the wide stretches of mountains touching the pale sky. And, upon the horizon, was the rising of a golden disk of light, blindingly brilliant after so long in the dark. It rained down upon them, rays breaking through the thick gray of the clouds, catching in her hair and setting it aglow.

Her fingers brushed against his, and he grasped them tightly.

The bleakness of their future faded beneath the light of the first dawn. And Artafindë saw diamonds of light in his baby sister’s eyes.

\---

When Celebrimbor fashioned the final three Rings of Power, he had had a specific purpose in mind. They were not mere pretty trinkets made on a petty whim of his own arrogance and amusement. It had, in fact, always been his intent to give them to the great leaders of elven-kin in order to be used as protection against the Enemy slowly bearing down upon their defenses. It had been his intent to contribute in whatever way he could to the safety of his own people in the face of impending war.

Perhaps, it had also been his way of trying to redeem the House of his grandfather and father. Of trying to show the untrusting and wary Noldor that he was not a crazed murderer, and that the craftsmanship of his line could be used for good rather than leading always to ill fate.

The first ring he crafted was Vilya. He set a sapphire in the midst of a golden band, and his whispered incantations and prayers called upon Manwë Súlimo, the Blessed, Lord of the Skies, for protection and valiance in battle. This ring would be his most powerful creation, a last line of defense between the great kingdom of Lindon and all that might do them harm, and it would belong upon the finger of the High King of the Noldor.

The second ring he crafted was Narya. A ruby he placed in this band, and into it he poured all the heat and the passion and the unholy courage of the House of Fëanáro to rest as a buffer against the cold fingers of suffering and sorrow. It would not be as powerful as the first ring, but Celebrimbor had intended it for his own realm, and he did not need raw power over the ability to kindle his own fire in the hearts of all who fell under the ring’s spell.

The last made him hesitate. There were, of course, a number of other great lords and kings of the Elves still in Middle-earth. There was Círdan, the Lord of the Havens, who was so ancient and coated in wisdom that Celebrimbor thought he might have been among the first elves awoken upon the shores of Cuiviénen in the early Years of the Trees. There was King Oropher of Greenwood the Great to the east across the Hithaeglir, who was a mighty Sindarin lord of Doriath. And there was King Amdír of Laurelindórenan, yet another might lord amongst the kinfolk of Doriath, who lay as a last guardian of Anduin protecting the passage northward. Both of those Kings were closer to Mordor than any of the Noldorin realms, and he did not doubt that either could have used aid. Such aid to any of these lords who were not of his kin from across the sea would have helped forge alliances and mend the torn bonds that separated the Sindarin and Noldorin peoples. Would have united their forces and made them stronger in the face of their Enemy.

But he could not get his cousin’s eyes out of his head.

Galadriel, as she was called these days, was scarcely older than Celebrimbor in a count of years. She was a Noldorin princess married to a Sindarin prince. She was not the ruler or Lady of any particular realm. Truly, when he thought about it, he should be considering making a ring to give to her _husband_ rather than to _her._

Yet, there was something special about the Lady Galadriel. That much, he could not deny. Something about the timbre of her voice that held the will in thrall. Something about the wisdom of her eyes that made even the most ancient elves feel small and young. Something about the feel of her spirit that left even a son of the House of Fëanáro trembling in the wake of its scorching resilience.

If there was anyone that Celebrimbor wanted to be guarding his people from the oncoming Darkness, is was this Lady with her hair woven of Telperion’s dew and Laurelin’s rays. With her endlessly deep eyes and her smile that could raise the hearts of men from the deepest and darkest pits of despair.

He crafted his third ring, Nenya, to fit the hand of a woman. He worked with mithril instead of gold—sacrificing the small portion of the precious metal that Narvi had given him as a token of gratitude for his work upon the Gates of Khazad-dûm—and set in that band a stone of adamant to match her will—clear and pure and nearly indestructible. And over that stone, he gently shaped the impregnable metal into the soft curves of leaves and the graceful petals of a water lily, a comely and wistful reflection of the white flowers that lingered by the lake in the Gardens of Lórien across the sea.

It took him longer to finish his last and most beautiful creation. But, sweat-slicked and exhausted and out of breath, his tongue swollen and dry from his prayers to Ulmo and Uinen for guidance, he set aside the Ring of Adamant upon its blue, cushioned throne with triumph in his panting grin. She glowed like a star through the dim and fiery light of his forge.

There could be no other bearer for this work of art.

Only the Lady Galadriel would do.

\---

The days had grown long and dark.

And yet, they were still longer and darker for the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. For their only daughter, their precious child, had sailed across the sea to the Undying Lands.

Celeborn had been married to his wife for more than five thousand years. He had seen her in her greatest rage, so glorious and yet terrible to look upon in her garish raiment that men’s hearts quailed at its sight. He had seen her in her greatest joy, cradling their newborn child against her breast and smiling with sweat even still upon her brow, still in her damp hair, and weariness overshadowed by wonder in her blue eyes. He had seen her in the midst of passion, her face normally so serene then flushed with pleasure as she writhed beneath his body in bliss, all her distant grace replaced with tantalizing movement and pale skin and molten heat.

But he had never seen her cry. Not until this day.

Her tears should never have touched the mortal realm. They burned like brands against his skin as he pulled her close and rested her head upon his shoulder. Each sob of her breath seemed to wrap its hands about his heart and twist and tug until he felt short of breath with agony.

Helplessly, he could only press her tighter against his chest. He could only try desperately to stifle the heat boiling up at the corners of his own eyes, the stinging pain forming behind his nose, and the blurry wetness that warped his vision. Right now, he needed to be strong for his wife in her moment of weakness. Right now, he needed desperately to be the one _she_ needed.

His chin rested atop her head. “Galadriel…”

She made no indication that she had heard his voice, but he continued on despite. “Thou dost not have to stay, meleth-nín. Thou couldst go across the sea. I know… I know thou dost wish to return home. To thy parents and thy white cities and thy evergreen lands. Now to thy daughter as well...”

He swallowed the knot in his throat. “Thou dost not need to stay for me. Or for anyone else.”

Her spirit moved against his, a golden- and silver-laced light that felt so very warm and tender, yet equally cold and distant. “But do I not need to stay?” she asked softly, hoarsely. “Is it not my duty to remain in Middle-earth until my fate is spent? Am I not needed here?”

They both knew she was. And yet… “No one would blame thee.”

_For thy weakness._

They both knew that Galadriel was ever a creature of strength. She plowed through hardship and through sorrow as the cliff upon which their powerful, drowning waves break. And Celeborn knew before she even spoke that she would never allow herself to surrender to any weakness—to break—when her nature was so innately unbreakable. She would not allow herself to leave when she was needed, would not abandon those under her care when they desperately needed her strength.

Upon her finger, Nenya was a silver and white light. And Celeborn wished he could have ripped it away and broken it upon the floor beneath his foot. Alas, such action would not even have dented the ring, nor would it have changed his wife’s fate.

It was too late for that.

She cried but once. And, when her head arose from his shoulder, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry. And the sorrow which had twisted and contorted her features was now put aside. The serenity was returned, and yet felt a little colder and a little harsher than it had previously been. The light of her hair was less golden and warm beneath the stroke of his fingers, the silvered sheen biting instead with sharp teeth of bitter cold.

“I will not break before the Enemy’s assault. Not now and not ever.” She stood and pulled herself from his arms, and Celeborn felt bereft. “The Lady Artanis of the House of Finwë will not fall before the pitiful servant of Morgoth, Sauron.”

Celeborn shivered beneath her gaze. For it was sharp as the blade of a knife against his throat.

And then he reached out to grasp her hands. Nenya touched his bare skin like a brand. “Of course thou wilt not,” he agreed. “But still, let thyself grieve and mourn. I already know that thou dost possess a will of adamant. Now show me the heart of gold I fell in love with, hervess-nín. Galadriel.”

And the cold withdrew slowly from her sky-eyes. Her lips tasted of golden light and left warmth soaking into his flesh. “Forgive me, Celeborn.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

She was far stronger than he could ever hope to be. And far braver and more noble. For all that he tried to be her comfort, he knew that he needed her strength far more than she would ever need his.

And that, perhaps, was what damned them in the end.

\---

As Eärwen held her only daughter, her youngest child, in her arms, she knew that this babe was among those made of something greater.

She had seen much the first time she looked into the innocent, child-like blue eyes and stroked her fingers through the twined silver and golden curls of the child’s barely-grown hair. This babe had the silver of her Telerin blood and the gold of her father’s Vanyarin heritage, yet there was no denying that the blood which flowed through those veins would be as Noldorin as the blood of Finwë Noldorán himself!

In that moment, the Princess of Alqualondë, the wife of Arafinwë, could have named her daughter. The amilessë apakenyë. A mother-name of foresight.

But she withheld her voice, instead looking down upon her child to avoid her husband’s radiantly joyful gaze. The images she had seen felt too private. Too secret. Too damning.

Though she could have named her child for the powerful and beautiful and immeasurably strong woman that this babe would become, Eärwen held her tongue and instead decided to wait. She held out her swaddled daughter and watched as the child was scooped into her husband’s arms with the careful and practiced ease of a man made a father five times over again.

“Artanis,” he named her in the Noldorin dialect. “She is radiant, Eärwen. Perfect.”

“That she is,” the Princess of Alqualondë agreed. “That she is.”

_And she will be great._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> nésenya = my sister  
> Súlimo = Lord of the Breath of Arda  
> Noldorán = King of the Noldor  
> amilessë apakenyë = mother-name of foresight
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Hithaeglir = Misty Mountains  
> Laurelindórenan = Valley of the Singing Gold (another name of Lothlórien)  
> meleth-nín = my love  
> hervess-nín = my wife


	369. Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The idea of procreation is a new concept for the Ainur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 24, 2016.
> 
> So, this is a Thingol and Melian story. I kind of hate how much beef they get for not letting their daughter run off and get married to a stranger--a mortal stranger at that--because they care about her. So I'm writing something sweet for them which shows how much their daughter means to them. Not to say that the darker aspect of their relationship doesn't exist (*cough* Enchantment *cough*), but there is good stuff in their relationship, too.
> 
> Warnings: Pregnancy and non-explicit childbirth. Some mention of internal organs.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Thingol = Elwë  
> Melian = Melyanna

The Ainur were made, not born.

They were created in the Timeless Halls as “adults” in that their spirits did not need to grow nor their minds develop before they reached their full power and intellectual potential. They came into being with the capacity to understand and speak languages, to think rationally and logically, to understand complex and layered topics. There was no material raiment which encapsulated their essence such that they were mentally or physically handicapped by its development, such that they were kept in a weakened state as their body worked to morph from something tiny and squishy and helpless to the final state of perfection.

Thus, until she spent time among the Sindar, Melyanna had never seen a baby.

Oh, she knew that the birds and beasts of the world reproduced in that way, producing tiny copies of themselves which slowly matured into adults. She had seen baby rabbits and baby birds, little miniatures of their parents which relied on their progenitors for food and shelter and protection. But she had not even given thought to how the Children of Ilúvatar might reproduce, whether or not they would be as the fauna.

It seemed that that was the case. Melyanna had, at first, been confused by the females with their rounded, swollen bellies, thinking them perhaps to be sickened. Especially when it seemed that the extra weight put strain on their bodies in unusual and unpleasant ways, causing swollen joints and sore backs and nauseated stomachs. Then, at some point, there would be quite a bit of pain and loss of bodily fluids before the female reappeared back in her slender state.

Yet, she had quickly discovered the correlation between that roundness, the onslaught of loud and agonizing childbirth, and the appearance of an infant.

More so than that, she recognized—as she observed more closely—that the whole process was surrounded by a strange sort of joy. For all its seeming discomfort, the womenfolk seemed so enamored with their upcoming offspring, graceful hands stroking to and fro across their bellies with adoration and smiles working their way onto tired but glowing faces with downcast eyes. She watched how they would speak to their unborn children, as though the infant could hear and understand their words—and Melyanna had realized soon enough that the babes could _hear_ , but they had no capacity to _understand_ as would a newly born ainu—and how they would close their eyes with their hands pressed atop the swell, resting as if feeling the essence of their child’s spirit moving beneath their flesh.

And she watched how mates interacted. How the males seemed every bit as enamored with their mates and prospective children as did the females. How they cooed at the unborn child, their broad hands pressed over and cradling under the distended belly of their mate. How their lips would brush against the swell, their voices echoing against the skin. How they would rest their ear against the bump and close their eyes, listening.

How their eyes would be filled with such joy.

Her curiosity led her to exploration, for this was a new discovery she did not fully understand. At first, she merely watched the expecting mothers from a distance, for she did not want to seem invasive and unknowledgeable. Yet, ever did she wander closer and closer, her eyes fixed upon where she knew the baby rested in its mother’s womb. Her fascination was not easily quenched.

And it must have been more obvious that she had realized, for she found herself caught beneath the eyes of one such mother. Startled, the maia made to retreat with poise and dignity, only to find that her subject had grasped her hand softly.

“Wouldst thou like to feel the baby move, Rîs-nín?” the woman asked, her ancient eyes shockingly knowing in the face of Melyanna’s innocence.

Without saying anything else, she nodded her head.

And her hand was gently pressed against the roundness. It was not at all squishy, but rather firm and shaped and smooth. Her palm stretched across its surface, only a thin layer of fabric between her flesh and the mother’s surprising warmth. And Melyanna reached inwards with her mind as well, her spirit brushing outwards in gentle strokes, teasing against the edges of the expectant mother’s fëa first, then delving beneath the elven raiment to this strange being hiding beneath layers of flesh and spirit.

Against her mind, she felt a stirring. At the same time, beneath her widespread fingers, she felt the infant move.

Her gasp brought an adoring smile to her subject’s lips, but Melyanna was too enamored to be embarrassed by the crack in her façade of nobility and grace. Against her mind, she felt a strange cocktail of pure joy, unconditional love, and innate curiosity. Without fear and without cunning, the baby was reaching out to her, exploring her presence even as she explored it—her—in turn. And Melyanna, in return, felt herself consumed with the simple and untainted beauty. Of all the things in this world, the Song of the unborn child was the purest, lightest one she had heard, completely free of the taint of Melkor.

No creation of the Ainur could ever hope to compare.

The mother raised her own hands, cupping the bulge of her child from underneath. “She seems to like thee greatly, Rîs-nín. It is rare that she moves so much for a stranger’s touch.”

Slowly, Melyanna pulled away. “She is beautiful.” What else could she have said?

And the woman flushed beneath the compliment. “Thank you,” she whispered, blue eyes dropping shyly. “Art thou thinking of having a child of thy own? Should we be expecting a young prince or princess soon, heryn-nín?” Surprisingly, the woman seemed excited at the prospect.

Melyanna paused at the thought. Until that moment, she had not really considered having children with Elwë, for the whole concept had been a sort of novel and foreign ritual of the Eruhíni to her mind. Yet, she could not deny that the thought of a child in her womb— _Elwë’s child_ in her womb—was a startlingly wondrous thought. To carry and give birth to new life, to have their son or daughter within the nest of her body and spirit, to place her hands upon the swell of _her own_ child and feel the babe move and reach out at the gentleness of her touches…

To watch the joy in Elwë’s eyes like a thousand stars and feel his head rest softly against their unborn child…

She had not realized how much her heart desired a child of her own.

“Perhaps,” she answered softly.

Perhaps there would be a little prince or princess yet in their future.

\---

The Ainur were not made to procreate as did the Children of Ilúvatar.

Their bodies were but a slip worn over the true might of their spirits, a veil that gave them tangible form in the material world and dulled the resplendence of their light and heat such that it could be gazed upon by mortal beings. Unless they chose to take a form which contained all the inner working and necessary parts, they would not be capable of things like the consumption of food and drink—that required a fully functional digestive system—or of sexual intercourse and reproduction—the former required only the necessary external parts, but the later required a fully-functional reproductive system. Thus, in reality, the raiment they donned was more as an illusion than an actual _body._

It, therefore, took a while for Melyanna to figure out how to build herself a form that contained all the necessary parts. Several discussions with the healers and the womenfolk were required to get the inner organs right such that there was a chance she might conceive with her husband.

But, when they finally managed the feat, she couldn’t have been happier.

Though it was not natural to her being, Melyanna took great pleasure in the feeling of the newly-sparked fëa lingering somewhere beneath her still-flat belly. The physical form of her child was barely the size of a grain of sand then, but she could still feel it growing within her, her own awareness of her inner workings such that nothing went unnoticed. She needed to carefully mimic the correct hormonal changes that accompanied pregnancy, needed to be aware of how her body should change and alter every step of the way, but the hassle of monitoring her physical form so closely was easily outweighed by the way she could watch her child morph and grow slowly, day-by-day. 

Until there was a second heartbeat beneath her flesh echoing and echoing in her thoughts. Until tiny fingers began to form. Until the baby could hear the lullabies she whispered beneath her breath under the stars.

The maia waited patiently for the time when she would first feel her child move within her body. Her baby was growing big enough now to show, though not by much. Enough that she suspected at least the womenfolk beyond her own handmaidens had now noticed the change. The secretive smiles and knowing eyes made the Queen’s heart skip a beat within her chest.

It was then that she felt the first little flutter.

The tiny movement had caused her to pause in the midst of her walking, her physical form frozen in the middle of the hall. Her maidens wove around her in confusion—their concerned voices were secondary in her mind, a mixture of meaningless bell-tones ringing in her ears—but Melyanna was too focused on the tiny little movements to comprehend what was being asked. She was too absorbed with the new feeling beneath her skin.

Because her baby was moving on its own. It was its _own being._

She and her husband had created new life.

Melyanna had created things before. She had created the nightingales and their dancing flight and their echoing, entrancing voices. She had created a variety of flowers that grew in the darkness of the Hither Lands and glowed beneath the stars. She had Sung into being the hour of twilight where pale grayness and stillness rested over the world as a blanket of peace.

But she had never created something so pure and perfect as this. Though it had not been conceived of her own thoughts and shaped into physical form by her voice, Melyanna felt nonetheless that it was by her hand and her husband’s that this droplet of beauty in a world of darkness was come into realization.

She had never felt such awe. Not even for the Great Music.

With a sigh, she continued on her walk.

It was almost a month hence, though, before she could feel the child’s movement with her own hand. Eager though she was to share this wonder with her mate, she said nothing of movement until she was certain that the stirring could be felt through flesh. A strange sort of giddy excitement was building in her stomach, fluttering to and fro with soft moth’s wings, as she contemplated Elwë’s reaction to feeling his baby—his _daughter_ —move at his touch.

The moment one of her handmaidens felt movement—and their excitement was almost greater than her own as they each took turns feeling the baby squirm and kick beneath Melyanna’s watchful and indulgent gaze—Melyanna felt her insides turn to mush with both nerves and bliss. It was in the evening in her bathing chambers, and so she knew her husband would return to her soon. Still, it took all her strength and patience to wait for his kingly duties to be done, for their retreat to their chambers, before she told him of the new development. 

The moment they were ensconced and alone, her excitement overtook her.

As she sat down upon the bed she shared with Elwë, she grasped her husband’s powerful hand and rested it upon the now quite apparent swell of their child. At her strange and unexpected direction, his eyes grew questioning and wide, their blue lightening with curiosity when his palm lay flat over the curved surface of her belly, its heat soaking into her flesh.

“Feel our daughter move, Elwë,” she whispered.

For, beneath her flesh, their daughter sensed the presence of her father and heard her mother’s lilting voice. And the unborn child began to come alive from her evening nap. From where her hand rested beside her husband’s, Melyanna could feel the kicking against her fingers, little outwards pushes that felt as barely-there nudges from without.

“Aiya, Eru…” Elwë’s voice was not more than a shallow breath of air. And she knew that he could feel their child move as well. His wide-eyed gaze was fixed upon his hand where it rested over their creation. “Melyanna…”

His smile was everything she had wished for and more. His eyes were so very bright and beautiful, veiled in the sheen of soft tears.

As though she could hear her father’s voice, the child nudged again.

And Elwë’s laughter came out with half a sob. Quickly, for his knees seemed to have gone weak, he lowered himself to kneeling at his wife’s feet, both hands now cradling their daughter.

“I can feel her,” he said with awe. “We are going to have a daughter, Melyanna.”

“Yes,” she replied, reveling in the taste of the child’s untainted curiosity and love, and in her husband’s brilliant bursts of wonder. She cradled his cheeks within her palms, taking in the familiar heat of his bare skin upon her own, and she looked straight into his eyes. Into the blue depths that burned with the light of the Trees, swirling with pure joy. At the long, pale lashes were dappled with tiny, crystalline droplets of water.

“We are going to have a daughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Rîs-nín = my Queen  
> heryn-nín = my lady
> 
> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> Eruhíni = Children of God (pl)  
> Aiya = exclamation sort of like Oh!  
> Eru = God


	370. Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegnor knows falling in love with a mortal is a terrible idea, but he does it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 25, 2016.
> 
> Well, I'm about a day behind now. We'll see if I can't get myself caught up, ne~ Anyway, this is basically just fluff with a bit of depressing angst. But mostly fluff. I was looking at Aegnor/Andreth fanart on dA yesterday, and it is that which I blame for this piece.
> 
> Warnings: People being in love. Cultural differences. Elf/mortal relationships.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro = Ambaráto

There were a thousand reasons why this was a _bad idea._

And Aikanáro was ignoring every single one of them. Steadfastly.

But really, who could have blamed him?

The Lady Andreth had invited him to meet her at the shores of Aeluin on the morn at dawn. He still shivered at the memory of her voice trying to say his lilting Quenya name, how he reveled in her flushed cheeks as she stumbled over the flowing, lyrical word filled with unusual vowels and stresses. How he gave her his brightest smile and gently corrected the pronunciation.

How she smiled back at him, sending burning warmth shooting through his veins. All the way down to his fingers and toes, leaving them tingling. Through his heart, sending it pounding in the back of his throat, echoing in his ears. All the way up to his cheeks, filling them with a hot flush of blood.

Her full upper lip was tempting him with the urge to kiss her right then and there.

But Aikanáro was a prince, born and raised, and he would not kiss a maiden before declaring his intent to court her and marry her. And therein, of course, lay the problem.

She was a mortal woman. One of the Atani. Her life would be a short burst of vitality and a long, lingering gray death. And then she would be gone, as though she had never existed. Like a poisoned knife buried in a festering wound, her mortality would sit in the back of his mind, killing him slowly droplet by droplet.

Loving something so fleeting was suicidal for a race that could die of heartbreak.

Yet, at the sight of her smile, he still said “yes”.

And, despite how wisdom would direct his path otherwise, he still appeared the next morning, sitting upon a rock and staring into the pristine water of the lake in which he had first seen her reflection beneath the stars. The golden-haired prince had not bothered to braid his hair as he normally would have done when carrying out his duties and patrols, and he had brought only a small knife hidden in his boot rather than hefting around his sword upon his hip and his bow and quiver upon his back. He had not even donned light mail beneath his tunic. If any of his brothers had seen him wandering about in the open thusly, even in an area he knew to be rather safe and well-protected, they would probably have scolded him harshly for his foolishness.

But were not all those in love foolish?

Truly, Aikanáro knew that nothing between himself and the mortal woman could last. Really, truly, he knew that. He knew that he was only causing himself _more pain_ by encouraging his love for Andreth to grow rather than choking it out beneath the overarching shadow of his duties and logic. He knew that they could never marry—could never be together as man and wife—that he had nothing to offer this woman but a long, lonely life of waiting for an elf-lord who would never ask her hand in marriage.

All these things, he _knew._

And yet, his heart treacherously whispered against slashing the woman out of his life. For did he not deserve some small amount of happiness in these dark times?

Just for today, he wanted to be happy. Even if that meant weeping and agony tomorrow. Even if that meant turning his back and walking away. Even if that meant slowly fading into oblivion as the sickness in his heart grew and strangled out his light.

He wanted today.

“I didn’t think thou wouldst actually come.”

Her voice startled him slightly. _Thou shouldst have been paying attention!_ Mentally, he chastised himself for his inattention. _What if she had been an orc!_

Yet, all annoyance was quickly washed away when he turned and beheld her heart-shaped face. The sun was reflecting off the lake, and instead of hair filled with stars, he could see the golden light catch upon the deep mahogany and copper tones of her dark locks. Where, in the dimness of night, her eyes appeared only dark, they were now rich chocolate run through with the softness of pale green emerald and flecks of sunlight.

His eyes caught on her lips, soft and flushed the softest shade of red. Again, the urge to kiss her. But he resisted.

“Good morning, Lady Andreth,” he greeted softly, standing to his full height. Beside him she seemed so very small and delicate despite being tall amongst the womenfolk of her race. It only gave him the urge to wrap his arms about her and press her against his chest. “Of course I am here. It would be most dishonorable to break my word, especially to such a lovely lady.”

And there was the blush. It was such a lovely shade of pale pink. He wanted to trace its line with his mouth.

The noise she made was an odd mixture of a squeak and a sigh, but her smile turned cheeky and the cutest dimples sat upon her cheeks. “Yes, of course. I did not mean to doubt thee, my Lord. I simply doubted thy interest in being dragged about by an over-eager daughter of Men.”

“There are worse things I could be doing,” he teased back without thinking. “I would not mind being thy prisoner for a day.”

“My prisoner then,” she agreed, reaching out to grasp at his hand in a way which would have been entirely inappropriate had they been in Tirion. Aikanáro had to stifle the mortified, giddy blush that wanted to turn his cheeks bright red and hot. But he did not pull away, though his brain insisted that such hand-clasping was for courting couples and he ought be behaving as the proper prince he had been raised.

“I thought we could go and visit the village,” she said, completely oblivious to his turmoil over a simple hand-hold. “Thou didst say thou hadst never seen a village of Men, so I thought we could explore. It is not terribly fantastic—probably nothing compared to the great cities of elves—but it’s home. Besides, the barn cat just had kittens, and we should go and see them because the baby animals are always so much fun. And I can prove to my cousins that I am not imagining thee. None of them believe that I have befriended an elven warrior.”

As if Aikanáro would have protested. He would have done whatever she wanted if she would just keep holding his hand and smiling up at him with more brilliance than Anar, her whole being overflowing with enough ebullience to raise his dour heart to soft and lighthearted joy.

“Just be prepared: the children haven’t ever seen anything quite like an elf before, especially not with such pretty hair,” she continued as she grasped a lock with her free hand and tugged gently. _And it was both horrifying and wonderful. And so absolutely inappropriate!_ “They probably will want to touch it, and they shall ask all sorts of questions. It is best just to humor them.”

Aikanáro cleared his throat. “I think I shall survive, my Lady. I have faced worse enemies than a pack of inquisitive adolescents.”

“Good! Let us go then!” And she set off, practically dragging him in her wake by the hand.

And the elf stripped off his princely duties and demeanor and rules, leaving them abandoned back there upon the shores of the lake to be reclaimed later. Just for today, he would not Ambaráto Aikanáro Arafinwion, Prince of the Noldor and Lord of Dorthonion. Just for today, he was Aikanáro, the foolish young elf who dared to fall in love with a simple, lovely mortal girl. Just for today, there would be hand-holding and lock-pulling and the simple joy of being together without all the forces of the world pulling them apart.

Just for today.

And if he ended up covered in downy kitten fur, sitting cross-legged in the dirt as he wove tales for the young village boys and endured having his hair braided by the blushing young village girls, well… he had had much worse. Andreth was at his side, leaning against him and listening with rapt attention to his words, her eyes filled with adoration and wonder. And her lips were curved just so. Just so.

And he could not help but think that the memory of her joyful smile was worth every drop of suffering the world could offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Atani = Race of Men (pl)  
> Anar = the Sun  
> Arafinwion = Son of Arafinwë


	371. Awaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegnor knew it was going to end eventually. But it still hurts like a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 26, 2016.
> 
> Still a day behind. LOL. Anyway, this is a continuation of Today. Only much more depressing and shit. I guess I've moved past my brief bout of sentimental whimsy and returned to my normal tragedy-loving ways. Also, this makes a pretty blatant reference to dialogue from the LotR movies. Because I'm a total nerd like that. But really though.
> 
> Warnings: Tragic love. Hand-kissing. Not much else.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro  
> Finrod = Artafindë

Dreams were oft a place of safety. A paradise within which there was no suffering and no hatred and no sorrow to darken the heart. Whether in waking or in sleep, they served as a haven that offered only happiness and joy to its ward.

But dreams were not reality. And, eventually, all dreams must end.

\---

“You knew that it could not be from the very start. _Why_ wouldst thou tempt thyself thusly, Hanno? _Why?”_

As Aikanáro watched his eldest brother pace to and fro, he felt a strange, acidic burn in the back of his throat. Suddenly, his lips were too dry to impart words, his tongue too swollen to form consonant shapes and his throat too tight to force forth the vowels. Normally, when Artafindë lectured him, he had indignation burning brightly in his breast, the knowledge that he was in the right and had done nothing to deserve his scolding.

This time there was no indignation. This time, there was a hint of shame resting cold and heavy in the pit of his belly.

Guilty as charged.

Yet, after a few moments of tense silence, he still found it within himself to bring forth the truth with a soft, choked voice. “I just wanted happiness. To break the bleakness of the barren stretches of rocky earth and the constant stream of choking smoke from the North. To combat the nights where I cannot sleep for the screams of the dying roaring in my ears or the phantom bite of ill wind beating against my body.”

Artafindë paused, facing away. But Aikanáro could see the faint tremble in his brother’s hands. And he continued on.

“I just wanted to be happy. And Andreth’s smile… it lights up the whole world.”

 _She is my light_ , he wanted to say. _My light._

Artafindë’s head lowered, broad hands raking through his golden locks harshly. “Aiya, Hanno… What shall we do with thee?”

 _Leave us be. Let us be happy while it lasts_ , he wanted to plead.

But Aikanáro said nothing. He knew better than that.

“Thou shouldst release her from thy love’s thrall,” his brother said softly. “It is cruel to keep her affections as thou hast, knowing that nothing shall come of her endeavors to woo thee or vice versa. Would it not be a kinder fate to…?”

_To let her go? To send her back amongst her own people where she rightfully belongs?_

Aikanáro winced, and his heart gave a painful throb. The chill of shame sharpened, stabbing upwards through his core. He knew that his brother was right.

Because, no matter how much he wanted to keep living in this beautiful, perfect dream, he could not deny that it could never come to full fruition. There would never be any marriage. There would never be any children. To keep Andreth’s love—to prevent her from moving on and finding a man of her own race who could give her a home and a family and a _future_ —would be to leave her barren in his wake.

He would not have her devote her life and her love to him, not when he could give her nothing in return but his own distant, cold affection. Not when he would _ruin_ her utterly.

“Aye,” Aikanáro agreed softly, voice pale and shattered. “It would be kinder.”

But it would hurt. _So much._

The prince squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the sudden, treacherous burn of tears teasing at his lashes. His brows furrowed upwards sharply, painfully contorted and twisted to match the scrambled and tangled feelings writhing in his mind. Against his palm, he felt the bite of his fingernails pushing into his own flesh as teeth trying to carve out the agony of the mere _thought_ of turning his back upon Andreth’s bright spirit and her sweet smiles and her warm hands and her golden-flecked doe eyes.

She was all he ever had wanted. He did not need the finery and status of his princely birth. He did not need a manor house or a palace to live in, nor did he need jewels and rich silks to wear. He would have been happy learning to farm or working as a trapper or hunter for the village, a simple man with a simple life. No complications. No duties. Just him and her and their love.

But Aikanáro had been born a Prince of the Noldor. And it was time to stop pretending otherwise.

It was time to awaken from the dream.

Even when he felt the grasp of his brother’s hand upon his shoulder, squeezing tightly as if to at once support and reassure, he still felt as though all the air had been banished from his lungs. It was hard to _breathe_ when he thought of what he must do.

Armies he had faced without fear. Death he had looked in the eye. Blood he had shed and skulls he had cleaved upon his sword. Battles he had survived, again and again and again. He was the Fell Fire, a demon who left his opponents destroyed in his wake and sent the weak of heart fleeing before his unholy, ruthless fire. He was a great and courageous warrior whom many aspired to follow and whom many respected deeply.

But he did not know if he had the courage to do this. Truly, he did not.

“Tell her that I have sent thee away,” Artafindë said finally, as if Aikanáro’s turmoil were written out upon his face to be read word for word. “Tell her that thou art being sent to the other end of Dorthonion on orders from thy brother. Tell her that thou hast no choice. It is an easy thing to keep thee apart for a century, just until the end of her natural lifespan. It would be… the most painless option.”

It made Aikanáro feel sick. But he nodded in agreement nonetheless.

Because, for all that the thought of being apart was painful, the thought of being together and stricken with loveless grief was a thousand and tenfold times worse. He would rather face the endless annals of time alone than bring their love to ruin.

And her smile would live on for eternity.

\---

“I do not understand.”

Her hand around his own was pulled tight. The power in her muscles was not enough to exert the force necessary to crush his bones, but it still felt uncomfortable when she applied more pressure. Her desperation and fear made her body stronger. “Aikanáro, I do not understand! Why art thou doing this?”

“What is there to misunderstand?” he asked sharply, wishing he could instead pull her into his arms and kiss her and tell her it was all a lie. “I must go. I have a duty to my people. _I must go.”_

“Then let me come with you.”

By the Valar, he wanted so badly to say “yes”.

But not this time. Not this time.

“I have nothing to offer thee,” he argued, voice low and hoarse. “I cannot marry thee in the eyes of my people or thine. I cannot give thee a home or a family. I would not have thee scrounge thy life away chasing my shadow, suffering loneliness and scorn in exchange for mere droplets of my affection.”

“What if I would rather have those mere droplets of affection in the stead of a simple life? Instead of a husband and a handful of children? Instead of growing old with my spouse in the way of mortal men?” Her hand tugged at his own, raising it up to her lips so that she might press a kiss against his knuckles. “What if I would choose whatever life might lie between us in the stead of what lies in wait for me here?”

Aikanáro pressed his eyes shut. He could not bear to see the determined fire that brought out the gold in her eyes, alighting them with a caramel hue. She was just so beautiful, and her strength was everything he could ever want, and it would be so _easy_ to be selfish…

“I would tell thee that thou art a fool,” he whispered. “Thou dost say that thou art willing to suffer now, but what in ten years? In twenty? In _fifty?_ When no satisfaction or happiness comes, when the time for thee to hold a babe in thy arms is passed and thou hast nothing to thy name but an attachment to an ancient and dour elven lord—what then?”

He shook his head. “I would have thee remember our short time together in fondness, remember our joy and our love. I would have thee go back to thy people where thou dost belong and make thyself new happiness. I would have memory of our love be a beautiful and pristine thing, untainted by the sorrow and resentment of a hundred years of disappointment.”

“And what of _thee?”_ she asked. “Dost thou love me so little that thou wouldst cast me aside with such ease, my Lord?”

It was akin to being stabbed, hearing those words depart her beloved lips which he had ever longed for but had never tasted. How could he explain to her what she meant to him? How could he explain to her that there would be no moving on? How could he make her understand that he wanted her to have the chance at happiness that he would never, ever have?

“Thou wilt always be my first and only love,” he told her softly. He gripped her hand and lifted it to his mouth, mirroring her kiss to his knuckles with his lips upon her own. “We love with the fierceness and fullness of our beings but once. A love alike to ours, I shall never experience again whilst I exist within this realm. _Never.”_

Her eyes turned wide. “But then why throw it away? _Why?”_

 _Because I love thee too much to be selfish_ , he wanted to say. _Because I love thee too much to deny thee happiness. Because I would face all the suffering the world has to offer to make sure that thou dost not lose thy smile._

“Because this is the world we live in,” he told her instead. “Because our romance was a dream. And now we must awaken and go back to reality’s cold embrace. As with all dreams, ours, too, has come to an end.”

And it was so hard to look and see the shimmer of tears turning her eyes liquid with sorrow. It was so hard not to flinch when clear trails dripped down her cheeks, the hot tears staining her perfection. It was so hard, knowing that he was causing her grief, that he was the source of her weeping.

But it would not last forever. Not for her.

“Please, cry not,” he begged her, stroking his free hand over her cheek, collecting the scalding heat of her tears upon his fingertips. “Please, be happy.”

There, on the shores of the lake where he had first seen her beauty beneath the starlight and in the water, he pressed their brows together and shut his eyes. There was only the soft sound of the wind breaking over the lake and the soft sounds of her hiccupping breaths in his ears. Only the evergreen smell of the pine forests and her sweet natural scent upon his breath. All the perfect and beautiful things in the world. All the things he was leaving behind.

_For her… only for her…_

And then he pulled away. Bereft. He lost the warmth of her body against his chest. He lost the comforting embrace of her hand about his own. Between them, the few feet of empty air gaped wider than the Belegaer. The insurmountable wall that had always stood between them. That could no longer be ignored.

Aikanáro turned away from her. And he did not say goodbye. His heart sang already in lamentation of what would never be.

Yet, in the end, he knew this to be the right path.

He had had his day in paradise. Now, he would have his life of suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Hanno = Brother  
> Aiya = exclamation like Oh!  
> Belegaer = great sea


	372. Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case of mistaken identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 27, 2016.
> 
> Maglor finding Elwing's twins, but written from Elrond's POV. This one is most closely related to New Direction, but I would say that it has close ties to Repeat as well. Basically explaining why Elros and Elrond don't realize that Maglor is actually one of the leaders of the elves who carried out the Third Kinslaying.
> 
> Warnings: non-graphic description of murder. It's heard, not seen. Also, general misunderstanding and simplification of the world. It's from the POV of an elf barely above toddler-age.

When Elros and Elrond were little, their ada told them stories about angels.

_“Ainur,”_ their nana would correct smartly.

_“My father always called them angels,”_ their ada would insist. _“He said that they were the most beautiful beings in the world, with eyes made of starlight and voices so pretty that they make men weep for their beauty.”_

_“Ainur,”_ their nana persisted. _“My grandmother’s mother was named Melian, and she was one of the Ainur. With her voice, she could out-sing the nightingales, and her beauty was such that, when King Thingol laid eyes upon her for the first time, he stood still in awe and wonder for two hundred years looking upon her face.”_

_“It’s no wonder your nana is the most beautiful woman in the world,”_ their ada had whispered behind the shield of his hand, winking at his pair of giggling twin sons. _“She’s part angel.”_

Their nana just sighed. _“Of course. Angel.”_

_“But ada,”_ Elros had interrupted between snorts of laughter, _“What do angels_ do?”

_“What do they do? Well, they protect all the things that are good and pure in this world.”_ Their ada had picked them up then, one toddler in each arm. _“They watch over good little boys and girls and keep them safe from all the monsters and bad things that want to eat them.”_

_“Like from dragons and goblins?”_ Elros had asked eagerly.

_“Like from the dark,”_ Elrond had chipped in. At that age, he hadn’t been terribly fond of putting the lights out at night. _“Like from the monster under the bed.”_

_“Yes, just like that.”_ Safe and tucked into their father’s arms, the pair had been swept away to their beds. Carefully, each twin was tucked in, the sheets and blankets pulled all the way up to their chins. First Elros, then Elrond. Their ada gave them each a kiss on the brow, his blond whiskers tickling against their soft, chubby cheeks.

_“Do you think there’s an angel protecting us, ada?”_ Elrond had asked just as the candles were blown out and the room plunged into darkness. Only the faint light from the hallway had allowed him to make out his father’s broad shoulders and curling blond hair in the dark.

_“Of course there is,”_ his ada had reassured him. _“They’ll scare away all the monsters.”_

This satisfied the elfling’s curiosity. He would be much happier knowing that there was some mysterious power in the world that kept the monsters under beds from eating the occupants above. With a solemn nod, little Elrond had curled himself down into his bedding, tucking his face against his down pillow.

_“Goodnight ada.”_

_“Goodnight, little one.”_

The door closed behind him. But Elrond remembered that he had never felt safer.

\---

Elrond was scared.

All he could remember was being pulled out of bed by his nana whose eyes were very wide and whose face was very white. She was still wearing her nightgown underneath her dressing robe, and her hair was undone and loose around her shoulders in black, tangled disarray. It an action very unlike her normal gentleness, she had lifted the twins abruptly from their warm nests of sleep and held them uncomfortably tight against her chest as she bounded through the house.

She had taken them to her bedroom down the hall, and she had put them in the closet amidst her dresses and her shoes. _“Stay here, little ones, and stay quiet,”_ she had said. And then she closed the door.

And Elrond’s world was the dark closet and the sounds coming from outside.

He huddled beside Elros, the pair shivering as they heard running footsteps and shouting, unfamiliar voices coming from the paths outside. Then, from beyond their little hidden sanctuary, cries and screams pierced the early morning stillness.

And the twins were crying.

_When is nana coming back? I want nana…_ Elrond’s little arms were anchored around his twin and vice versa. _Where is nana…?_

Their nana would protect them from the monsters lurking outside surely?

More sounds came, this time of their door being pounded down and of feet running up the stairs. The steps were heavier than those of their nana or the nursemaid, like the clunking of their father’s boots when he bounded up two at a time. Not their mama. Vaguely, they heard growling voices but no intelligible words through several layers of wood as the footsteps came nearer and nearer.

Then they heard the nursemaid crying out and pleading. The sound sent chills down Elrond’s spine where he huddled in the dark, because she sounded so very frightened. The sound of lighter, fleeter feet being chased echoed through the house, and then the frantic timbre of the woman’s voice as she was cornered, rising to a frenetic and panicked pitch…

And then there were screams. Again and again and again. Elrond had no reference for the wet, meaty sound from the other room except maybe the sound that fish made when their heads were chopped off. But that didn’t make any sense. Why would someone want to cut off the nursemaid’s head?

But the screams cut short quickly. They could hear movement from down the hall, the heavy feet no longer running. They did not hear the nursemaid anymore.

Elrond did not know what that meant, but he instinctively knew that it meant nothing good.

And the footsteps came closer to the door to their nana’s room. The pair squished themselves into the back corner of the closet, hidden behind a few dresses. But the closet wasn’t that big. If someone opened it up and pulled the dresses out, there was no way to remain hidden.

And the monster that got the nursemaid would get them, too. They would be chopped up and eaten like fish. They would never get to see their ada or nana again.

He just wanted nana… He just wanted…

Another set of footsteps approached. These ones did not leap up the stairs, but followed the others sedately. The monsters, who had slammed open the door across the hall and sounded to be tearing apart the furniture, now paused just at the threshold of nana’s room. As though the newcomer had captured their attention, drawing them away from the hiding elflings.

When the newcomer spoke, Elrond felt his heart rise up into his throat.

He’d never heard such a lovely voice. Not even his nana’s.

And, though he could not understand the deep, lilting words, the newcomer seemed to be banishing the monsters from its sight, for the creatures that had gotten the nursemaid quickly retreated back down the stairs as if on winged feet. They left behind the softer, quieter presence floating just beyond the door. It stood very still, so still that the twins might not have known it was there had it not spoken earlier, and it waited. Elrond and his brother tried to be very still and breathe very quiet.

And then the door to nana’s room opened. They could hear the soft footsteps on the rug. And then they could see a shadow cut across the light beneath the crack of the closet door.

Elrond’s heart was pounding so hard he wondered if the stranger could hear it through the wood.

“I know thou art in there, little ones,” the strangely beautiful voice called. “Thou dost not need be afraid. Thou wilt not be harmed.”

They did not move.

Not even when the stranger cracked open the closet door just enough to allow a shaft of light to pierce through the shadows. It landed on Elrond’s face, right in his eyes, and he closed them tightly against the sudden brightness. But not fast enough to miss the outline of what appeared to be a man or an elf moving to block the light.

He blinked. And again. There was a little purple splotch echoing the garish flash of light on his eyeballs, but it could not obscure the vision that peered in at them through the darkness. It was male, and, at first, very clearly an elf with long black hair and the typical pointy, leaf-shaped ears. But Elrond had never seen anyone look so pale—so white they seemed to be glowing to stave off the shadows—nor with such bright eyes. They were the palest of grays, ringed in long, dark lashes, and they split through the darkness like stars.

_An angel_ , he thought in awe. _This is an angel._

“Come out now,” the angel coaxed. “I shall not harm thee. I have sent the others away.”

And Elrond was crying before he even knew what was going on. Outright bawling. Scared, confused and relieved all at once, he just wanted to lie down somewhere warm and safe and close his eyes and sleep.

“Aiya, do not cry…” The angel reached out and parted the sea of dresses and masses of shoes. Carefully, long and powerful arms lifted the pair of crying elflings from their hidden corner, and Elrond could not have said that he was not happy to be out of the stuffy darkness and wrapped up instead in a warm embrace. Just like he would have done with ada, he wrapped his skinny little arms around the angel’s neck and hugged tightly, burying his face into that pale throat. Taking in a scent that reminded him of mist off the sea and golden sunlight all at once.

“Hush now,” the angel said, holding them tight against him. “It will be alright. Hush…”

They were being taken from the room, but Elrond did not even care. Because the angel had started to sing—just a whisper of a breath against their ears—but it was the most damning evidence yet.

Never had Elrond heard anything so amazing. As though that voice, by singing of the gentle rocking of the waves and the starlight overhead, conjured them into being before his very eyes. As though that voice, by crooning at him to be calm and find rest, had tricked him into closing those same eyes and welcoming the darkness instead of fearing.

There was no way this being, who had saved them from the monsters, who even now was watching them with those pretty eyes made of starlight, was _not_ an angel.

_Just like ada said_ , the elfling thought drowsily. _He is just like ada said an angel would be. Beautiful and filled with light._

“Sleep now,” the angel sang into their ears. “Sleep. Thou art safe now, little ones.”

And Elrond could but obey. He drifted off to the sound of the angel’s singing and his brother’s soft, even breaths. To the smell of the sea in his nose and the feeling of sunlight in the warmth of those arms. To the knowledge that all the monsters had been chased away.

They were protected by an angel.

And he could not remember feeling safer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy beings (angels) (pl)
> 
> Sindarin:  
> ada = daddy or papa  
> nana = mommy or mama


	373. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five perspectives on laughter. Not what you're expecting. At all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 28, 2016.
> 
> Pure depressing-ness. Closely related to everything with little Elrond and Elros--so New Direction and Tender in particular--as well as some Fingon stuff--I'm thinking of Enjoyment, I believe--and just general Maedhros stuff as well--Get Up is up there, as well as a couple of others. Basically this fic just jumps around and kind of shows the mental deterioration of Maedhros from pre-Darkening all the way up to post-Third Kinslaying.
> 
> Warnings: Lots of mentions of semi-explicit violence and some blood imagery. Semi-explicit description of _heavily implied_ forced oral copulation as well as some vomiting. Mentions of dissection/human (elf?) experimentation on a conscious, un-anesthetized subject. PTSD. Insanity/mental instability. Blatant sadism. Depression. Alcoholism. Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Pretty much all the nasty stuff in the tags. Thou hast been warned!
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë  
> Amrod = Pityafinwë  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë

Laughter. Most equate it with happiness and joy. Sunlight given sound. The embodiment of cheerfulness and merriment and good things.

But there are two sides to every coin...

\---

Findekáno’s laughter was loud, boisterous and wild, almost bordering on rude. It rang out over the din of voices like a sharp knife cutting through the softness of butter, and it was the sort of laugh that had all the others around him bursting out in joyful echo despite never quite knowing what it was that he laughed about.

They were happier not knowing, Maitimo decided.

He knew his dear cousin well. Well enough to know that Findekáno was a playful creature, but not an inexplicably wild one. He had daring, certainly, but he was much less confident and headstrong than he was credited by those who did not know him well. But those who knew him knew that the oldest son of Nolofinwë did not do things on a whim, but rather thought things through rather thoroughly before carrying out his mischief.

In fact, Findekáno was not terribly prone to laughter.

Unless he was drunk. Inebriated Findekáno couldn’t seem to _stop_ laughing.

At first, Maitimo thought this might be a good thing. Was laughter not a medicine for the fëa? Some laughter and joy would do Findekáno good in the face of the stress gifted upon his shoulders by his position as his father’s scion. A stress the both of them knew far too intimately.

But then Maitimo realized that Findekáno wasn’t laughing at inappropriately themed tavern songs and drunken flirtations.

 _“Me!”_ Findekáno would burst out. _“How could my father ever expect_ me _to compare to_ thee, _Russandol? The waste-of-space firstborn who can’t even organize a party or set straight his money! It’s hilarious! How could he ever compare me to thee?”_

And then he would laugh and laugh, as though his words were the funniest of jokes.

It was not happy laughter. It was just Findekáno’s hidden self-depreciation given full-rein by the alcohol. And there was nothing funny about it.

And it would be up to Maitimo to drag his cousin home again. He hated breaking the veneer of bliss, the only real form of enjoyment Findekáno possessed beneath the stern and unyielding gaze of his father’s expectations. So Maitimo closed his eyes and bit his tongue and waited for the happy laughter to dissolve into tears.

He hated Findekáno’s laughter. It represented anything but happiness.

\---

It took a long time for Maitimo to understand why Findekáno was always laughing instead of crying.

He hated crying.

Maitimo had not cried in front of any member of his family since childhood. Once he hit the age of blossoming adulthood, he considered it unseemly to weep in front of any but his mother. Once he had come of age, he would not cry in front of anyone to save his own life. He would not burden his mother with his sorrows, nor would he bludgeon his pride by making himself vulnerable before his father.

Once his siblings came around, he was even firmer in his determination never to cry. He was their caretaker, the one who made sure everyone ate and everyone got attention and everyone was moderately happy. He helped his mother wrangle everyone into bed each night and was often relegated to lullaby duty.

He was practically their third parent. And he would never want them to see him in a moment of weakness. He was meant to be _their_ strength. Not the other way around.

But now he had no strength left to give.

Though Findekáno had convinced him to keep fighting, Maitimo had not really realized how _humiliating_ the path to recovery would be.

He couldn’t even write his own name. Without his right hand, he was forced to attempt the relearn with his left, yielding nothing but an embarrassing childish scrawl which was barely legible. And the number of snapped quill-tips sacrificed on the altar of his frustration…

 _“It will get better,”_ Kanafinwë assured him, his hand a gentle presence upon Maitimo’s blanched, tense knuckles. _“Do not give up.”_

And then there was the swordplay. Maitimo had never considered himself a master in the art, but his atrophied muscles trembled at even _lifting_ a sword now, let alone swinging it with enough force and accuracy to do damage to an opponent. Of course, Findekáno was a very patient sparring partner, but Maitimo often wished nothing more than to throw down his sword and scream in rage at the heavens—and sometimes he did just that!

 _“It will get better,”_ Findekáno would tell him, picking up his discarded sword and dusting off the hilt. _“I believe in thee.”_

There were even the simple things. Like lacing his boots. Maitimo couldn’t lace his own thrice-be-damned boots!

 _“Let me help,”_ Kanafinwë would volunteer without hesitation.

The last time any of his brothers had needed help with lacing their boots, they’d been barely more than toddlers.

Stressed and humiliated and shuddering with the strength of his emotions, Maitimo had said, _“Once, it was_ me _helping_ thee _with all these things. Look at me now!”_ His laughter was harsh and grating, his voice never fully recovering from the ravaging of screams and choking and retching during his torment. _“I’m pathetic, Káno! Pathetic!”_

And his laughter, for all that it was as self-depreciating as Findekáno’s, had been a harsher and less beautiful beast. In the face of its growl, poor Kanafinwë had looked so very lost and helpless, uncertain what to say or do.

But Maitimo kept laughing. He kept laughing until he dissolved into tears.

And then his humiliation was complete.

\---

After Angband, Maitimo had trouble with amused laughter as well.

He had trouble listening to his own soldiers laugh around the fire with one another, making lewd jokes or singing ridiculous songs or even just taking enjoyment in witty or sarcastic commentary, picking on their fellow warriors in good humor. It was harmless enough, really, and good for the morale.

Of everyone but their commander, of course.

It was hard to separate time in the dark.

He would see the shadows of faces flickering in the firelight, hear the rising tide of contagious laughter echoing through the night, and the elves before him would disappear as shadows into the mist of his memories. All he could see were the ugly and twisted faces of Morgoth’s servants staring down at him as he writhed in agony, his high-pitched cries escaping from his throat without permission as they laid red-hot pieces of iron to his bare skin.

_“Enough of this squealing.” A hand in his hair, wrenching his face up. “That mouth is better used for something else…”_

_Laughter._

_And they laughed when he choked and they laughed when he sputtered and they laughed when he vomited afterwards and they laughed when his hair was released and he collapsed onto the cold ground in his own sick, and they laughed…_

“Nelyo? Art thou quite well?”

A blink and they were all gone. The laughter was just that of his men once more. And Kanafinwë was sitting beside him, worry in those eyes.

“Just tired,” he lied. “The men are loud.”

“Their hearts are warm tonight,” Kanafinwë agreed with a slight nod. “It is good to see them making merry, even just a little. We can use all the merriment we can get in these dark times.”

Maitimo’s first instinct was to snarl is disagreement.

His brother didn’t know that there were beings in the world who took merriment in suffering. He didn’t know what it was like to be laid out and chained down and tortured for the amusement of others. He didn’t know the horror of being forced to lick dirty boots while watchers jeered and mocked. He didn’t know the mental agony of screaming for help and finding that others found it _funny_. He didn’t know what it was like to have his body cut open, to scream and scream and scream as his insides were poked and prodded and the faces overhead twisted into wide-mouthed grins.

Perhaps the men could use their merriment. But Maitimo felt his gut twist and turn with nausea at the sound of laughter.

Maitimo didn’t need any more merriment in his world.

But he forced himself to agree with a noncommittal hum in the back of his throat. He dared not give a verbal reply.

“Perhaps thou shouldst get some rest,” Kanafinwë suggested in that mothering way which never failed to grate against Maitimo’s nerves. Ever since Angband, Kanafinwë seemed to have stepped up and taken over as the parent of their merry band of troubled siblings, even lording his new position over his older brother.

Not that he could still have filled the role, Maitimo noted bitterly to himself.

“Perhaps thou art correct.” But he didn’t make to go to prepare for sleep. As long as the laughter kept up, he dared not close his eyes. Maitimo never slept before his men these days.

Kanafinwë just sighed and left him on his own. And that was probably for the best.

\---

The only laughter Maitimo willingly partook in now was the fey laughter of bloodshed.

He was quite certain that this was a sign of his quickly deteriorating mental state. There was nothing particularly funny about gutting an orc, or so his former self would have said. It was a nasty, smelly, unfavorable task that usually resulted in gallons of sticky, gross black blood and the reek of rotting meat in the aftermath.

But there was just something so amusing about cutting them open. About seeing the wide-eyed shock and horror on their ugly faces as they died beneath his cruel blade.

On the field of battle, Maitimo was now known for his prowess as a dangerous and ruthless killer. The Enemy fled before him, and it made his blood thrum heavily in his veins to give chase. To hunt them down and tear them apart and dance the dance of death in their remains with his sullied, mucky boots and his irreverent, toothy grin.

Part of him knew that this terrified his brothers. Kanafinwë seemed more hesitant to approach him with advice or argument. Morifinwë avoided him altogether, seemingly stricken with aversion at the sight of his face. Pityafinwë shivered whenever he walked by, the lone twin shrinking back slightly in the wake of his overwhelming, unholy fire. Only Turkafinwë—undoubtedly just as mad as he—and Curufinwë—who was arguably thrice as bloodthirsty—seemed unbothered by the stark contrast in their once-fatherly older brother.

Maitimo found that he did not really care. Not when the bloodlust hit.

Not when he could slaughter orcs on the field of battle without mercy, sometimes striking blows of cruelty rather than deadly intent just to watch them squirm where they lie skewered upon his blade—

_For had they not taken such pleasure in watching his suffering? Had they not laughed as they mercilessly tormented his helpless body? Did they not deserve his retribution?_

—before he dealt out the final blow. And then he would turn on their comrades, watch how they winced back in terror at the sight of his white-hot, fey eyes and the sound of his grating, crazed laughter. Such pleasure he took in seeing their fear, in the knowledge that they were now under _his_ power as he had once been under _theirs._

This was the crazy fire that Fëanáro had felt when he foolishly charged a hoard of Balrogs alone. This was the burning need that had led his father to betrayal of kin and family alike. _This_ was the taste for vengeance that burned away even the last vestiges of good intent in the face of thirst for blood.

This was a fall from grace.

Part of Maitimo knew that. Part of him was terrified—afraid of _himself_ and his own shattered thoughts. Part of him would later stand upon the field of battle in the quiet, surrounded by pyres and the rot of the Enemy’s bodies, and would wonder if this was how the first elves were turned to orcs.

Part of him would wonder if he would be completely overtaken by the seed of evil that Morgoth had planted in his breast.

Part of him wondered if, someday, he would no longer care.

And then the laughter would never stop.

\---

The hardest laughter to stomach was the laughter of children.

Their laughter was sweet upon the tongue. It was the tones of silver bells ringing in the ears. It was the sound of purity. Of unsullied spring flowers in the golden sunlight. Of innocence and ignorance of the darkness and cruelty of the world.

It was the sound of starlight untainted by woe and misery. And it was beautiful.

Part of Maitimo hated that laughter even more than the jeering mockery of sadistic tormentors.

He felt such bitterness well in his breast each time it echoed in his ears. He remembered with a dark frown that time—long past in the summertime of the Years of the Trees in the Undying Lands—when his brothers had been alike to these sweet little creatures. A time before the flames of Losgar had consumed their trust. A time before the madness of their House had burned away their compassion. A time before their blood had lined the floors of Menegroth in atonement for their sins against their kin.

A time before they had fallen into shadow.

The laughter of children was everything they were not and never could be again. Such innocence was a gift. A gift one didn’t know they possessed until it was lost forever. Until it was ripped apart and stained black and completely ruined by the mercilessness and sickness of reality. A gift which could never be cleansed once it was sullied.

Maitimo hated being reminded of everything he had lost to this thrice-be-damned Oath. Even more than he hated being reminded of his tenure in Angband. Even more than he hated the memories of pain and humiliation. He hated being reminded of his brothers and their pain that he could not soothe with words or deeds. He hated being reminded of how dirty his hands had become in pursuit of their salvation, and how it had been a thankless, fruitless task in the end. He hated being reminded that everything he thought to start in good intent was doomed to unravel at the seams and further damn him and his family for all eternity.

He hated being reminded of his own failure. As a king. As a brother.

As a father.

He hated that laughter. Passionately.

All the same, Maitimo could not bring himself to be angry with the twins.

After all, he had always loved children. Had helped raise six of them, in fact. As much as he wanted to transfer his hatred of their tinkling, bright laughter—of how it left a rosy glow in his once-drab halls and brought secret little smiles upon his servants’ lips and reminded him of everything he had lost—to the twins themselves, he could not bring his heart to that depth of darkness. They did not deserve his ire.

They were too innocent. Their intent was too pure. Their laughter was not malicious.

They meant no harm. In fact, they usually only desired to capture his smile and approval in return. How could they ever know what horrid pain their sweet voices brought upon him in the tangled web of his dark thoughts? How could he ever bear to explain why he flinched instead of smiled, to—even in that small way—sully their vibrant joy and unconditional love?

For all that Maitimo hated their laughter, he did not hate the twins. He simply could not.

And so he said nothing. He allowed them their joy and their playfulness. He allowed them their toxic laughter.

Sometimes, he would pause to listen, just for a moment. And it would feel like poisonous needles pricking ceaselessly at his heart. It would conjure up all the green memories he wished he could forget. It would bring him to the heights of golden nostalgia and then throw him down once more upon the jagged rocks of reality below.

Sometimes, he could not bear to listen for the pain that raked its claws across his spirit. Sometimes he would flee from their merriment like a coward, too stricken to see from beneath the blurry veil of tears resting over his eyes.

Sometimes, in the dark of night, he would hear their giggles from across the hall and his whole chest would ache with longing. For his brothers. For his wife. For the children who would never be born, who he would never get to hold.

For his happiness.

Happiness that would never come.

\---

And, for Nelyafinwë Maitimo, laughter had turned into a deadly curse. Slowly and inexorably seeping in and tainting all it touched. An acid was eating him away. Bit by bit by bit. Mind and body and soul.

Until nothing remained of the man he had once been. Until he was but a patchwork doll of doomed fate and shattered dreams.

Until he was nothing more than the dark echo of that laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> fëa = spirit


	374. Listening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is not the perfect son his father wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 29, 2016.
> 
> Basically this is making up for the sheer depressing-ness of yesterday's story. Some hurt/comfort and brother-bonding between Maedhros and Maglor in the pre-Darkening era. This is sort of a companion to Least in a way, but is also closely related to Lullaby and to the first Music (I realized a while back that I did that prompt twice, but it's done now, so I'll just go with it LOL).
> 
> Warnings: Family issues. Nothing else really.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë = Makalaurë = Káno  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro   
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

Kanafinwë Makalaurë was not the son his father had wanted.

Certainly, he had inherited his father’s spectacular intellect and a good amount of his pure creativity. Makalaurë definitely had a knack for numbers and patterns, and all facets of intellectual study—ranging from the theory behind metallurgy all the way to the finer points of political science—came to his mind with ease. While dear Nelyafinwë had certainly been of considerable intelligence, it was Makalaurë who had been hailed the prodigy. The second coming of his father’s genius.

Most of his brothers thought he was the perfect son of Fëanáro.

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

First and foremost, he wasn’t ambitious. Not in the way his father wanted.

He had no desire to enhance his position in court politics through silvered words and cunning schemes. He had no desire to spend frivolous evenings at parties flirting with pretty young women and making small-talk with the elite and the nobility. He had no desire to establish himself such that he could sway the tides of opinion and rumor the way his father so flawlessly managed.

He also had no desire to work in the forge. An even greater downfall.

For all that Makalaurë was creative, the unfortunate truth was that his creativity laid in music. Melodies came into his mind with frightening ease, such that sometimes he dreamt in music and woke the next day with his hand poised and ready to bring those notes he had imagined into reality. He could sit at his harp for hours on end, following the tails and swirls of sound that danced through his mind in trails of color and timbre, idly strumming or lazily composing or simply improvising. 

And his voice…

Makalaurë had been told by the few who had had the privilege to listen to him sing that his voice put even the Ainur to shame. While he was not quite certain that that was the truth—he was quite certain they still outdid his meager skill with ease—there was a certain _power_ to his songs. A certain spark of _aliveness_ that brought images before the eyes of his listeners. A certain sort of heaviness that carried emotion from his breast into theirs as though those feelings were tangible, physical creatures.

It was a gift, he’d been told, that he could bring the heart to the very heights of joy and the very depths of sorrow. But it was a gift he seldom shared.

He told no one that, on the rare occasion, he might even sing simple things into _Being._ Just breezes and flowers and sometimes a sprinkle of rain. For, if he listened hard enough, he could hear the Song in the plants and the trees and the light and the water. And he could bring them to life in the way of the Ainur, a whisper of a breath upon his tongue.

This was his true talent. This was his true calling. He wasn’t made for politics or for the forge. His brain was oriented in harmonies and melodies, in dissonant tension and the consonant release, in meters and cycles and the natural world’s secret voices.

Sometimes he wanted to scream. Throw his hands up to the sky. Curse his father’s name.

Fëanáro was of the general opinion that music was a waste of time, and no one—not even Nerdanel—could change the man’s mind once it had been made.

Unsurprisingly, his father wanted him to abandon his harp altogether and become a proper son of the House of Fëanáro. To marry some air-headed ninny interested in his familial connections to the King—for he was the second son of the Crown Prince, unlikely to ever have the title for himself but nonetheless in a position of great influence—and produce a new generation of political warmongers to be trained and groomed into more doppelgangers of his father.

_“Give up thy silly, childish ways,”_ Fëanáro would say. _“It is time to take thy place as Prince of the Noldor. Thou couldst be as great as Nelyafinwë. Thou couldst_ best _Nelyafinwë.”_

As though his passion didn’t matter. As though his dreams didn’t matter.

As though his entire worth was measured in how he compared to his father and his brother.

Makalaurë just wanted a simple existence. To relax in the sunshine. To write music. To play his harp. Maybe to marry and have a handful of children.

Certainly nothing _princely._

Not that his father listened to his words. Makalaurë was too soft-spoken, more alike to his mother’s calming presence than his father’s raging, confrontational and temperamental nature. Any protests he made to his father’s vicious, sharp-tongued allusions that he ought to grow up and take his place as a proper Prince of the Noldor went in one ear and out the other. They were outright _ignored._

Were it not for Nelyafinwë, Makalaurë thought he might have gone crazy.

For it was his older brother who sat beside him in the grass beneath the shade of the willow overlooking the stream, a calming presence dulling and soothing the raging temper beneath Makalaurë’s flushed cheeks and wet eyes. The redhead had been quiet, closing his eyes and leaning back such that his curls spread over the verdant lawn in vibrant waves. For a long while, he laid still, listening to Makalaurë pluck at his harp.

_“I do not want to be a prince,”_ Makalaurë had said, the same words he had said to his father a thousand times before. _“I am no craftsman, nor a politician. My only passion lies in music, and there is no fire in my heart for the battle of words.”_

Those silver eyes blinked open, looking up at him lazily. For a moment, Makalaurë had feared that his brother would call him a fool.

But ever had Nelyafinwë been the father than Fëanáro was not. The caretaker that held them when they cried and bandaged their knees when they tripped. The teller of stories at bedtime and the baker of cookies in the afternoon heat.

A comforting presence whose arms were ever open in offering.

Nelyafinwë was always listening. Not just hearing. And he always knew what to say to take away the burning sting of their father’s dismissal and harshness.

_“Atar already has an heir. He needs not two.”_ The older brother sat up, combing grass casually from the long tail of his hair. _“The world would be a darker place without thy voice and thy music, Káno. If thou dost not want to involve thyself in the family politics—if thou dost want to go off and live the life of a peasant—then do what would make thee happy.”_

It was hard to go against their father. Fëanáro’s personality was all-consuming and white-hot, burning through protests like flame through thin paper. But Makalaurë felt his heart lift a little with those words.

Part of him needed to hear that it was alright to wish for a different life. That it was alright to throw away his intellect in pursuit of music.

That it was alright to be himself and not the son his father had wanted.

_“I think I would like that,”_ he had replied softly as he plucked a soft melody out upon his harp. A series of softly chiming bells and the glimmer of water in the sunlight.

And Nelyafinwë had just nodded, collapsing back into the grass. _“Sing for me,”_ his brother then requested softly.

And Makalaurë had parted his lips and added his voice to the sound of the light reflecting off the stream’s churning eddies and currents. Deep and golden and made of all of the hurt and the sadness and the relief and the joy that mixed and swirled together within the raging waters of Makalaurë’s mind. A dash of minor for all the heartache and a hint of sharpness for all the frustration. A tender bit of softness for the reassurance and the birth of major for the happiness that would await.

In his music, Makalaurë had said all that he wanted to say. All that his father would never hear.

But his brother just lay still, eyes closed. A neutral presence. Neither pushing nor pulling. Neither manipulating nor forcing his way. Just there.

Just listening.

And that was all Makalaurë had needed. Just someone there. Listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)


	375. Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Celegorm runs away from home and finds himself under the protection of one of the Valar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 30, 2016.
> 
> So, I don't think I've ever seen anyone talk about how Celegorm became good enough friends with Oromë that the vala not only teaches him how to speak with birds and beasts, but also gives him Huan as a gift. This is just a thought that came to me about how they might meet. It comes chronologically before Rules, and basically ties in to the development of Celegorm's very unyielding character.
> 
> Warnings: Self-identity problems. Family issues. Running away from home. Valarin weirdness.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Taking off with only the clothes on his back and the food in his bag had perhaps not been Tyelkormo’s wisest idea ever. Three days into his attempt at running away from home found the young prince hungry, muddy and exhausted to the bone.

But the third son of Fëanáro was a stubborn creature. Perhaps even more stubborn than his sire. And he was not about to turn back and crawl on hands and knees back to his father’s house, begging to be allowed back into his cushy life as a spoiled prince living in a gilded cage. For Tyelkormo was also just as prideful as his sire, and he would not lower himself to admitting that, perhaps, he wasn’t equipped to function on his own in the wilds. The very thought was a bitter taste upon the back of his tongue.

So he kept moving towards the forest to the south. His feet were sore and his legs were trembling and his stomach was rumbling, but he kept moving. He kept following the tug in the pit of his stomach and the itch in the back of his mind and the scent of evergreen in his nose and the musk of the forest upon his palate.

Until he reached the edge of the Woods of Oromë.

He had never actually seen the Woods from so close. From afar, they appeared as a vast dark green blotch that spread haphazardly across the green lands of Valinor, paintbrush strokes that covered the southern lands from the mountains to Yavanna’s meadows. Up close, though, the trees were far more massive and ancient than anything that grew back upon Túna in the yards and grounds of the royal estates.

The biggest tree Tyelkormo had ever seen until now—indeed, the one he used frequently as a hiding place when he wished to be alone, holing himself up in the cradle of the limbs like an oversized bird in a nest—had been an oak that hung over the back side of his father’s favorite country house. It had been so large as to prevent him from wrapping his arms all the way about its girth, and its heights had easily dwarfed the roof of the manor. As a child, his favorite pastime had been climbing up as high as he could get, into the very thinnest of branches, such that he could see around the estate and surrounding lands for miles and miles in all directions. His gaze had stretched from the nacreous sheen of the city of Alqualondë resting as a pearl perched between the towering heights of Calacirya all the way out to Taniquetil rising majestically in the west with the golden gleam of Valimar at its base glimmering like light upon the surface of the water.

These trees made that oak look like an infant. They were wider across than Tyelkormo was tall. In fact, they were wider across than his brother Nelyafinwë was tall, and Nelyafinwë was the tallest elf that Tyelkormo knew, including their father and grandfather. The silver-haired adolescent wouldn’t have been able to even hug one of these beasts for their sheer massive size. And there was not just one of them, but hundreds all spaced out and tangled together, their boughs interwoven in a dance of wooden limbs above the elf’s head. The verdant leaves were so thick in the canopy above that only little dapples of golden light seeped through and touched the soft earth of the forest’s floor.

Tyelkormo gulped, wondering what unholy feeling pulled him towards this place. Shadows dominated the Woods of Oromë, almost like a warning to beware of ill intent resting in the heart. Even standing upon the edge of the vast forest, he could hear the creaking and groaning of those monstrous trees as they shifted and bent. Almost as if they were sentient living things unto themselves, turning to watch as he loitered at the edge of their domain.

But he squared his shoulders. For all that the Woods presented an intimidating front, something deep in the elf’s breast told him that this was where he was meant to come. What had driven him here, he could not have said, but he could not back down now.

He could not go back. Only forward.

Tyelkormo took his first steps into the Woods of Oromë. And all around him was silent.

The silver-haired son of Fëanáro felt his skin crawl with discomfort. He lost the warmth of Laurelin’s rays upon his back, falling under the cool demesne of the shadows beneath the wild trees. The softness of the breeze upon his skin vanished into stillness as the trunks of trees closed him off from the outside. And there was a feeling of a million eyes upon his back, as if every leaf watched him from overhead. The elf shivered in the midst of the quiet.

And then the whispers came slowly out of silence.

To his ears they were gibberish, an odd symphony of the rustle of leaves and the creaking of boughs and the shifting of roots mixed with the dimmed hush of a thousand voices all speaking at once in an overlapping cacophony of sound. Yet, this strange chaos coalescing into a single stream of consciousness, like a single voice rising above the din woven of all the smaller parts in harmony. The young elf let his eyes drift through the patches of darkness and the flickers of light, searching in vain for eyes staring back from the darkness, watchers whose lips even now seemed to hiss his name.

“Hello?” he called softly, stopped in the midst of a clearing where light broke through the canopy overhead. He turned, eyes scanning, and he found that he could no longer see the way back out from between the wide trunks of the trees and the thick underbrush. “Is someone there?”

At first, there was just the whispering. And then…

“I do not often receive visitors so deep within my domain.”

The young elf spun to face the new voice, the first he had heard speak intelligibly in Quenya within this strange realm. Taking in the newcomer, he felt himself shrink back into his own mass, averting his eyes from the white-hot glow that nearly blinded him in the darkness.

There was no denying that this must be Lord Oromë. The vala stood at a height easily dwarfing even Nelyafinwë, so he could not have been an elf. And he was made from silver and blue light, as though he had painted a raiment for his body from the dew of Telperion and the shades of the sky, setting his skin with the whitest of stones and his eyes with the deepest green emeralds. The elf dared not examine the intricate flashing and dancing of sharp light too closely, keeping his gaze downcast in respect and instinctual terror.

“Lord Oromë,” he acknowledged.

The vala made a rumbling sound akin to thunder breaking over the plains. “I sense that thou hast come into my Woods with purpose, young elf. What is it that thou dost seek to find under the boughs of my trees?”

Tylkormo’s lungs felt too tight to inhale air, his throat closing around the words that would have escaped. Before even his father, the dreaded Spirit of Fire, Tyelkormo was outspoken and insolent. But now his confidence failed him. What explanation had he for coming here? A childish rebellion against his father? A niggling feeling resting in the back of his mind?

A tug at his spirit pulling him ever forward, telling him this was where he ought to be?

It sounded like such rubbish coming from the mouth of a child barely broaching the realm of adulthood. What a fool he would seem to this ancient and wise being from beyond the edges of the world.

The touch of warmth upon is cheeks caused the elf to startle. Helplessly, he looked up into the vala’s vividly green gaze, feeling very small and very naked.

“What is it that thou dost seek, hína?”

 _Another path but the one my father would have me take_ , he thought at first, his intrinsic ire rising to the forefront of his thoughts along with the feeling of being lost and hanging in limbo. _A way of escape from the forge fire and the confining ceilings and enclosing walls. More meaning to my existence than a pawn to further my father’s political schemes._

 _Something_ more _than what I am._

_Passion. Happiness. Kindness. Peace. Chaos. Rage. Excitement._

And all he could think to say was “I do not know.” Because, in the end, there was both too much to say and not enough to speak even a single word.

And those eyes stared at him—stared _through_ him. As though his whole being were but a glass pane and beneath rested the essence of all that he was: all the raging fire that his father’s set alight in his blood and all the rebellious stubbornness that rested as an iron fortress around his feelings and all the longing and fear of a child who knew not his own heart.

Maybe he was searching for something more than a mere son of Fëanáro, a Prince of the Noldor whose path was set as stone laid out at his feet. Or maybe he was seeking something else entirely, something he knew not even himself that he desired.

“Fear not, hína,” the ancient being said. “Thou art welcome beneath the boughs of my trees. Fear not my wrath or my judgment.”

Before his eyes, the fantastical sight of lightning flashing as intricate lace through the body of this strange and foreign being faded. Skin became solid and fleshy, electricity dancing in pale blue across its surface as it wove into a more familiar form. Hair made of pure silver now fluttered into silken strands that fell upon broad shoulders. Green eyes lost their frightening, pupil-less clarity, deepening and darkening into the pools of leaves seen through the rippling of crystalline water. The hands upon his face were warm, and he could feel the subtle curves and trenches of the lines where skin folded and crinkled.

Stricken, Tyelkormo stared at the vala who had taken elven form. Oromë as he looked now could have been Tyelkormo’s father for all the features that they shared save the subtle differences in facial structure and the vast contrast in the colors of their eyes.

The vala stepped away. He was clothed in earthen colors, and a bow rested across his back, the feathered shafts of arrows pointing upwards over one shoulder. It was such a humble raiment for such a powerful being to take. His height was not even such that he would tower over Nelyafinwë, instead coming to a halt at a length from the soles of the feet to the crown of the head just slightly above average for an elf.

And he was smiling. Tyelkormo suddenly felt rather shy.

“Thou art hungry and in need of some clothing,” the vala said softly, and his voice was no longer the coalition of a thousand leaves and the rolling thunder and the wide open sky. Instead, it was a single baritone, its quality just shy of silent laughter. “Come and take sanctuary in my abode, little elf. The door to my House is open to thee.”

Shocked and a little overwhelmed, Tyelkormo stared at the vala outstretched a broad hand as if to grasp his own. To his mind, the Valar and the maiar were alien beings who remained distant from the Children of Ilúvatar, watching over their existence from afar. Governing presences too lofty and powerful to trouble themselves with such petty matters as the childhood rebellion of young princes.

“Why?” he asked, wide-eyed. “Why wouldst thou…?”

And the vala’s laughter was like a balm upon the spirit, all warmth to combat the chill of the shadows beneath the trees and the long, lonely days with sore legs and little food. Like drinking of miruvor, the feeling settled heavy and energizing in the elf’s belly and spread outwards through his blood, reaching all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. His answering smile to the melody of the vala’s chuckles was helpless, and he did not pull away when his hand was grasped by the vala and he was tugged along through the Woods.

“Thy heart has called thee to my doorstep,” the vala told him. “It would be remiss of me to turn thee away when it seems the will of Eru that thou dost find thyself in the sanctuary of my Woods. Besides, I hear my own Song in thee.”

They broke through the dim light of the Woods, and Tyelkormo beheld the House of Oromë nestled into the side of a tree of such proportions as to be incomprehensible. The tree must have been a being older than almost anything else in the Undying Lands, for its trunk was easily wider around than entire mansions, the result of thousands of years of cultivation. Yet, the house itself was a simple thing, a mere cottage that seemed to be built straight into the wood, peering out from within the encircling arms of the tree’s massive, low-hanging limbs and the fluttering branches of deep green leaves. Tyelkormo found himself thinking that he could happily live out the rest of eternity in this humble abode without the lavish decoration and complicated social image that dominated his father’s House. Here, he could be near to the earth, to the softness of grass beneath his bare feet. Here, he could climb to the apex of the giant tree, poking his head out above the very heights of the Woods. Here, he could look up and brush the stars with his fingertips.

The hands of Oromë rested heavily upon his shoulders. “I shall teach thee my ways, little elf,” the vala declared. “And, perhaps, in the learning of the ways of the land and the trees and the beasts, thou shalt find what it is that thy heart dost seek beneath the shadows of my Woods, Fëanárion.”

Slipping past the stunned elf, the vala made his way towards the cottage. He only turned his head, glancing over his shoulder with those verdant eyes. “Art thou coming inside, hína?”

And Tyelkormo’s feet carried him forward without conscious thought. His eyes took in all that was around him, filled with wonder and awe.

He knew that this was the place that he was meant to be. He belonged not in the gilded cage of a luxurious mansion surrounded by rules and etiquette and propriety, nor in the forge beneath the heavy hand of the fire and the brimstone, covered in choking soot and smoke. He took his first steps into the House of Oromë, not knowing how much his tenure within these Woods would leave him changed, nor how his time here would come to be intertwined with his future.

For the first time, he felt like he was arriving home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> vala = greater holy being (s)  
> Valar = great holy beings (pl)  
> maiar = lesser holy beings (pl)  
> hína = child (s)  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro


	376. Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor can't adjust to the peace that comes in the wake of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 31, 2016.
> 
> Basically just some Celebrimbor introspection. Related most closely to the Grace Arc, and particularly to Celebration. But, really, it can be tied into anything Sauron/Celebrimbor in nature. Timeline is post-Third Age, just to clarify. Sort of a dark!Celebrimbor story in a way.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions death, murder, torture, war, etc., but nothing terribly explicit. Mostly, mental instability and bitterness.
> 
> All names were done in Sindarin for ease of reading.

In the wake of war came peace.

The funerals. The celebrations. The toasts with raised glasses and the heavy drinking that followed. The rejoicing and the sorrow mixing together into a heady cocktail of relief at being alive and guilt at having survived. All overshadowed by the rising tide of joy and the knowledge that it was finally _over._

Without battle, there was time to process feelings. There was time to weep at graves. There was time to let go of comrades and friends. There was time to be in love with sweethearts. There was time to start families.

In every direction, new life would sprout up from the ashes of death. Pregnant women would appear in every other household, their husbands having returned from long tenures in the military. Soon, the whole city, rebuilding though it might be from destruction, would be full of the laughter and playing of young children. And it would be safe enough for them to be outside their parents’ sight, the threat of imminent battle no longer lingering as a shadowy beast upon the city’s doorstep.

Soon, lives would go back to normal. Women who worked temporarily in the House of Healing would return to their normal caretaking in the home as the numbers of patients dwindled down to none. Men who had lived their entire adult lives in suits of armor emblazoned with the emblem of Gondor would don normal clothes and return to the crafts and trades passed down by their forefathers.

Soon, the next generation would be upon this people, and they would have forgotten all about the ravages of war that plagued their fathers and grandfathers. Adaptable and flexible, the Race of Men would move on with their existence in the wake of destruction. They would revel in newfound peace.

But Celebrimbor was not made for peace.

His mind contained thousands of years of memories, and the most peaceful ones—the green years in the spring of his life where he played in the gardens of his parents’ cottage and visited his uncles and grandfather at sprawling country estates, back when his worries were naïve and innocent things made of golden light and stardust—were all but faded and covered in black scuff marks. With his blossoming into full adulthood had come the Darkening of Valinor. Barely more than a stripling, his body only having just become battle-ready enough to be taught the sword, Celebrimbor had joined his father and uncles on Fëanáro’s mad quest for vengeance.

His clearest memories were of bloodshed. The First Kinslaying. The stain of blood upon the white beaches of Alqualondë, dying the pearly luster crimson and the screams of the innocent echoing in the blackness. Dagor-nuin-Giliath. The vivid recollection of his grandfather’s blood staining his uncle’s face before those eyes turned white and that body burst into scorching flame and ash. Dagor Aglareb. How his father’s smile was so proud and his uncle’s hands clapped upon his shoulders when he came back blooded, the death of dozens of orcs attested to the sharpness of his wit and his sword. Dagor Bragollach. Chaos and flame and horror at the sight of the scorched bones of friends who had been incinerated in mere breaths of dragons, their twisted bodies and the molten remnants of their armor all that remained behind.

He had had no part in Nirnaeth Arnoediad, nor in the Second Kinslaying. He had already had enough death by then. But death had not had enough of _him_. The Sack of Nargothrond. Fleeing for his life with the few survivors that remained, knowing that most had perished in vain battle or been taken captive by the enemy. And the Fall of Gondolin. The sight of the red haze rising up over the mountains from the north, overcoming the faint light of the dawn to the east, and the knowledge that their sanctuary had failed them and death was upon them.

Celebrimbor had lived through the War of Wrath, seen the rage of the dragons engulf entire cities and towns. He had beheld Balrogs and their fiery whips cutting swathes of destruction through whole armies before they were felled at the gates of their Master. And he had seen the Dark Lord himself dragged out from his dark fortress, collared and chained in shame.

Almost every member of his family was dead by the end. He had had but a pair of cousins by his uncle Maglor, and his distant cousin Galadriel, and Fingon’s son Gil-galad. Out of the fifteen grandchildren of Finwë and their children that had been all that remained when the First Age came to its close.

All Celebrimbor knew was war. When he built his own city, he taught first weapons-craft to his smiths before jewel-craft and song-lore. Though he was renowned most for the intricate and glorious jewelry—including the ill-fated rings that he cursed with his every breath—which had spewed forth from Eregion in the early Second Age, his city had been one of the best equipped for battle with the finest armor and the most plentiful store of weapons—armor laced with mithril and spears built with wicked blades upon their ends and swords enchanted in the ancient arts of his people to never dull and never break.

The only peace he had ever known—thought he had known—had been the brief time where he had been in love with Annatar. And that had been a lie.

He did not want to recall his final hours as Lord of Eregion. His body already ached enough without the memories to spur on the phantom pains. His spirit already wept enough without the reminder of the ultimate betrayal.

Flashes of golden hair and fire-opal eyes. His stomach twisted in horror and adoration and despair.

Now Annatar was gone. Destroyed, wholly and completely. The war which had been building to a head since the very birth of the Second Age in the ruins of Beleriand, the war which had taken the battle-scarred son of the House of Fëanor and utterly destroyed what remained of his sanity and his ability to love, was _over._

Now there was peace. As if it had never happened. As if all the suffering were a dream.

If this was peace, Celebrimbor did not want it.

The smiles of these people, so full of joy and relief, were like claws dipped in poison raking themselves over his spirit. The image of young mothers with their newborn babes standing on tiptoe to kiss the lips of their spouses was rotted and tainted with the knowledge that family was beyond all reach. The merrymaking and the drunken toasting and the rowdy laughter rang in the ears like a death toll, foreboding and unforgiving.

Celebrimbor stayed in the House of Healing, a guest of the King of Gondor, and he was tired. His dull eyes would seek to the east, searching for the familiar (beloved, hated) dark cloud of malicious storms roaring overhead, and his heart would sink at the (beautiful, horrible) sight of the colorful dawn breaking over the heights of the Ephel Dúath. In the early morning light, he would look upon the black ring of branded flesh encircling his fourth finger—the ring of his love and of his shame—and he would bite his lip until it bled down his chin and dripped crimson upon his trembling hand.

There was nothing for him here. Nothing for him anywhere. He was a monster of war. His craft was in protective enchantment and weaponry that no one needed. His talents lay in the fires of the forge and the mastery of the sword that no one would call upon. His mind was hardwired for the formation of battle schematics and the debate of siege tactics, but now they needed only merchants and architects and farmers and mariners.

And his heart longed for a dead man. One who had never loved him. One who had only used him and thrown him away.

Peace, to his mind, was such a mocking thing. Where there was everywhere joy, all he had in his breast was despair. Where there was everywhere normal life, his normal life had become obsolete. Where everywhere there was rebirth from darkness, he was still trapped in the shadows, a stagnant and festering corpse caught in the webs of the past.

He did not want to sail, but he did not want to stay. He did not want to adapt, but he did not want to lie listless in limbo. He did not want to remember, but his heart could not bear to forget. A dangerous, traitorous part of him would rather have lived out the rest of eternity as Sauron’s slave than face the endlessness of forever alone, happiness and harmony and vibrancy everywhere he looked and yet just out of his reach.

He remained quiet and distant as he healed in body if not in mind.

It was an entire year before they asked him, “What will you do now?”

What he wouldn’t have given to be able to patrol. To slaughter some orcs. To hunt down the servants of darkness. To shape blades for battle. To make detailed armor. To weave enchantments about the city gates.

To do something useful. _Anything_ useful.

But he wasn’t needed in this time of peace. And he hated it besides. Here or in Valinor or anywhere else, it would all be the same. A hurt that would be rubbed with salt at every turn. A wound in his spirit that would never quite heal.

“I shall leave,” he had replied, “And find a place where my craft is needed.” His body was fully recovered, even if his mind was still scattered and broken.

He didn’t tell them that he had no plans to return.

He would vanish into the wilds, a specter of a bygone time. And, perhaps, he would eventually be absorbed into the new peace of the land, the chaos in his mind overcome and the battle between the pulling scars of the past and the possibilities for the future won.

Or, perhaps, he would find his peace in war. In some distant land, far away. In some new strife birthed from the evils of the world.

And the cycle would start over again. And then he could forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Dagor-nuin-Giliath = Battle-Under-Stars  
> Dagor Aglareb = Glorious Battle  
> Dagor Bragollach = Battle of the Sudden Flame  
> Nirnaeth Arnoediad = Battle of Unnumbered Tears  
> Ephel Dúath = Mountains of Shadow


	377. Relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly, depending on who you ask), it is Fëanor who struggles most with parenthood rather than Nerdanel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 1, 2016.
> 
> Basically, young Fëanor and Nerdanel being thrown head-first into the deep end of parenthood. Fëanor is probably a natural at nearly everything he does, but somehow I can't really imagine him getting the hang of being kept up all night by the baby very fast, nor adjusting to diapers, crying or vomiting. Unfortunately for him, that's just the way the world works. Even for elves.
> 
> Warnings: First-time parent getting frustrated. Some sensuality, but nothing really sexual.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

The night was quiet and peaceful, a gentle darkness broken by the creeping silver light sliding across the floor, bending and dancing through the sheer curtains. Soft sounds of crickets and the chirps of the earliest avian risers could be heard in the distance, their tunes weaving together into the melody of the pale light before early morning. It was a sound that Fëanáro often heard in the hours of dark before he arose for work, a gentle symphony that would allow him to quiet his mind and roll back over into another handful of hours of sleep.

Tonight was no different. With a quiet sigh, he buried his face further into his blankets and prepared to fall back into Lórien’s embrace…

And then baby was crying. Again.

Groaning, Fëanáro rolled over onto his other side and considered hiding his head underneath one of his down pillows. This was the fourth time tonight! He hadn’t gotten more than two hours of continuous sleep since going to bed, and all he wanted to do was get in a last two to three hours before rising with Laurelin’s rays to head to the forge. However, he knew that it wouldn’t be very fair to Nerdanel if he just pretended not to hear the cries and forced himself back to sleep, leaving her to tend their infant son again. She’d been up three times already tonight looking after little Nelyafinwë, and she deserved to get a few hours of sleep as well.

Which meant it was Fëanáro’s turn to get up. He knew that his wife had already fed the baby tonight, so hopefully the babe was just squalling for attention and not in need of a change.

The prince managed to roll himself out of his warm nest of blankets, a faint shiver traveling across his skin as the cooler night air raced around his exposed skin and up his baggy, untucked nightshirt. With a yawn and a rub at his sleep-filled, grimy eyes, Fëanáro raked a hand through his tangled hair to pull it back from his face and set a brisk pace across the hall and towards the nursery. The sooner this was over with, the sooner he could return to rest.

But the closer he got to the cries, the harsher they grated upon his thoughts. Sensing a headache coming on, the Crown Prince prepared himself for the barrage of Nelyafinwë’s wailing in his ears. Bracing himself, he pushed open the door.

He wasn’t prepared.

How such a small thing could make such a ruckus, he did not understand. Quickly, he padded across the room with his bare feet, stopping only when he reached the cradle within which his swaddled infant son lay. The child was dressed in the softest of clothing, the thick fabric more than warm enough to hold at bay the gentle chill of night. Still, despite the soft comfort of the bedding and the thick warmth of his dressings, Nelyafinwë was red-faced and practically screaming, clearly in some type of discomfort.

The sight of his father’s half-hearted glare did nothing to help.

The screams rose to a piercing pitch, and Fëanáro could only reach down and pick up his son. The elf pulled his child close, tucking the baby against his chest as he crooned and shushed.

 _No smell_ , he noted. A quick check of the nappy cloth revealed no wetness. _Not in need of a change. So what is it that has thee in such a tizzy?_ Perhaps the little one was just lonely or afraid, waking up to a big, dark room without either his atto or his emya present.

But the gentle rocking and cooing did nothing to silence the cries.

Fëanáro helplessly stroked at the puffy red cheeks, feeling the burn of tears against his fingertips as they fell from huge, watery gray eyes. “What is it that has thee so upset, yonya?” he asked tiredly. “Thou canst not be hungry again yet, and thou art not wet, so what dost thou need?”

The sound of his voice sometimes quieted the baby, for Nelyafinwë had been hearing his father’s voice since his time in the womb. But not this time. Fëanáro felt his teeth grind as his jaw clenched. The headache that rested just behind his eyes—a heavy mixture of fatigue and pressure—went from a mere pound to a stabbing throb.

 _Patience_ , he reminded himself. _He is just a babe._

“Now, now,” the Prince crooned. “Do not cry, little one. Everything is fine. Enough crying…” He rocked his whole body, a motion that sometimes quieted the baby’s upset. “Enough crying, now…”

It didn’t work.

Fëanáro felt a twitch developing beneath his eye.

“Must thou cry?” he asked softly, barely a whisper of a breath. “Canst thou not just be happy and tired and sleep?”

Nelyafinwë’s answer, of course, was just more wailing.

The twitch in Fëanáro’s eye spread. A feeling of flighty discomfort filled his limbs with the urge to shake or kick the wall or _something_ other than stand still and rock softly. The Crown Prince recognized the beginnings of anger, the hazy red crawl behind his eyes and the frustrated growl building in the back of his throat. But he knew that anger would do nothing but scare the babe, and that would do nothing but make the crying _louder._

 _Patience_ , he reminded himself again. _Relax. Patience._

His foot began to tap impatiently.

“Hush now…” His voice was lower and rougher than it had been before, hinting at his own stress and discomfort. The pain in his skull was splitting and twisting, churning together with frustrated and helpless rage until he felt his stomach lurch. The organ felt as though it had been wrung like a rag. “Hush, little Nelyafinwë, so thy atto and emya can get some sleep…”

 _He is a baby. He does not understand._ Fëanáro was not used to _not_ getting his way, nor to being ignored. He did not deal with _stupid_ people for that very reason. But this was a child—a child with no understanding of how his crying was driving his atto up the wall.

Fëanáro bit back a yell and a cuss. His teeth dug into his lip until he tasted blood.

_Patience, patience, patience… Relax… be patient… Relax…_

The chanting wasn’t helping.

“Is everything all right, Fëanáro?”

The sound of his wife’s voice broke through the cries of his offspring. Almost instantly, the baby’s wails quieted, and those big gray eyes scanned as if searching for the sight of his mother. Had he not been cradling his son, Fëanáro would have thrown his hands up in the air with a disgusted shout.

Instead, he stalked across the room, dumped the baby into his wife’s embrace, and walked out of the nursery. Just for good measure, he slammed the door in his wake, starting up the cries again.

Feeling rung out, tired and still slightly nauseous with his fatigued headache, Fëanáro dropped onto his mattress with a sigh, burying his face into one hand. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he rubbed at the flesh that furrowed between his brows, trying to massage away the ache of his angry scowl.

_Every night… Every fucking night…_

Nerdanel made it look so _fucking easy._

And Nelyafinwë was no longer crying. The quiet squalling and whining from the other room were already fading back into sleepy sounds of contentment.

Fëanáro resisted the urge to flop face-down upon the bed and shout into his pillow until his lungs burned. There was no reason to be upset, nor to feel the sharp burn of shame in his breast. So his son liked his wife better. It didn’t matter. So he couldn’t even give her a couple of hours of sleep, so terrible was he at this parenthood business. But it was her job to take care of the baby anyway. It didn’t matter.

_It didn’t matter._

So he told himself.

So he was still telling himself when his wife returned to their bedchambers. Her nightgown was slightly askew and her hair was laid in a frizzy, tangled braid down over the curve of her swollen breasts. Normally, the sight of her exposed, freckled skin and the curvature of her bosom would have him feeling slightly hot, but right now he just wanted to curl back up and avoid the gentle look in her green eyes.

He turned away, a clear indicator that he wanted to be left alone. His eyes now stared at the wall and the corner of the window. The faint brush of gold indicated that Laurelin had begun her waxing and that he had only an hour at most left before he needed to be up and ready to begin the day.

Though he doubted he would be capable of sleep now, he wanted to avoid his wife’s pitying gaze. He was no moping stripling, and he did _not_ need to be comforted like one.

She did not seem inclined to allow him to suffer in shameful silence.

He felt her weight on the bed at his back, dipping down the mattress and rolling his body slightly inwards. The warmth of her form near his own quickly followed, a gentle heat that blazed across his skin. And then the softness of her hands slipped up under his nightshirt and rested upon the tense arch of his back, fingers tracing the muscles still quivering in response to his irrational rage and upset.

They were very cool and very soft, but they pressed into the muscles with the firm strength of a sculptor’s expertise. Knots that had tightened and twisted with the tension of his thoughts were now fading beneath the healing touches. His groan as he felt her hands upon his shoulders, forcing the locked and trembling muscles into malleable goo, was loud in the silence between them.

“Thou shouldst relax,” she crooned. “There is no need to get frustrated. No one is good at parenthood immediately.”

Fëanáro was putty in her hands, like a glob of her sculpting clay bent to her will. He wanted to angrily snap at her, but her massage and the coolness of her hands and the whispery softness of her voice had already doused the white-hot flames of his impotent frustration. Like an instrument did she play his body, until he was entirely limp and nearly purring.

Still, he couldn’t help but answer. “Nelyafinwë hates me, Nerdanel.”

Only to have her scoff at him, her fingers briefly ceasing their circling motion to pinch the skin of his side. “He does _not,”_ the redhead scolded. “Babies are sensitive creatures. He can tell that thou art tired and annoyed and stressed, and he cannot find rest when thy spirit is anything but restful. Thou dost need to be calm and—”

“Relaxed,” Fëanáro grumbled. “Easily said. But it is harder to accomplish in the early hours of the morning.”

His griping only made her laugh softly, her lips against his spine between the sharp blades of his shoulders. “Thou art a big baby thyself, vennonya,” she teased. Very gently, her lips traveled up his spine to the nape of his neck, resting in a ticklish caress over the tiny, downy hairs. “We will try again on the morrow. Now rest.”

“I have to get up soon,” he complained. “There is no point in resting now.”

“Take the morning off…” Her lips moved from his nape across his shoulder and back down. The softness of her russet locks draped over his skin as she curled up at his back and nuzzled against his body. “Relax, Fëanáro. The world will turn on without thee for a few more hours yet. Go back to sleep.”

One arm came around his waist, and he felt her breasts press up against the hard planes of his lower back. The delicate point of her chin rested upon his spine. The flutter of her eyelashes brushed upon his flesh. “Relax, meldanya. Sleep. In the morning thou canst try again.”

How could he deny her when she made such a compelling case?

Sighing, he hunkered back down into the warmth of the blankets, ignoring the flash of golden light breaking the silver glaze upon the floor, dappling the room through the sheer curtain over the window. The birdsong was louder now, a constant twittering and chiming, and the cricket chirps disappeared along with the dew upon the grass. So he would be late to the forge. A one-day setback on his project was not the end of the world.

Content with his current existence, the prince found himself drifting slowly off again…

And then the baby started crying. _Again._

 _Aiya, Nelyafinwë_ , he could not help but think as his body jolted back into alertness, _thou art trouble indeed!_

But Nerdanel merely laughed, breathy and teasing against his back. “I guess thou canst try again now, vennonya. At least thou art a little more relaxed this time.”

Fëanáro just groaned into the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> atto = daddy or papa  
> emya = mommy or mama  
> yonya = my son (shortened yondonya)  
> vennonya = my husband  
> meldanya = my beloved  
> Aiya = exclamation similar to Oh!


	378. Gossamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins has caught attention higher up than he could ever imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 2, 2016.
> 
> Basically more Valarin weirdness. Oddly mixed together with the Hobbit. The idea came to me while watching the Appendices of the Hobbit Extended Addition today where they discussed how the main theme of the Hobbit is that one small person (Bilbo Baggins) can exact the biggest changes on the world around him without even trying. Thus, Vairë evolved into the vala who probably has the most profound understanding of the motivations of the Children. But then, history has a way of teaching you about how people work.
> 
> Warnings: Some mention of icky possible futures with enslavement and such, but nothing explicit. Mostly just poetic rambling and the Valar being the Valar.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Mandos = Námo

Each delicate, many-colored thread was a choice.

They danced upon the tips of the fingers of Vairë as she wove the histories of Eä into vibrant tapestries of shimmering light and gentle movement. Before her very eyes did those little choices, each with their own motivations and their own consequences, twine and twist together in flashes of color and shape to form the figures whose very actions were the singular notes in the great chords and harmonies of the Great Music.

Beneath her fingers, she wove the Ainulindalë in material form.

Some might have called such a work of art the physical manifestation of Fate. But, for all that many believed in the set course of the world, Vairë had never believed in a fixed fate for the Children of Ilúvatar.

Rather, the river of time was a fluid thing, bending and turning this way and that upon mere whims. Each thread she grasped could so easily have been another, for each choice had many hundreds of outcomes. It was only when the choice was made that the image unfolded within the depths of her mind and flowed out to her constantly weaving fingers.

And even the smallest choice could change the entire course of the world.

For she knew what the world might have looked like had Finwë, first King of the Noldor, chosen to remain alone rather than marrying and siring four more children after the death of his first bride. Or what the world might have looked like had Fëanáro chosen to forgo the raping of the swan-ships of Alqualondë, traveling into the north with his brother loyally at his side. Or what might have come to pass had Findekáno never carried out his most famed deed, rescuing his estranged cousin from the captivity of Morgoth. So many infinite possibilities that it was almost nauseating to see the many different turns time might have taken.

But often did the decisions of the important and powerful hold such sway. The marriage of a King could affect much within and without his kingdom. And, indeed, the resentment that the marriage of Finwë and Indis had spawned gave birth to much of the familial strife which wracked and wrecked the House of Finwë through the later days of the Years of the Trees and all throughout the First Age. Indeed, the revenge of Princes would forever scar the annals of the world, for was it not the First Kinslaying which had cursed the sons of Fëanáro to their ill fate? Was it not the abandonment of Nolofinwë and his people upon the shores of Araman which led to the great strife and hatred between the Houses of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë that would then shatter the solidarity and unity of the Noldor beneath Morgoth’s boot?

It was no surprise that such choices laid the foundation for the unfolding of the future.

But, for Vairë, the most fascinating and unexpectedly world-altering choices were often those of the common folk.

Her current favorite, she thought with a stroke of her hands across the rippling, fluid waves of tapestries that lined her halls, was probably Bilbo Baggins.

Now, Hobbits—strange little creatures that they were—were an offshoot of Men. And thus their fates were not predetermined, but rather they had the gift of Men such that they had the power to alter their own fates by choice. And, in the process, change the courses of many whose fates were intimately braided with their own lives. They were often forgotten in the broad scheme of the world, for they were such tiny and insignificant folk who never strayed far from their comfortable homes and green little hills.

Yet, the tapestry woven before her eyes showed the inside of a smial, all round and welcoming with sunlight pouring through the window. And its Master was standing before the lovely emerald door with the little knob sticking out of its center, his eyes distant and his face lost in the depths of thought.

In Vairë’s hand rested a single thread, nearly invisible against the shimmering of her pale skin. Bilbo’s choice.

In her mind’s eye, she could see the future as it had been without the intervention of Bilbo Baggins. A long and dark road. Ultimately, it might have led to the same end—the destruction of the One Ring and the end of the reign of the Dark Lord Sauron—but the path would have held much more death and evil, much more darkness and sorrow and horror. The reclamation of Erebor would have failed before it had even begun, and the war in the North would have been a much bloodier affair. She had even seen a future in which the fires of Smaug ate away the Greenwood and desolated Rohan, where the armies of Mordor overran and slew the Men of Gondor and ravaged all the lands to the south, passing north into Eriador to pillage and plunder the greener lands and softer peoples.

She had seen a future where Sauron’s defeat had come by the deeds of desperate folk creeping through the blackness, where the desolate and burned and ruined lands and people left in the wake of the Dark Lord’s evil rule slowly crawled back out of their oppression and fear. But they never reached the pinnacle of glory written into their Song, instead fading into an age of darkness and misunderstanding.

But Bilbo Baggins had not yet made his choice. And his choice would make all the difference.

With a secretive smile, she could see him looking at the contract laid out upon his kitchen table, a long tongue of stained and well-worn parchment spilling in a waterfall down to the wooden floor. The signatures of Thorin, son of Thráin, and Balin, son of Fundin, rested upon its end, staring up at the potential not-really-a-burglar with his pounding heart and his wide eyes.

Bilbo Baggins abruptly reached for the quill lying beside the paper, scrawling his name in sweeping curls upon the empty line.

And the whole course of the world changed before Vairë’s eyes.

One slender thread twined about her fingers. This insignificant little flash of silvered light was the difference between an age of shadow—terror and death at the hands of the Dark Lord—and an age of triumph for the free peoples of Middle-earth. All the bleak, foreboding images of the destruction and suffering to come were, in an instant, washed away.

She saw the river of time sway and bend. She saw the dwarves of Erebor reclaim their home, standing as a beacon of hope in the north in the wake of Smaug’s destruction. She saw the elves of Lothlórien and Mirkwood rising up against the darkness of Dol Guldur in victory, bringing light back to the fading world. She saw the Men of Rohan and Gondor fighting together upon a great plain of dying grass, facing down thousands upon thousands of the filthy servants of Sauron and _surviving._

She saw a little Hobbit with dark curly hair holding the One Ring above the chasm of Mount Doom…

And then she pulled back. There were still many choices to be made between now and then. For the time being, there was just little Bilbo Baggins running like a wild creature through the hills and over the fences of the quaint little village of Hobbiton, contract waving behind him in the breeze like a bizarre accordion tail.

_“Where are you going, Mr. Bilbo?”_

_“I’m going on an adventure!”_

And the Lady Vairë smiled to herself and hummed softly under her breath. Time was such a fragile thing, so easily twisted and turned. Just a gossamer web of a thousand choices—hopes and dreams and greed and desire and compassion and wonder—all woven together to form something beautiful. And, beneath her hands, all that wondrous complexity came into physical form.

At her back, she sensed the quiet presence of her husband approach, as though he had been drawn forth by her lightened heart. His hand curled softly upon the nape of her neck in a fond caress. “What has thou in such a lovely mood, my dear?”

“Oh, nothing,” she replied blithely, her voice careless and soft. This was her secret, and it rested silently upon her tongue. “I am merely contemplating Hobbits.”

His look was both curious and confused. For all his great foresight, Námo was a being who saw the big picture but often missed the important little details. He saw the hurricane, but not the butterfly whose wings had started it all. The little people and their seemingly insignificant decisions that led to such great consequences. How even the smallest person could change the course of the Great Music with such ease.

Her dear spouse made a soft noise and wandered on by, dismissing her winsome mood. And Vairë withheld the soft chortle rising into the back of her throat.

Námo would _see_ soon enough. And Vairë thought her spouse could use a little surprise.

 _Bilbo Baggins_ , she couldn’t help but think. _Such a little person in a big world._

And yet… 

_And yet…_


	379. Wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a price to pay for all knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 3, 2016.
> 
> Sort of depressing. Takes place between scenes of Older (that one that I wrote, like, ages and ages ago), and is also related to Today and to Awaken. Just some introspection.
> 
> Warnings: Not much.

They called her the wise. But what, truly, was wisdom?

Andreth was an old woman, and her reflection in the silvered mirror of the lake Aeluin was no longer sprightly and dark. The mane of hair that had once been thick and a mere shade off of the purest black, a tail that hung down over her shoulders once braided by elven hands and clasped with pearls and silver light, it was faded away. The clasp was the same, but the hair was wispy and white, and it was braided by her own shaky and veiny hands, something simple and ugly in comparison.

Sometimes, she bemoaned the way her body had given out on her, how she had grown old and frail. The young woman who had been able to ride with the best of the menfolk, who had been able to run for miles in the open plains of Dorthonion, who had been able to swim from one end of the lake to another, she was gone in a flash. So fast that she barely existed.

But Andreth had learned to accept the decline of her physical form, the loss of her beauty. She was a daughter of the race of Men, and aging was the way of her people.

It was more now the state of her heart that she bemoaned.

Andreth had, when she was a young woman of childbearing age, thought nothing of denying herself a husband. She had loved only one man—a man who, by the laws of his people, could not take her as a wife and return her love as he dearly wished he might—and she would not entertain the thought of another having even a droplet of her passion.

Looking back, she wondered if she had been foolish.

He had told her to be happy. He had told her to move on without him. He had told her to find a new love, to build herself a new life.

She remembered the taste of his breath upon her lips as he said his only goodbye. _“Please, cry not. Please, be happy.”_

Later, she had been angry with herself, angry that she had remained silent, that she had not tried harder to make him take her with, that she had let him go so easily. _Happier I would have been at thy side_ , she had longed to say to his retreating shadow, _and not with any other. I will smile, but there will be no love for me beyond thee._

But she knew he would not have listened to her words, silent or otherwise. He had been set in his mind, believing that he was giving her a better life. He had wanted her to move on. He had wanted her to have all that he could never give her in this life.

Looking back, she thought perhaps she should have listened. Years drew long when one was alone and childless. When all her fellow girls went off and married, Andreth remained alone in her house. When men came courting, she turned them away without remorse. And when a new generation of children ran through the streets, she taught the little ones numbers and herbs but had none of her own to kiss and tend, to pass on tales and stories from her own childhood.

Was it the lack of wisdom, then, that she had failed to heed the advice of her lover?

Her soul was sore at the thought of what she might have had if only she had opened her heart to the possibility. The children she would have given birth to from her own womb. The husband she would have loved despite _his_ shadow. The grandchildren she would have been bouncing on her knee now in her old age.

The family that might be at her side as she faded into death’s embrace.

But then, Andreth was too old to waste her energy on regret now. As she sat beside the lake with her white hair and her wrinkled skin and her eyes which had grown deeper and darker with long years of waiting in vain and sorrow in understanding, she gave the clear glass of the water her smile again. It was not as lovely as the smile that her beloved had seen all those years ago, but it was a smile nonetheless.

An old woman looking back. Would that her younger self would be reflected in those waters, a tunnel splitting through the annals of time. Would that the young Andreth with the midnight hair full of stars and the wide eyes with stubborn iron in their hazel depths would listen to the words of her ancient self.

Would that she could share what she knew now. That it would not have been betrayal to live on, stepping out of _his_ overwhelming golden shadow and into life. That it was, rather, a betrayal to the love _he_ had held for her to waste the chance she had been given.

That it would have been okay to be happy. That it was what _he_ would have wanted. That there would be time yet for their love in the endless years beyond the end of time.

But it was too late for that now. Andreth closed her eyes against that reflection and breathed in the evergreen air, the breath before winter descended upon the vast stretches of northern land. This winter would be her last, the final chill before her last spring in this world. And her last summer. And, perhaps, her last fall.

And then she would be gone. As if she had never existed.

And who would carry on her wisdom then, when she had faded into the dust beneath the earth?

 _Too late for that now_ , her mind whispered as she looked over the fire upon the lake’s surface and then up into the fading light of day wreathing the first stars peeking through the blanket of falling night.

But was that not always the way of wisdom? Through experience, it was gained. And through generations it was passed.

Wisdom. Andreth snorted to herself. Yes, perhaps she was wise. But she was wise and alone and cold with none to hear her words. And she had no time for despair.

Only reflection. And her face upon the surface of the water. Old and tired and wreathed in white hair.

And she could see _his_ eyes filled with stars in the blue hues of the sky. And they were filled with sorrow.


	380. Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Children and the Ainur are innately different. None are more aware of this fact than Thingol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 4, 2016.
> 
> This is actually pretty cute, as well as being a further exploration of topics explored already in Sleep and Move. Basically, some things Thingol has learned about the Ainur being married to a maia and things that Melian has learned about the Children being married to an elf.
> 
> Warnings: Almost sex scene present along with quite a bit of talking about sex. Female genitalia. Mention of bathroom activities.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Thingol = Elwë  
> Melian = Melyanna

There were times which made Elwë realize just how large a difference there truly was between the Eruhíni and the Ainur despite the mortal cages that wrapped the impossibly bright and hot spirits of those strange beings from beyond time and space. For all that he loved her, Melyanna was indeed not of his species, and things which he took for granted she found to be the most fascinating and strange occurrences.

Yet, he found himself remembering fondly her wonder at his alien actions and behaviors. Her big blue eyes and the confused scrunch of her nose and the childish “why” questions that constantly departed her lips.

\---

For example, he had fallen into a deep sleep when he had come out of her first enchantment. Two hundred years was too long to be awake, even for an elf, and he had collapsed before his mind had even caught up with the passing of time and realized it was shutting down.

After that nice, long, relaxing sleep, he had awoken to Melyanna’s face hovering above his own. Her wide eyes, dark and filled with starlight, were staring unblinkingly down at him as though he were the most amazing thing she had ever beheld. And not in the way of who lovers admiring each the other’s beauty in the starlight. More in the way of a child examining an interesting butterfly or beetle upon a garden leaf.

“Thou didst fall over,” she told him. “I thought thou wert dead!”

Yawning, he sat up in the grass. His back protested a bit, so perhaps he had fallen on it strangely, but the rest of his body hummed pleasantly with rejuvenation. “I was merely asleep,” he told her. “We elves need rest, and I was tired after being awake for so very long.”

The look she gave him brought the silver-haired elf to pause. “What is the matter?” he asked, worried he might have done something to offend this strange, glorious being.

“Sleep?” she asked. “I am familiar with rest, but even in rest I am fully aware of my surroundings. I called for thee and thou didst not answer. Is sleep some new word for unconsciousness?”

_Ah, so it is just confusion._ He had known she was different, but to not require sleep—what a strange concept indeed! “Sleep is not the same as unconsciousness. We can usually be roused from sleep by loud noises and movements. It is merely another form of rest, I suppose, so that we can be refilled with energy for the next handful of hours of travel or play or hunting. Otherwise, the body becomes sluggish and weak with weariness. Dost thou not need such a thing?”

She shook her head. “Rest is for contemplation and weariness of the spirit. But my raiment needs no such nourishment. Do you need to do this thing called sleep often?”

“Often enough!” Elwë stood and brushed himself off, wondering what it would be like if his body never grew tired at all. How much more traveling could get done without the need to stop every few dozen hours to make camp!

“Odd, indeed,” the beauty at his side said, her head tilted. “I never would have imagined that the Children would be such strange beings.”

_Thou art the strange one_ , he wanted to reply.

But even in her curiosity and strange observation, she was breathtakingly beautiful. And so he held his tongue and offered her his hand. And he delighted in the smoothness of her white flesh against his palm.

\---

“What exactly is food? I know of water, though I am not certain why you insist upon consuming it thusly, yet I’ve never heard of this strange thing called food.”

_Never heard of food! What does she power herself upon if not sleep and food?_

Elwë was a bit frazzled by the thought that his mate _didn’t need to eat_. But, more importantly, he had no idea how to go about explaining food to someone who had no knowledge of the concept.

“Food,” he began, “Is things like fruit and meat. We eat them to give ourselves energy.”

“I thought you slept to rejuvenate yourselves.” She seemed confused by the contradiction. “I have seen animals consume other animals before, particularly orcs and other foul creatures ravening upon each other and unsuspecting prey, but I had never realized that the Eruhíni would be the same or that it served a purpose but to deal out death and violence.”

He didn’t much like being compared to an orc, but Elwë took her words in stride.

“Well, we need sleep, yes,” he replied hesitantly, “But sleep does not create nutrients. We need the good nutrients from the vegetables and the sugars from the fruits and the muscle and fat from the meat. Without those things, we feel hunger—a hollow sensation in the pit of the stomach—and, eventually, we would die from lack of those things.”

The concept was just so _natural_ to Elwë that he could not understand how it was so _unnatural_ to Melyanna.

“And we drink water because we feel thirst,” he further explained, “This sort of burning, itching feeling in the back of the throat. One can die more quickly from lack of water than from lack of food. So we need to find fresh water by which to settle so we have plentiful water to drink, and we need to find a forest with much game and places to cultivate fruit and gardens so that we have enough food to feed all our people.”

“Hunger and thirst,” she repeated, nodding her head as if setting those terms to memory. “I do not experience such things, but perhaps I shall try consuming this food you speak of. It seems as though the Eruhíni take pleasure in the consumption.”

Elwë felt another round of hesitation coming on.

“That may not be the wisest idea, meldanya…”

\---

“So you consume food.”

“Yes.”

“And then your body expels waste matter afterwards.”

“Yes.”

“That seems rather strange.”

“I would presume that the body creates material that it does not need or want, and thus it is… uh… disposed of. As excrement.”

“Excrement… I am curious about how this works. May I watch?”

“W-what? No!”

“Really? But it does not seem like something that should be embarrassing if it is a mere natural bodily function.”

“It is just… not done. Such things are private. And rather disgusting.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

…

“I would still like to see it once.”

\---

The embarrassment of sharing his bathroom habits aside, Elwë found the strangest thing yet to be Melyanna’s complete _lack_ of understand of coitus and procreation.

Of course, it had not occurred to him that she might not understand such things until he had married her and taken her to his bed. Until he had pressed her body down beneath his own and begun laying deep, searching kisses upon her plush lips as his hands reached out to remove her clothing in search for the curve of her breasts and buttocks. Until she’d gone and opened her mouth and ruined the mood entirely.

She did not seem to mind at first, but then… “Elwë,” she asked between kisses, “What exactly art thou doing?”

The young lord did not think he had ever been so utterly thrown for a loop. Ever.

It had simply never occurred to him that a being whose true form was metaphysical might not understand the implications of the bodily form she wore over her vibrant spirit. It appeared to him that she perceived touch—both pleasurable and painful—and thus she seemed to be appreciating the way their lips tingled after each embrace of their lips and tongues, and how her nipples were sensitive and pearled with the tender pinch and caress of his fingers. For once, Elwë had thought perhaps sexual intercourse was a common ground between the Eruhíni and the Ainur, for he could not imagine a life where no urge to mate pounded constantly in the back of the mind, urging sharply each man and woman to seek out their mate and satisfy the strange and instinctual lust burning in their guts as the sight of one the other’s bare form.

His assumption, apparently, had been wrong.

“Do the Ainur take mates differently?” he asked softly against her lips. “Do you not join together physically as One?”

Her big blue eyes were staring at him again. “Well, we come together as two spirits and become entwined. Our minds meld, and we can speak to our mates over great distances. And we feel the other’s pain and sadness and happiness as though it were our own. But we have already joined thusly, Elwë, and are already mates.”

“But thou dost not know of _physical_ joining? Uh… coitus? Where a man and a woman join their physical bodies and try to create new life?”

Another odd look. “You wish to attempt to make smaller elves with _me?_ As in the way of the fauna? But I am not an elf!”

_She really, honestly, has no idea._

Elwë found that her ignorance certainly doused the flames of his passion. For all that some women came to the marriage bed not really knowing much _about_ intercourse and how it worked, most came knowing _what it was_ and _what it was for_. They knew about consummation of marriage and the joining of bodies, bringing two housed spirits as close to one another as they could physically be in the material realm. They also knew that, while copulation was essentially meant to induce procreation, it was meant to be a pleasurable and intimate experience between two lovers. It was meant to bring two people together in a way that left them deeply entrenched in the other’s body and spirit.

After her words, Elwë was not entirely sure Melyanna actually understood how procreation worked or that her husband had intended to mate with her upon the eve of their marriage. She certainly didn’t seem aware of the use of the female genitalia that he _knew_ she possessed.

“Perhaps thou shouldst have a visit with the female healers before we try this,” he admitted almost sullenly. Could he be blamed for having looked forward to such intimacy with his new wife, only to find that she had no idea what was going on? “Perhaps they can explain this better than I.”

She at least seemed to sense his disappointment. “We do not need to stop,” she tried to assure him. “I have been enjoying your touches and kisses thus far, Elwë.”

Her words had him brightening a little. “I can at least teach thee a little about pleasure, if thou art willing, given in the way of the Eruhíni.”

“I would like that,” she purred, her voice sensual to his ears.

And he pressed another kiss to her lips before sliding down her naked body. Without her understanding both the gravity and potential consequences of true intercourse, he did not want to join them fully this night. But that did not mean he could not show her pleasure. A few orgasms were the least he could do to show his appreciation.

From this angle, she was just as beautiful. He spread her creamy thighs and breathlessly took in her rosy hue of her sex, a pink to match her full lips and the disks of her erect nipples. The itch to touch burned in the tips of his fingers.

No, he wouldn’t mind showing her bliss. It would be his pleasure.

\---

Of all her confusion, he found her fascination and misunderstanding of conception, pregnancy and children to be the funniest.

For all that she now understood the mechanics and purpose—both from a technical and pleasurable standpoint—of their nightly bedroom activities, it proved harder to explain the growth and delivery of unborn children. The Ainur, she told him, were born from the thoughts of the One, their Father, and they had never been children except perhaps in the innocence of their thoughts. Without first understanding how pregnancy worked, she told him, she was not capable of conceiving a child by his seed, just as she had not been capable of eating without having a stomach and intestines to digest that which she consumed.

Thus, her fledgling attempts at having the pregnant ladies of Elwë’s people explain the process.

“So the unborn child is nurtured by the mother until it departs her womb,” Melyanna summarized. “It is rather like a leaf, then, taking nutrients and water from a parent tree.”

“Ah…” The woman looked as though she wanted to immediately cast aside the analogy. But she paused instead, thinking of a better explanation. “More like the child is a seedling which, when it leaves its parent tree, begins to grow and mature on its own. Leaves die without the nurturing of trees, you understand, so newborn babies are not alike to leaves.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Melyanna murmured. “But why do they grow as such, inside the mother? It seems a painful and inconvenient solution. Would it not be easier if they could be nested like a bird’s egg and nurtured separately?”

The poor woman bit her lip. “I am afraid we cannot choose how our bodies work, my Lady. This is simply how it happens.”

Ah, Elwë sensed his poor wife’s confusion again. The Ainur were shape-shifting beings, and so Melyanna could very easily imagine adapting her body to make childrearing easier on her own bones and organs without realizing that elves, for all their resilience and physical resemblance to the raiment she had donned, were stuck in the bodies they had born into and could not consciously alter their forms to fit their will.

“But why?” Melyanna asked. “Why does it happen thusly?”

Elwë thought this a suitable time to step in. “Perhaps thou shouldst allow this young woman to go about her duties. She must be looking forward to returning home to her mate.”

“Of course!” Melyanna agreed. “I may ask more questions after she has rested—slept.”

_Well, at least she remembers we need sleep nowadays._ At first she had tended to forget. _Perhaps I should direct her back to the healers…_

“We should retire as well,” Elwë said. “I am feeling a tad bit tired myself.”

“Do you not want to participate in coitus tonight, then, husband?”

Had he been eating or drinking, Elwë would have choked. As it was, he nearly inhaled his own saliva at the bluntness of her intimate inquiry. The young elven lord could feel the redness seeping into his cheeks as mortification set in, burning upwards to the silver of his hairline, for there were several elves—guards and servants and other nobility—who were within earshot and eying the couple now with shocked, wide eyes and gaping mouths.

Clearing his throat, Elwë wove his arm through his wife’s and began to lead her from the room. “I am afraid such topics are meant to be discussed in private, Melyanna.”

“Are they?” Her pretty lips pursed and pouted faintly. “I do not think I shall ever understand why it is that elves seem so modest about discussing completely natural bodily functions. Must you all pretend to one another that none of ye participate in intercourse when the results are so blatantly displayed in the form of children?”

“Thou shalt just need to accept that we are odd creatures,” he replied, thankful that they had cleared the room and were now alone as they traversed the halls.

“Indeed, thou art,” she agreed solemnly. “Very modest and shy.”

“Modest and shy!” he exclaimed in protest. “Thou dost make us all sound like blushing virgins!”

“Well, if the label fits…”

Elwë just sighed. But his smile was fond.

\---

For all her infinite wisdom in matters that transcended the very basal laws and realities of being a physical being stuck in a single, unchanging body, poor Melyanna was indeed rather like a child when it came to the simple matters of life. Inquisitive and lacking in all shyness and discretion, not realizing her mistakes until they were passed nor feeling even the slightest drop of embarrassment at her slips.

_“That is what I have thee for,”_ she told him with a sly smile. _“Thou art embarrassed enough for the both of us!”_

Still, for all their difference—for all her strangeness to him and his strangeness to her—he could not help but find her alien quality endearing as well. Enough so that he did not mind the awkward questions or being stalked when he went to make water or the odd looks he sometimes received from his people for choosing to tie his life to a being not even of their race.

Melyanna was perfect as she was. Strangeness and all.

He wouldn’t have changed a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru (pl)  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> meldanya = my beloved


	381. Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two cousins destroyed in the wake of Sauron being cousinly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 5, 2016.
> 
> Basically just me indulging myself. Connected most closely to Celebration and Peace, but also related to Morality, Ink and Path and to the entire Grace Arc (Sauron/Celebrimbor stuff). Takes place at the end of the Third Age and beginning of the Fourth. Slightly OMC-centric. As a reminder, Ilession is a Maglorion, so he and Celebrimbor are cousins by their fathers. The brother mentioned is, of course, Erestor.
> 
> Warnings: Hints strongly at torture, slavery and dismemberment. Depressed character alert.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar = Telpe  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

How does one begin again after the end?

The task seemed so very daunting to his eyes now. Even with his meager belongings packed and strapped to the back of his saddle. Even with the horse trotting briskly beneath his body, carrying him down from the towering white heights of the city. Even with the brilliance of Anor overhead and the sky stretched open like an untouched blue wound. Even with the gate looming closer and closer with every clip-clop upon stone.

Telperinquar wanted to leave. He wanted to leave desperately. But he had no idea where to go or what to do.

Such strange indecisiveness had never been in his nature. He always knew what he wanted and where he wanted to go, and so his path forward in the world had always been a clear one. To feel so lost was… strange. Foreign.

But then, he’d felt so terribly lost ever since leaving Barad-dûr. It had had to be done—he knew he had needed to escape or be destroyed utterly with the fall of Sauron, his lover and master—but it felt as though something was broken that would never be fixed. The confident elf lord of the Second Age, the sensual and arrogant Telperinquar whose hands molded jewels of the greatest beauty and renown and who would never have submitted himself so easily to the whims of evil, he was crumbled and blown to the four winds. He was dust slipping between desperately grasping fingers, disintegrated and gone forever, never coming back. All that he was, it was a memory now. Just a memory.

As disgusting as it made him feel, the new Telperinquar felt empty without Annatar. He felt empty without direction. He felt empty without purpose. And he was desperately, hopelessly unhappy.

_I should be happy_ , he would tell himself. _I_ should _be._

But no matter how many times he said those words in the secret depths of his mind, scolding himself for the blanket of depression resting upon his thoughts, such things did nothing to help. Seeing the smiling people in the streets, the newly blossoming families with their new babies, the rebuilding of the city from its shattered wreckage—none of it helped.

He was afraid to go, but he could not bear to stay.

Now, he needed to begin again. As he had after the Exile in the wake of blood and fire. As he had in Gondolin after the Sack of Nargothrond. As he had in the Havens of Sirion after the Fall of Gondolin. As he had upon the Isle of Balar when all of Beleriand was overrun. As he had in Lindon and then in Eregion after the long and terrible years of the War of Wrath. As he had after his death by torture, reborn in Valinor, and then later again in Middle-earth when he traveled back across the sea. As he had in the mountains, breathing the fresh air, feeling the first peace he could recall since the Years of the Trees, so distant and green.

He just wasn’t sure he had another beginning in him anymore.

Yet the gates were upon him, and there was no turning back now.

_No turning back now._

Still, strangely, passing through those towering gates was so very easy a task for all its seemingly insurmountable height. The former elf lord crossed the threshold without halting, half expecting some mystical force to hold him back from his passage. Yet, there was not even a gossamer sheet of resistance against his mortal form as he emerged from the shadows of the great walls of Minas Tirith and into the sunshine of broad daylight.

The air he breathed tasted fresher on this side.

Pausing just beyond the gates, poised upon the edge of the long stretch of bloodstained grass turned vibrant green with the coming of summer, Telperinquar looked up at the sky and thought that it was strange to see only a few lonely white puffs of cloud floating by. With ease could he see the river to the east, and the tall row of foreboding mountains in the distance. In their cleft rested the abandoned ruins of Minas Morgul, all parched white stone in the wake of departed black sorcery. Beyond that, where there should have been the swirling mass of storms—the hatred and the terror and the cruel lightning flashing in the sky, a manifestation of all the fury and power of the lord who reigned within those fences of stone—there was just sunshine.

The elf pursed his lips, helplessly thinking that it seemed wrong. Mordor, even from this distance, no longer resembled the Mordor he had seen from the window of his balcony so many thousands of times. It was strange to contemplate, and stranger still to see. In a way, disheartening.

_Where to go_ , he thought. _Not east. Not home._

There was nothing left for him there.

But what was the point in wasting time here?

Telperinquar nudged his horse into a soft lope, intending to make for Osgiliath and follow the road from there either north or south beside the river. He had made it all but three strides before the sound of his voice upon the wind drew his eyes back to the white city of Minas Tirith and the dark figure upon a horse trotting through the still-parted gates. Telperinquar withheld a scowl at the sight.

“Thou didst not think thou couldst leave without saying anything, didst thou, cousin?” the other elf asked, stern face set but dark eyes glimmering with something caught between amusement and mischief.

“Thou art not coming with,” Telperinquar snapped. “No.”

“Ah, Telperinquar, hast thou not learned that arguing with me is futile?” his cousin asked, pulling to a halt at his side so they were perched but a few feet apart. Up close, the other elf’s scars could be seen lining his face in little cracked waves and slashes, and the jagged tattoos on his face and neck and hands peeked from beneath his clothing and the veil of his dark hair. Telperinquar’s eyes caught on the three-fingered hand holding the reins, and he quickly looked away.

“Thou needest not pretend at family loyalty, Ilession,” he choked out, feeling at once relieved and uncomfortable. After all, was it not the very man he loved and hated who had so mutilated and tormented his own brethren and still managed to remain foremost in his heart? He could not figure why Ilession was not disgusted by merely breathing the same air as the lover of the Dark Lord. “Go to Imladris. Is that not where thy brother awaits?”

“My brother needs me not,” his cousin replied. “Now that I am free to do as I wish, I find myself feeling a bit of wanderlust. Indulge me, Telpe.”

That had to be a blatant lie. “Thou dost owe me nothing, nor do I need a babysitter. Besides, it cannot be soothing, being so close to one tied so tightly to thy hated master, Sauron.”

The other dark-haired elf gave him a flat look. “And thou dost think I was not closely tied to he whom I served for more than six thousand years? Even if those years were spent as a spy and a traitor, hating every moment in his presence, he has undeniably left his mark. As is, I suppose, the way of his kin.”

_Indeed, that is their way._ Telperinquar stifled the urge to press a hand up against his chest and knead at the aching cavity beneath. Instead, he traced the darkened band of skin upon his ring finger, feeling the roughened texture of the burn beneath the pad of his fingertip. _That is their way._

And there was no denying that Ilession was marked. Physically, perhaps tenfold as much as Telperinquar. Mentally, who was to say? Those fingers had not cut themselves off.

“As I said, I could use a bit of travel. To somewhere far from here. To somewhere where we can begin again.”

_Begin again… Always beginning again…_

“Very well,” Telperinquar finally folded. “Thou mayest accompany me.”

And Ilession laughed that laugh that made Telperinquar think of his father’s glee from his childhood years and his grandfather’s madness from the fire and darkness that followed. It was a short, deep burst, full of fire and mockery. Through and through, this being was a Son of Fëanáro. Just as was Telperinquar.

“Thou couldst not have stopped me, tyenya,” his cousin told him. And Telperinquar followed as his dark cousin tapped his horse into a trot and set out across the wide stretch of plain with the sun bearing down upon their backs. “Now, which way shall we go?”

The first instinct, as it ever was, was to say _home._ But home was gone. To the north lay the remaining elven kin sequestered with the inland forests and rivers. To the south, following the river, was the ocean, and along the coast were the cities of Harad.

“South,” he replied. “Let us go south.”

A knowing look he received, but he ignored it. “South it is,” his cousin agreed as they went. They did not bother looking back at the city they left behind, for they would have stared at the welcoming white gates filled beyond with bustling life and joy. Only forward did they gaze, towards unknown things. Unknown places with fewer memories.

They passed through Osgiliath and followed the road south along the river. And when they passed out of sight of the White City, neither looked back. And when they passed out of sight of the Ephel Dúath, they did not look back. And when they reached the ocean and traveled south, leaving Gondor behind altogether, they did not look back.

And Telperinquar was relieved. He wanted anything but to look back.

Instead, they found themselves following the coast south, passing out of knowledge of their kin.

And they were begun again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> tyenya = dear kinsman (lit. my thou)
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Ephel Dúath


	382. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond contemplates time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 6, 2016.
> 
> Just some introspection. I couldn't help but think of how difficult it must be for Elrond to leave ME knowing that he won't ever see his daughter again. That he might lose one of his sons as well (at least in my AU).
> 
> Warnings: elves being weird. Mentions of death.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Aragorn = Estel

Elrond had heard the phrase “short on time” before. As an immortal being, he couldn’t say that he had really understood it well.

After all, the elves had time in endless amounts. Like a glass of wine which never emptied no matter how much was drunk or wasted. There was no beginning or end to the flow of time around creatures who did not die, and it could be indulged indecently and was without second thought. Decades, centuries—even millennia—could pass by one of the fair folk like wind through the grass, and eventually even the long stretches of years felt as though they were the mere passage of a moment. One blink of the eye and mortal children were old and gray. One breath and empires rose to their zenith and fell to extinction. One rising of the sun and setting in the West and rivers had changed and the mountains had crumbled and the world was changed.

At an age exceeding six thousand years, Elrond was far from the oldest of his brethren. Still, he had never felt the passage of time acutely. There had, of course, been moments of fear for his life, moments when he had understood the possibility of an _end_ to life. War had a way of bringing mortality into the hearts of even the immortals.

Yet, death for elves was not forever. The Halls of the Waiting were for healing and redemption, but rebirth awaited beyond those gray corridors and years of judgment. The golden wheat fields and turquoise oceans and pearly sands and endless emerald forests of Valinor awaited those who perished in pain and war. As did the embrace of old friends who had passed and family who had lost their lives.

The knowledge was always there that, even should he die, Elrond would see his loved ones again. Somewhere out there, his mother and father waited to welcome him with open arms and brilliant smiles. Somewhere out there, Celebrían looked out upon the open sea, waiting for the day his ship would appear as white sails upon the horizon. Somewhere out there, Gil-galad and his many fallen warriors were sparring and joking and drinking together merrily in peace, waiting for their herald and comrade to join their ranks again.

The only sore spot was the reality of the fate of Men.

_Elros._

Elros was not waiting for him on those far distant shores. His brother had chosen the path of the Aftercomers, and when he died he left to be among the mortals in the regions beyond the universe, fallen out of the reach of all time. It was a bitter pill to swallow, the knowledge that they would be parted literally until the End of All Things.

But the bond between siblings was something flexible. Not breakable, but not adamant and unyielding either. Elrond missed his brother dearly, but they had grown up and grown apart as brothers were wont to do. In the Timeless Halls, Elros was surrounded by his wife and his children and grandchildren, happy and content and at peace. There was a certain sort of relief in that thought, enough that Elrond, though he had been grief-stricken and mourned, did not lament the loss of his sibling so harshly as he might have.

The bond between siblings was nothing like the bond between a parent and child. Between a father and his daughter.

Siblings were made to grow apart in the aftermath of childhood. Children were made to leave their parents’ sides and become their own beings. But parents were made to cling to their children for eternity.

Sick at heart, the reality of Arwen’s choice had finally dropped the full weight of its horror upon Elrond’s chest, forcing all the air from his lungs in a pained rush. The elf lord felt as though the endless time he had so indulged with hedonistic excess now slipped through his fingers like sand. It was the water in the cup of his palm spilling over the edges and sinking into the earth, forever lost. It was the clouds overhead passing by, so far beyond his reach as to be unchangeable, their disappearance inevitable.

Suddenly, his understanding of the shortness of time was so stark and razor sharp that Elrond felt as though he had cut his spirit upon its blade.

He placed his daughter’s hand into the hand of a mortal man, giving his blessing that they bind their lives together in marriage, knowing that she was giving up her immortality so that she might travel beyond the edges of the universe to be with him in the Timeless Halls after death. Many years away though their demise might be, and many days yet still would they walk amongst the living. Yet, Elrond knew his own time upon these shores was drawing to a close, and he would not be there to see.

It was time that he traveled across the sea where he belonged, leaving his children behind.

But, whereas Elladan would remain among the Firstborn and Elrohir still hung in limbo, caught between his choices, Arwen was already among the Aftercomers. He would see his eldest again, and perhaps his middle child as well, but his daughter was lost.

All at once, he realized that he would never see her again. Not until the End of All Things.

He would never see her glowing with joy, pregnant with her first child. He would never see her smiling and holding a babe in her arms. He would never see her face growing older, wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes and lips. He would never see her reach old age with her husband, gray and frail. 

He would never again hug her close or kiss her cheeks. He would never see her reunited with her mother upon the golden shores. He would never have his family complete again.

Like mist over the vale in the early morning, she would vanish beneath the garish sunlight. Gone.

And these last few days—these dwindling hours and minutes and seconds—were all he had left to clutch desperately in his hands. In the morning, he and his sons would be departing for Imladris. Shortly thereafter, he would be departing for Mithlond where a ship awaited. And then he would be on his way back to his wife’s side.

There was no time left. The last grains of sand in the hourglass trickled down in glimmers of light.

This, the elf lord realized, was the reality of time that so escaped the Firstborn stricken with immortality. He now perceived its bend and flow. Its start and its end. Its units and measure. The abstract beast became concrete and physical in his thoughts.

He looked to his daughter’s smiles and listened to her ringing, joyous laughter, saw the way she grasped at Estel’s callused hand and how her cheeks were alight with rosy hue, and he had never seen her more beautiful than she was now. There was no immortal light beneath her skin anymore, yet the stars in her eyes had never been brighter.

This is how he would remember her forever. When she was gone beyond the edges of the world.

When time had swallowed her whole. As it did all mortal things.


	383. Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and his letter-opener are a perfect match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 7, 2016.
> 
> More shameless self-indulgence. Most closely related to Sword and Give, the second one mostly because a particular dagger makes a cameo near the end. Based on that, the mysterious elf's identity should be fairly evident. Mostly, this is just me being ridiculous and nerdy. Also, this is mostly movie-verse Hobbit canon in part because I enjoyed the cuteness of the dwarves sneaking away out from under the elves' noses.
> 
> Warnings: Not much. Just metaphors.

Even though his sword might not really be a sword, Bilbo thought it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever held. The lines of the curved blade were so very sleek, flowing like water waves up upon the shore, parting and coming together into a wickedly sharp point. Even though there was no decoration upon the pommel and but a swirl of silvered finery arching down the reflective metal, Bilbo still admired the make and grace of the deadly tool.

Nameless though it might be, his letter-opener was a fine thing indeed.

The little Hobbit held the blade up to the starlight and the moon, enjoying the way the ghostly light bounced off the metal and alighted the embossed curling lines. The elves did fine work indeed. Fine work.

“I would not have taken your kin for the sort to admire weaponry, Master Hobbit.”

The voice, spoken directly from behind, startled poor Bilbo so badly that he nearly lost his grip on his sword. He fumbled with the hilt, watching wide-eyed as the weight of the blade carried his arm down at an odd angle. In fact, it was only the appearance of a second hand—a much larger hand, but one far more elegant than his own—braced about his wrist that prevented him from harming himself with his own clumsiness.

“Oh my,” the Hobbit murmured, blinking dumbly. His eyes moved from the faintly glowing white skin of the hand upwards across drapes of pale ivory fabric and deep burgundy velvet towards a breathtaking face wreathed in a golden mane. An elf, of course, but one of a different make than the fussy dark-haired creature Lindir or the stately but rather down-to-earth agelessness of Lord Elrond. This stranger was forged of diamond, eyes the shade of the night sky just after sunset and filled with endless years of memory. It was like looking at sunlight come to life and looking through the veil of time all at once.

“Oh my,” Bilbo repeated, for he knew not else what to say. He felt rather small and very young.

“We would not want you to injure yourself, little one.” The hand carefully directed the blade downwards until it hung limply at Bilbo’s side. “Even beautiful things can be dangerous. And this blade is indeed dangerous.”

Normally, Bilbo would have huffed and puffed at being patronized. After all, he was no fauntling! He was an established middle-aged bachelor, thank you very much! Yet, he didn’t sense mocking in this strange elf, nor was there anything malicious about the kind smile that curved up perfect lips and set alight those hypnotizing blue eyes.

“I’ve never used a sword,” he admitted instead. “There’s not much of a call for them in the Shire, you see, so it still feels a little strange. But it is a beautiful thing, if simple.”

Amusement colored that face, so open and pure in emotion. “A sword, Master Hobbit?”

“A letter-opener then,” Bilbo grumbled. “But I am a simple Hobbit, and I don’t really need a fantastic and complicated blade named for great deeds in battle. That would be a bit spectacular, you see. I’m just a Hobbit.”

“So you say, little one, though a weapon need not be fancy and complex in make in order to carry great deeds upon its edge.” Something about the elf’s voice suggested that he knew something Bilbo did not, that his words carried unspoken weight Bilbo did not quite understand. “I cannot imagine many mere Hobbits would find themselves so far from home, dagger in hand, preparing for a quest to steal from a dragon and reclaim a homeland for a King they barely know.”

_Well, that is perhaps true_ , Bilbo conceded if only within his mind. _Most Hobbits would have gotten up the morning after having their pantry pillaged by dwarves and bid their unwanted and unexpected guests farewell with a hearty "good riddance!”_

Still, Bilbo was not most Hobbits.

“I… I suppose part of me wanted to go on an adventure,” he admitted. “See the things from my books. Meet the elves and travel the woodlands. Maybe have some stories when I make it back to the Shire.”

“And now that you have ventured far from home and seen the dangers beyond your kindly hills—now that you have looked upon the gentle beauty of Imladris and indeed met a few elves—what shall you do, Master Hobbit?” The elf seemed genuinely curious. “The path forward is a dangerous one, not to be tread lightly.”

Bilbo frowned. Indeed, this elf was not the first to subtly suggest that he should abandon the quest. Lord Elrond had, too, been skeptical of Bilbo’s part in this scheme, and the elven lord had offered him a place in Imladris should he choose to stay for a while before returning back to the familiar comforts of his cushy home. Yet, within his breast, something harsh grew sharp fangs and snarled with fury at the presumption of his cowardice.

A glare settled itself upon the Hobbit’s face as he looked up at this ageless, timeless being. He might be small and he might be untested and he might be homesick, but the dwarves were his _friends_ and he was not about to abandon them now! Sure, some of them ignored him—and a few seemed to openly consider him to be a useless nuisance and burden—but there were others he held in higher esteem. Balin, for one, had never said a harsh word to him and had been nothing but welcoming and indulgent of Bilbo’s nerves and inexperience. Fíli and Kíli, while they had initially ribbed and picked on him like a pair of pesky fauntlings testing out a strange newcomer’s meddle, were now more than happy to share vibrant—and likely quite exaggerated—tales of their childhood pranks and adventures. Bofur, too, was perfectly friendly and accepting of Bilbo’s strange ways and anxious demeanor, happy to chat with him and welcoming when the Hobbit sat beside him around the fire in the evening.

Okay, so maybe they were not quite _friends_. Not _yet_ anyway. But Bilbo was a Baggins—just as much as he was a Took!—and a Baggins did not go back on his word. Besides, how could anything further grow between himself and his companions if he turned back now?

How could Bilbo live with himself if he turned back now?

For all that he longed for home and warmth and good food and clean clothes and hot water and books and his armchair and his hearth, Bilbo also knew that those things would be a hollow comfort in the wake of his own disappointment. Disappointment with his weak will and his craven spirit. Though his first encounter with orcs and wargs left his heart still palpating days later and his skin bursting into a cold sweat at the memory—though he _knew_ with certainty that there would be more enemies on the road and more trials of life and death to come—he also knew that he _wanted_ to continue. Through the rain and the cold and the mud and the dark looks and the cold stares and the pains in his legs and the bland food.

He wasn’t quite sure _why_ , but something told him it was important to keep going. That he would be letting down more than himself if he chose to turn away.

With his mouth set in a firm line, he told the elf, “I would not abandon the quest now, Master Elf. I’ve come this far already, and I don’t think I’d forgive myself if I turned back without even getting half way there.”

He stared into those eyes for a few moments, and their reciprocated stare made him uncomfortable. His skin seemed to itch and burn where they touched. It was is if they were looking _through_ him, peeling back his layers, bearing down upon him and closing in from all sides. Examining and piercing and searching and _finding_ all at once. Bilbo looked away.

“Besides,” he muttered as he kicked his feet and looked down at the blade in his hands, “I knew the road would be dangerous. I agreed to steal from a bloody _dragon_ after all.”

And his words prompted soft laughter, ringing and ringing through his brain until he felt dizzy from its airy beauty. Without warning, the elf’s hand came into view, touching beneath his chin. Though the skin looked cold as moonlight on the snow, the touch was warm and soft.

“I see why the wizard so insists that you should be the fourteenth member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, Master Hobbit. You truly are a special little thing. Very stubborn and very simple and very small. But very brave as well.”

Bilbo felt his throat close around any words he might have said as he came face-to-face with the being again, looking up into those eyes. “Brave? Me?”

“More so than you give yourself credit for.” And the elf winked at him—this strange, alien, ancient creature _winked at him_ —before pulling away and leaving the place beneath Bilbo’s chin tingling and cool. “But enough of such talk! I came here because I believe your companions are in search of you, Master Hobbit. Something about dinner. They have built quite the spectacular bonfire in the courtyard gazebo, and some quite fine woodwork has been sacrificed to their pyre. I suppose you’d best hurry back if you want any food before you rest. Your Company sets out early on the morrow.”

“How do you know that?” Bilbo squeaked out. “It’s a secret!”

“A secret indeed,” the elf agreed reassuringly, patting Bilbo on the head like a child. “I promise I shall tell no one what I know. While your quest is perhaps dangerous and unwise, I suspect nothing could change the mind of Thorin Oakenshield now.”

Bilbo definitely agreed with that sentiment. The bullheaded, broody, arrogant curmudgeon of a dwarf king was probably one of the most unyielding and stubborn beings Bilbo had ever had the displeasure to deal with. He couldn’t imagine anyone—and certainly not an elf!—convincing Thorin to abandon the quest to reclaim his birthright, especially now that they knew about the secret door and the hearts of the Company were raised by the realization that, perhaps, their quest was not so impossible after all.

Even Bilbo’s heart was risen. Maybe he was a little brave after all. _Maybe._

“Well,” he said, sheathing the sword at his side, “I should be off then.”

“You should,” the elf agreed. “Off with you, Master Hobbit.”

Bilbo managed a smile for his companion, and then he skirted around the tall, ethereal being and wandered towards the night. He hoped there were still sausages. Even though he didn’t mind the green food as much as the dwarves, he could use some meat. Some nice, crispy bacon sounded rather nice right now as well…

“Oh, and Master Hobbit!” he heard the elf call from behind his back, “Treat your sword well. Give her a worthy name, for she has waited long years to be recognized for her great deeds!”

_She?_ Bilbo froze between strides, his brain slowly catching up to the words. The elf spoke almost as if the sword were a living thing—a _she_ indeed!—and a familiar one at that. Almost as if he had… seen her… before…?

With a question upon his lips, Bilbo spun around—

Only to find that the elf was gone, a phantom of smoke conjured by dreams. There was not so much as a whisper to mark the ancient being’s passing. Just the moon and the stars and the sound of distant waterfalls breaking the night.

_How strange_ , he couldn’t help but think, his hand dropping to touch his fingers gently against the plain black hilt of the not-quite-a-sword at his hip. The metal and leather was cool to his touch, but he almost imagined that it shivered in glee beneath his fingertips. _How very strange…_

_Maybe there is more to this dagger than I thought._

_Maybe_ , he thought as he gripped the pommel and felt the blade sing softly, _there is more to me than I thought as well._


	384. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the spiral into madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 8, 2016.
> 
> So, I began to develop a theory about Thranduil's crazy motivations in Decadent which I am continuing here from the POV of the Elvenking himself. His older son, my OMC Valthoron, makes a peripheral appearance, just to clarify his identity. Though I don't think it's a secret that I don't follow the Hobbit movie-verse Mirkwood family drama, I will also clarify that, in my AU, the White Gems of Lasgalen exist because the original story had them replaced by the early incarnation of the Nauglamír (as the book-verse Hobbit actually speaks about the Elvenking Thingol _not_ Thranduil, the latter not being defined as a character until LotR) and there shouldn't be a Silmaril floating around during the Hobbit (unless it's an AU where the Arkenstone is a Silmaril, which I've seen before). In this AU, the gems were indeed sent to Erebor to be crafted into jewelry and never returned, but Thranduil's greed for them has an entirely different origin than in the movie.
> 
> Warnings: Mental instability. Madness. Irrational thought. Some mention of sex and mating. Analogous to the Ainulindalë and Melkor's theme.

To be the King of the Great Greenwood meant more than wearing a crown of summer leaves and sitting upon a carven throne.

It meant becoming one with the land until their bodies were meshed. It meant becoming one with the people until their hearts beat in synchronization. It meant becoming one with all the living things from the smallest insect to the largest predator to the elves who sang beneath the trees.

It meant feeling the forest breathe through his lungs.

Whenever he brushed his palms against the ancient trunks of trees, he felt the flow of liquid through their “veins”, the water pulled upwards to nourish each singular leaf upon each singular branch in a sea of leaves and branches. He felt the roots deep beneath the soil in the cool darkness, ever so slowly digging deeper, ever so slowly drinking in water and nutrients from the earth. He felt the next tree and the next as well, each attached to the adjacent ones beside it, their roots tangling and their voices mingling in the silence.

His awareness would spread from that single point of contact at his fingertips until he felt all of the millions of singular branches and each branch’s multitude of singular leaves. The Elvenking would close his eyes with a sigh and feel the refreshment of water flowing through his small, fragile body and the body of the next and the body of the next. He would feel the warmth of sunlight crawling over his green flesh, soaking down into his core and giving him energy. He would feel the wind pushing and pulling back and forth across his skin, shaking all those tiny leaves on all those millions of branches in great rustling waves. Singular and whole.

Upon each of those trees, he also could feel the crawling of insects. The tiny, innocent spiders spinning their gossamer webs as they sought an end to their daily hunger, the twiddling of their slender legs as the flexing of his own fingers, so versatile and dexterous in their constant spinning. There was, too, the flutter of butterfly wings—so rich a blue, like sapphires painted upon strips of the finest silk with the tiniest brushstrokes—as thousands were roused by the shaking of the leaves and took to the skies above the canopies in cerulean waves. And he felt the march of ants around the base of the trunks, countless beyond measure yet more one singular being than a trillion, all sharing the same mind as they worked together to lift a thousand times their weight and more. And the hives of bees nestled into their honeycomb echoed in his ears, flickering in and out and in and out, buzzing from flowering bloom to flowering bloom, touching the softness of virginal petals with their miniscule feet and tasting of the nectar within before darting away to the next.

Beyond those smallest of creatures, there were the woodland fauna. At first, the trees could feel the patter of tiny feet—thousands of squirrels climbing up and down their ancient trunks in search of nuts to fill their bellies—and the scratch of claws perching—even more birds of every size and shape resting upon a welcoming branch as they looked down into the mulch below for any sign of prey. From their roots, he could feel the burrowing creatures hiding beneath the surface—the rabbits and rodents of the world with their hundreds of nests filled with helpless offspring and their constant, fidgeting need to search for food—and the land-walking animals overhead. The grass whispered as silent hooves bore down upon its blades in the form of graceful deer, their minds concerned with nibbling upon the welcoming underbrush and their ears perked for any sound of danger. But Thranduil could sense the danger and _was_ the danger, the wolves peering out of the darkness, seeking the young and weak prey as the next meal to fill their bellies and the bellies of their pups.

Thranduil was all at once the birds and the beasts. He was the grass and the plants and the flowers that fed the rabbits and the deer. He was the squirrels and the mice that fed the owls and the hawks. He was the cautious prey, but also the stalking predator. He smelled pheromones in the air and he tasted blood upon his tongue. He shuddered with the undeniable and frenetic urge to find a mate, to have and be had so that he might sire a new generation or carry them in his belly both at once. He felt the primal terror of being hunted bursting his heart into galloping beats and the exaltation of the hunt burning through his limbs like fire and acid.

There was hunger and thirst and lust and fear. There was the desire for shelter and the feeling of safety. There was the gut-deep pleasure of satiation and the sensation of fatigue. There was exhaustion and rest and alertness and well-rested contentment all at once together.

There was a certain beauty to the wholeness, the chaotic grating of so many contrasting feelings and thoughts binding together into something natural and harmonious. Slow cycles revolved through his thoughts. Life and death of short-lived creatures morphed into the rise and fall of populations. The bite of cold and the heat of the sun pieced together an image of the welcoming spring and the bitter cruelty of incoming winter. Until each repetition rose in a massive wave and collapsed as though all the air were forced from its chest. The land itself took giant heaving breaths. 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Thranduil opened his eyes. And when he did breathe, it was as one with all of the Greenwood.

The Elvenking was no longer a lone elf. He was the Greenwood.

\---

But, as the long years passed, the wood began to change.

Thranduil had come to recognize the discordant harmony of his forest like a man recognizes the sound of his lover’s voice at the peak of passion. Like the back of his hand did he know his domain, for every tree and animal and bird and insect and wandering stranger and patch of mold and blossoming flower and poisonous mushroom was part of the wholeness of the forest. Though there was constant change—new generations spinning through the mind’s eye so dizzyingly fast as to blend together into a few moments of time, a few gulps of air—there was something about the forest that stayed the same always. Rising and falling in great waves.

And then the harmony bent oddly out of shape. The chaos that so perfectly meshed itself together into a Great Music was disrupted. Softly, at first, was this newfound dissonance heard, and yet it was impossible for the Elvenking to ignore. At first, it was like the buzz of a high-pitched tone droning above the din everyday life, slowly growing louder and louder…

And then it was like a piercing scream, like a choir of voices slowly falling out of tune and out of synchronization until they began to trip and stumble each over the other’s opposing themes. The waves were no longer steady and even, but rolling each at their own pace without any connection to the others. Now, touching the trunks of the ancient trees left the elf feeling dizzy and nauseous, as though he had drunk from stagnant water or imbibed a toxic plant. His stomach would turn and his head would pound and his eyes would water.

At first, he did not understand.

But then came the spiders.

Not the innocent spiders, the hunters of flies and weavers of soft and beautiful webs, but monstrous spawn of Ungoliant, descendants of the light-killing web-spinners of Ered Gorgoroth. These things spoke of taint, leaving filth wherever they touched the land and filling the trees with sickness wherever they made their roosts. Killing travelers, leaving their polluted and empty husks of corpses to rot into the ground and poison the water.

Trees sickened and died, their voices falling silent and their leaves crumpling and falling from their branches as the bad water flowed through their veins like blackened blood. Shadow fell, and plants wilted with hunger for the loving touch of the sun that dared not tread where evil set foot. No air would pass through those places, and the oxygen was thick and heavy with wicked enchantment, black magic reaching out to snatch unwary travelers in its web and lead them to their doom.

The grass wilted. The flowers shriveled. The plants went dry. The trees rotted. The animals fled to the north or fell to poison where they stood. The deer and the rabbits ate tainted shrubs and died. The hungry predators scavenged the rotting corpses and took ill.

Everything was wrong. _Everything was wrong!_

Thranduil felt the forest choke. Strangling hands wrapped around their throats, pulling tighter and tighter until no air could escape or burst forth from their lungs, until no screams could be heard as they descended together into the madness and the despair and the darkness.

_Breathe_ , he would beg as he placed his hands upon the trunks. As he willed his strength into the boughs overheard. _Breathe._

And his breath would catch in his throat as he closed his eyes.

_Breathe._

And he would see an unholy light out of that darkness. To the south, some nameless terror or villain lurked in the shadows, the source of the cacophony that now deafened the Elvenking’s ears and sickened his heart as it deafened and sickened the living creatures of his kingdom. It reached for him, as if it sensed that he was near and vulnerable, and it would squeeze around his ribcage until he thought his bones would snap and his organs be crushed.

_“Breathe!”_

Everything was out of balance. There was no rebirth to counter the death. There was no spring in the aftermath of the cruel winter. The cycle was broken almost beyond all repair.

He could not exhale. _He could not exhale!_

_“Adar, breathe!”_

And then his eyes would open, his fingertips departing their tender touch upon the ragged and blackening bark of his favorite tree. Above his head, the leaves were turned to auburn, and they seemed to wilt and shiver before his very eyes as he blinked himself back into the reality of being a singular being in a network of unnumbered beings as one.

He sucked in a breath. His lungs burned from lack of air.

At his side stood his son, all flaming red hair and frightened spring-water eyes. But Thranduil could say nothing of his plight nor explain his suffering. None could really understand what it meant to be the King of the Great Greenwood until they had themselves learned the deep connection between protector-regent and protected-citizens. None could really understand that, for all that he was himself alone, Thranduil was always everything and everyone else as well, and they were him as well. The growing shadow lay over his mind like a thick, suffocating blanket to stifle brighter, saner thoughts reaching from the gloom in vain. As the poison seeped into the trees and the plants and the animals and the water, it too seeped into the mind of the Elvenking and took up residence in the darkest corners of hatred.

“I am fine, ion-nín,” he lied smoothly. “I was merely lost in thought.”

Of course, his son did not look convinced. Part of Thranduil wished to give reassurance, but the rest was too detached and cold to think of much but the lack of light shining down upon his leaf-skin and the lack of pure water seeping through his leaf-veins and the lack of a breeze rustling his leaf-brothers.

He could breathe again. But for how long?

He needed to drive back the darkness. He needed to bring back the light.

He needed to remove this stranglehold. For what was the duty of the King of Great Greenwood if not to keep its borders and all its living things safe from that which lurked beyond, waiting to take advantage of vulnerability and weakness? What was the duty of the King if not to restore and maintain that delicate balance, that chaotic and perfect harmony of peaceful, everyday life?

Though he longed to return his hand to its perch upon the roughness of the bark, he instead pulled away. A headache throbbed between his eyes, just beyond the bridge of his nose. The air flowing over his tongue tasted sour and rested heavily in his chest. As he turned away from the ruins of his home, Thranduil could not help but feel the phantom of hands resting about the slender paleness of his throat. Their threat lingered in the gray shadows at the corners of his eyes, ever present yet just beyond sight.

His thoughts turned to glistening starlight and sweet, clean air. And he thought of pure white light resting in the palms of his hands, chasing away the shadows haunting at his back. Holding at bay the darkness creeping ever forward.

_He needed to bring back the light._

Only then would his beloved forest breathe again. Only then would they be whole. Only then would they be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Adar = Father  
> ion-nín = my son


	385. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond recalls his childhood with Maedhros and Maglor fondly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 9, 2016.
> 
> Basically, this is just introspection. It's a companion of sorts to Angel, Repeat and Cookies amongst the other stories featuring little Elrond and Elros. Just fluff, mostly. Because that's what I felt like writing, oddly enough.
> 
> Warnings: Some mentions of war and death, but nothing explicit. Mostly just family stuff.

The assumption that Elrond and his brother had had a poor childhood would have been rather made in haste and without proper consultation of the pair of twins in question.

In Elrond’s humble opinion, his foster-parents had done a fine job under the circumstances.

Of course, everyone knew the terrible stories about the Fëanorioni. About their prowess in battle, how they ruthlessly slaughtered their enemies and sent the forces of Morgoth running for the hills like frightened dogs with tucked tails. About their wildness and madness, the fire that burned sinfully in the depths of their white-silver eyes like fell stars and the sound of their crazed laughter as their blades cut down their innocent kinsfolk. About the torchlight and blood staining their swords and the cruelness of their crazed smiles and the willingness to crush anyone and anything that got in their way down to the last child.

Terrible stories there were indeed. But there were many stories that went unmentioned. Stories about humanity. Stories about gentleness.

Often, Elrond wondered how it was that Maglor’s beautiful voice could be mentioned in the annals of history without mention of the millions of lullabies he must have sung. And not only in the childhood years of the younger Fëanorioni back in the Undying Lands. For the young elf remembered first meeting his foster-father, he and his twin being pulled from their mother’s closet by gentle hands to the sound of a soothing, whispered song in a voice that would make the Valar weep for jealousy. He remembered being cradled in a warm embrace, thinking that an angel had come to save him and his brother from the monsters ravaging their home, and he had drifted off into sleep with the scent of blood and evergreen upon his tongue.

Maglor had sung them a lullaby every night for years. Decades. Until, finally, they had outgrown the childish need to be tucked into bed like babies.

Even then, listening to Maglor sing was a guilty pleasure.

And there was no mention made of how both of the dreaded Fëanorioni—Maglor _and_ Maedhros—had had the twins as guests in their beds hundreds of times. A storm would blow through, clawing and growling at the windows, flashing lights and booming vibrations of thunder rocking the house, and the twins would seek refuge with Maedhros because no monster would ever dare try to get them whilst they were cradled against such a terrifying and powerful warrior. Nightmares would come, memories of screams and smears of blood and their nana’s frantic voice, followed by the ache of homesickness and longing for their parents and for the sea, and they would go to Maglor with his gentle hands and his soft, liquid eyes and his butterfly kisses on their foreheads.

There were no great tales, either, about the skill of Maedhros in baking. Of all the things that Elrond would never have imagined the ruthless ex-prisoner and infamous warrior to be knowledgeable in, making cookies was amongst the chief. Yet, it was Maedhros—not Maglor—who seemed to have all of the recipes for baked delights and fluffy pancakes and gooey apple pies embedded into his memories like little hidden treasures buried in the sands of time. Though molasses was hard to come by, even fresh-baked honey-bread made a fine treat.

_“You shall have to do most of the work,”_ the old warrior would say, his face stern but his voice on the edge of teasing as he casually brandished his handless arm before the giggling twins. _“I am afraid this task requires two hands, though four shall work just as well.”_

Nothing was said either about the great messes made. No one would ever speak of the flour-fights that Maedhros had endured at their hands, nor the thousands of times that the twins had dragged mud all through the fortress after a day of playing in the rain and left the ancient warrior sighing with resignation at their state of covered-in-filth. Elrond wondered what the historians would think if he told them that Maedhros was equally as good with children as Maglor (when he desired to be) and that bath-time and bedtime had become shared duties between the two brothers.

(He wondered what historians would think if they knew that neither twin had ever received a smacking or spanking from their foster-parents. Maglor’s disappointed look was usually enough to inspire that sinking feeling of guilt, and Maedhros’ favorite tactic was to put the twins in separate corners for an hour and then make them apologize. Publicly. Out loud. Child-Elrond remembered wishing he would just get spanked and have it over with.)

Of course, hunting had been solely Maglor’s duty. Bow-work required two hands, after all, and Maedhros had jokingly told the young children that his hunting skills had suffered throughout the years without a second hand to help pull back the string. At the time, the twins—not understanding how horrible and traumatic it would be to have your hand sliced off while conscious—had found the whole thing terribly funny. Mostly from trying to imagine Maedhros pulling back the string with his mouth instead.

But they learned to ride and they learned to hunt. When they brushed against the years of adulthood, Maedhros taught them the sword and Maglor taught them the harp. They acted, Elrond imagined, no differently than if they had been raising their own children. Their own sons. The legendary one-handed warrior passing on his greatest skill—swordsmanship—to his sons. The legendary bard passing on his heavenly talent—his harp-work and his song—to his sons. As though they were building a legacy. As though Elrond and Elros were children of their blood rather than a pair of frightened orphans reluctantly taken hostage in the wake of the Third Kinslaying for “Silmaril-retrieval” related purposes.

(Because, Elrond thought sarcastically, Maedhros would have been _completely fine_ allowing a pair of useless and unwanted hostages learn to tie boot-laces using his own boots. _“It is not as if thou canst tie them thyself,”_ Maglor had teased to a chorus of snickers, watching the early attempts with amused eyes.)

He also wondered what others would think if they knew that Elrond had seen both Maedhros and Maglor cry.

If they knew that the only time Maglor had ever been angry enough to yell had been the singular time Elrond and Elros had snuck out of the house and gone down to the river without permission. As if being hunted down and tongue-lashed hadn’t been enough. As if Maglor’s shouted “What if thou hadst fallen in and been swept away? What if thou hadst _drowned?”_ was not enough. But then the infuriated Fëanorion had pulled the two young children close, hugged them so tight that they could hardly breathe, and had burst into tears right then and there.

Now, Elrond understood. He would have been just as horrified, just as sick with worry, if his own twin sons had gone off without a word, vanishing into thin air, possibly drowning or being attacked by stray orcs or even falling and breaking their necks. Such was a parent’s worries. But, as a young elf, he hadn’t imagined it possible to make his foster-father cry. And he hadn’t liked it in the least.

Suffice to say, they never repeated that incident.

Maedhros, on the other hand, was ice cold in his anger and could not be incited to fear-induced crying. Unlike his brother, whose main foray into tears had had nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with terror, the few tears Maedhros had shed were during their final goodbyes. The young Elros and Elrond had had all their important belongings packed, had been given horses and supplies and a few guardian warriors, and were being sent to the Isle of Balar. To safety, it was hoped.

Elrond remembered not wanting to go. He and his brother had clung to Maglor like little vining weeds, taking refuge in his softly-whispered song and crooning assurances. He remembered feeling the wet heat of Maglor’s cheeks as the elf kissed each twin goodbye and gently pushed them towards the taller redheaded Fëanorion.

They had each received a sword—Elrond still used his, kept it as a faithful companion at his side whenever he rode into battle, and the broken shards of its mate rested deep in Imladris now—and a kiss upon the brow. And no one commented on the red rims of Maedhros’ eyes.

Elrond remembered looking over his shoulder as they rode away and wishing to go back. Because that was home. That was his childhood.

He left those things behind along with the only parents he could really remember.

So, if he had been asked, he would have said that his childhood had been as wonderful as it could have been having grown up during a time of war and a time of little food and luxury. He had never been short food or water, had never been beaten or mistreated, had never been brushed aside or neglected. He had never been tortured or locked up or any of the other multitudes of cruelties that others often imagined when they realized that he was brought up by two infamous Kinslayers.

For all intents and purposes, Elros and Elrond had been raised Fëanorioni. As if they had been born from the family blood. And Elrond knew he would fondly remember those days always, and keep the stories unspoken with him always. The flour-fights and the lullabies and the apple tart recipes and the tears.

Now, so many thousands of years later, he had his own sons and their childhood to deal with. He couldn’t help but think of this strange turn with a wry smile. His foster-parents had made a good example, and it was Elrond’s turn to live up to the standards of the Sons of Fëanor.

Though, he hoped, perhaps with fewer broken vases and muddy rugs. He could live without that part. And perhaps fewer kitchen messes as well.

The secret honey-bread recipe, though, was genius.

And the lullabies were to die for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorioni = Sons of Fëanor


	386. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thingol finally gets the truth about the coming of the Noldor to Beleriand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 10, 2016.
> 
> So, this is basically more introspection. No new plot, just discussion of something in the book from a specific POV. I've always thought it interesting that Thingol sort of forgives Finrod's people and Fingolfin's people "because they suffered for their ill deeds", but I'm of the opinion that--if I were him--I wouldn't _really_ quite ever forgive them. For all that the followers of Fingolfin never committed murder out of malice, they still followed Fëanor willingly afterwards. And is that not worse than the spilling of blood with good intent? Indeed, Thingol certainly never manages to be the better man and support the campaign in the north out of friendship with his kinsman rather than withholding essential support out of hatred for the Kinslayers. 
> 
> Warnings: Mentions murder and betrayal, but nothing particularly explicit.
> 
> *quotes taken directly from the chapter "Of the Noldor in Beleriand" from The Silmarillion. Obviously, I do not own those lines of dialogue.

The trust of Elu Thingol was not a gift lightly given.

Yet, he had given it to these strangers from across the sea.

Was that really so strange, though? Once, Thingol had considered Finwë to be one of his closest and dearest friends. One of his most trusted brothers in spirit if not in blood. They had braved the unknown together, been the first to see the miraculous light of Valinor together, and their friendship had remained strong in the long years of nomadic life afterwards.

Now, he met these strangers, these sons of Finwë’s blood, and he longed to see the visage of his old friend—his slain friend, they had told him—in the faces of these bright-eyed beings.

But Finwë had been a merry creature for the most part, curious and eager to learn with a vibrant smile and infectious laughter. These foreign elves were nothing like their forefather. There was no laughter, no merriment and no welcoming warmth in these beings.

There was fire and there was ice and there was hatred.

Still, they were Finwë’s sons and their sons, and so they were his allies. Ill-tempered or cold-hearted though they might be, it was the least Thingol could do to repay thousands of years of friendship and camaraderie with his support in their siege against the North. Still, Finrod and his brothers and sister were the children of Eärwen, Olwë’s daughter and Thingol’s niece, and he welcomed them into his realm and into his city with open arms. Still, Maedhros One-handed was the husband of Olwë’s granddaughter, and so her husband was welcome no matter how standoffish he might remain. They were family, and he would not turn away his brother’s kin. 

He gave them his trust, as he had given it to their progenitor.

He had, in retrospect, been a bit of a fool.

Mostly, he thought to himself, because he had been aware that they had not been entirely honest with him and yet had chosen to ignore the silence. The King of Doriath had assumed that they were hesitant to speak about painful subjects. He wouldn’t have wanted to speak about the death of his father or grandfather, nor of his exile from his home, nor about the pain of watching friends and family slaughtered or captured, nor even of wandering the icy wastelands of the north, seeing friends and family die between the grinding ice or from starvation or from cold.

He would not have asked them to speak. No mention ever came of the details of exile, but it must have been horrible and terrifying. No mention ever came of the reason for the division of forces—why the Fëanorioni crossed first, leaving their brethren behind—but Thingol would not make assumptions, especially assumptions of broken brotherhood and betrayal, when it could just as easily have been that the hosts of Fingolfin had chosen later to follow.

Still, the blatant dislike between different branches of the family was evident even to an outsider. How Turgon despised the Sons of Fëanor. How Maedhros and his uncle Fingolfin could stand together and yet be oceans apart. How Finrod smiled nervously whenever the subject of family feuds threatened to come to the forefront of conversation.

_Some things are better left unsaid._

Yet, these secrets did not remain unsaid. Whispers came to Thingol’s ears. Whispers of the slaying of kin.

Whispers of the slaying of _his brother’s_ kin.

And Thingol’s trust was broken.

Not fully shattered then, for they were but rumors at first. Still, he had dismissed the worries of his wife through this trust. He had possibly allowed slayers of kin— _murderers_ —into his city unchecked and roaming free amongst his people and his daughter through this trust.

His anger knew no bounds. And he said to them: _“Ill have you done me, kinsman, to conceal such great matters from me. For now I have learned of all the evil deeds of the Noldor.”*_

Finrod’s words of denial— _What ill have I done you, lord? Or what evil deed have the Noldor done in all your realm to grieve you? Neither against your kingship nor against any of your people have they thought evil or done evil!”*_ —had done naught but stoke the fire, naught but spill oil upon its blazing, licking flames and send it spiraling into the night.

And he bade Finrod give him an explanation— _“I marvel at you, son of Eärwen, that you would come to the board of your kinsman thus red-handed from slaying your mother’s kin, and yet say naught in defense, nor yet seek any pardon!”*_ —and the answer which first came was one of silence rather than calm denial and explanation, Thingol felt his heart sink through the boiling sea of his rage and knew that there was some truth to these rumors which passed down upon wickedly wagging tongues.

It did not matter that afterwards he had learned the truth—that Finrod and his brethren had had no part in the slaying of their mother’s people, though they had followed the monster who had ordered the slaughter regardless and thus were stained by their own acceptance of such evil deeds—and that most of the wickedness had fallen upon the shoulders of the Fëanorioni—and it made Thingol’s soul burn twice as hot, to know that Maedhros One-handed was kin by marriage and had participated in the breaking of the sacred alliance of two royal lines, slaughtering his own wife’s people without guilt—who were not only murderers but traitors to oaths of brotherhood as well. It did not matter that he, in his deepest of hearts, could not bear to hold a grudge against the kindred newly-found who he had come to love, not forever.

It did not matter, in the end, that Finrod’s people and Fingolfin’s people had atoned for their crimes through the harsh and painful road of the Grinding Ice.

It did not matter.

Because Thingol’s discovery was the most bitter and disturbing of all, and it could not be erased from his mind. The poisonous tendrils of his thoughts crept over the ruins of his trust, weaving through the cracks and pulling them open wide until they bled and wept with agony.

For he knew now that his supposed allies could be trusted no more than could the Enemy bearing down from the North. Though they all wished to erase the stain of Morgoth from the face of this earth, Thingol knew now that some—even some of those who he had forgiven in his heart but still held in contempt in his mind—would be willing to commit evil themselves were it to aid them in the gaining of their revenge. No, Finrod’s people had not killed their mother’s kin, but they had not turned their backs on the slayers who had in revulsion. No, Fingolfin’s people had not killed with intent to murder, but their hands were still bloodied and they had still not turned back when they learned the evil of what they had done.

They were nothing like Finwë—none of them! For Thingol knew that his dear friend would never have condoned bloodshed in his own name, nor would he have desired vengeance to be sought for his death. Finwë, watching these atrocities being committed from beyond death’s embrace, would be weeping and begging for pardon for his kin. He would be horrified and sickened by what had taken place.

Thingol could not trust in Finwë’s name. Trust was to be given by the merits of each himself, for obviously the bonds of friendship and blood were too fragile to bear the weight.

And Thingol could not help but wonder when the elves had fallen so far. When their hearts had been tainted so much.

When had the shadow of Morgoth had crept into their very beings and taken up residence in their minds and spirits? For his blazing scarlet eyes stared out of each pair of eyes Thingol beheld, and his wicked smile curved all of the lips that Thingol could see.

And there was no trust to be given. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorioni = Sons of Fëanor


	387. Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the making of the first orcs by Melkor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 11, 2016.
> 
> While I've come to believe that the orcs are not necessarily bloodthirsty monsters and that they have a society and, perhaps, much of their behavior is a social construct--as is the behavior of all societies--I also believe that they have to have been tainted or touched by the darkness to so willingly serve the Darkness, at least at first. This is just a piece describing the bringing about of the first orcs from elves.
> 
> I blame my recent conversations about orcs for this. And the Fellowship of the Ring. Damn you, Saruman, for bringing it up!
> 
> Warnings: Torture and mutilation with intent. Psychological torture and murder as well. Hints at rape and breeding. Also, use of disease, chemicals, carcinogens and teratogens in unsavory manners. Slavery also. Just lots of icky things.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor

The mind was not a physical construct. 

It was not an organ which could be held or touched, nor a limb that could be grabbed or twisted. While the brain was responsible for controlling all of the body and storing the memory, it could not really be said to be synonymous with the mind, that strange and abstract creature whispering and crooning with inner voices.

In fact, the mind was quite the strange and mysterious thing. Melkor quickly came to understand that it was not something that he could physically corrupt. For all that he could twist the bodies of the beautiful Eruhíni through torments that scarred the flesh and the muscle or create viciously ugly deformities by breaking the bones and allowing them to heal incorrectly, beatings and other physical agonies often made these vibrant spirits wither and fade rather than turning them to darkness. And he did not wish for dead servants.

He moved on to plagues and diseases, those ill infectious parasites and bacterium that he had devised to ruin and destroy the works of the Yavanna in the days of old. Those sorts of things could cause ill growths on or beneath the skin or bring about the rotting of living flesh. Some of the nastier ones which had once caused bloodlust and madness in the beasts of the early days of Arda served to drive the Eruhíni to similar madness and delirium, even inciting some to the point where they would brutally maul, kill and even devour their own kindred. But those types of disease often ended in death as well, and Melkor did not wish for dead servants.

So, while he could make the flesh warp and grow tumors or breed the women with diets of certain unpleasant herbs to result in malformed infants, actually corrupting these strangely pure creatures to the point where they might willingly and eagerly take part in bloodshed of their own accord was a much more difficult task. He could make them ugly on the outside, but no disease or potion or spell or torture could make them just as ugly on the inside.

The mind, after all, was the instrument by which their decisions were made. It was their mind which was gentle and pure. It was their mind which paled and withered under the weight of conscience or agony. It was their _mind_ which prevented their fall from grace.

So Melkor had to become familiar with manipulation of the mind.

But, of course, the primordial Dark Lord knew nothing of the ways of the Eruhíni. Or so he thought.

He knew how his _own_ mind worked. A lust for power was chief amongst his own motivations, the very root of his desires. Of course, the power he desired was one of creation and freedom. He doubted that these strange beings, so content with their simple lives beneath the starlight, had any desire to shape and change the world around them in the way that he desired to do.

But freedom… freedom had potential. All beings desired freedom, did they not?

Captivity, Melkor knew from his own experiences in the gilded cage of his creator’s dictatorship, was a fundamental source of resentment and bitterness. For, had it not been the bars formed of his father’s dismissal of his desires and dreams which had given birth to his hatred? Had it not been enslavement which had birthed the ravenous need in his breast to hold dominion over other beings?

And so he took them captive, and he made them his slaves. And, in their hearts he sensed the birth of their hatred for him, their Master. Rather than fading away like wisps of cloud beneath the heat of midday, they looked at him and they saw his evil and their hearts were turned to darkness and shadowy storms breaking across the sky. Beneath the ravages of hard labor, their bodies grew frail and stooped and beneath the hand of torture their hair bleached white and their skin became marked and wrinkled, but it was the resentment of the whips at their backs and the master leering over their shoulders which brought glimmers of crimson into their soft blue eyes and gave them unholy strength and a taste for flesh and blood.

Some fell to such corruption with ease, especially those of a weaker mind. Some gave in to their hatred and their anger, and they were all too willing to become the tormentors who laid whips to the backs of their fellows. For the pain of others brought pleasure to those who wished to see their own suffering passed on in an endless cycle of fear and vengeance.

Still, some were more resilient. Some would rather work themselves into death than to harm to others no matter the hideous or destroyed state of their bodies.

Once again, Melkor turned to the mind for new methods.

The other thing he knew to cause resentment and hatred was the taking of things which were beloved. Melkor remembered well the horror and wrath he inspired in his kinsmen by destroying their great works and the paradise that they called home. He remembered the rage in their eyes. The curl of Yavanna’s lips as he poisoned her trees and brought plague to her beasts. The snarl of Aulë’s earth-shaking voice as Melkor mowed down the neat rows of mountains and filled in the carefully sculpted dips of valleys. The shattered scream of Varda as the lights of the Lamps went out beneath his hands, plunging the world back into darkness. The enraged roar of Manwë echoing over the land with the fury of a thousand howling gusts of wind as he bore down upon his foe with the strength of a great hurricane.

But what did these Children hold in the greatest esteem and love? Their creations were abstract or simple things. Song and clothing. Recipes and dances. Nothing that could be brought low or burned to the ground.

What did they love above all else but their own kin?

Take a father and mother and their children. Torture the woman and children to death before the man. And he would not fade from grief as so many did. He would burn with unholy fire, his eyes pitched with the flames of the earth. Give him a sword, and he would gladly take its blade to the bodies of his tormentors if only to beat his own sorrow and hatred into their flesh.

Eventually, he would gladly take it to the heart of anyone. For, slowly, that hatred poisoned all that he was and ever would be. Slowly, he would begin to see the happiness of those more blessed and he would resent them. Slowly, he would see families still whole, fathers still with their children upon their knees and their wives upon their arms, and he would feel longing and be jealous. And he would desire to end all those who had that which was forever out of his grasp, if only because they had what he could never hope to have again.

Such was the nature of the corruption of the mind. From his own experiences, Melkor understood how this strange, abstract thing worked, how sorrow and grief could turn to resentment and jealousy. How suffering and pain could lead to that same fury and bitterness. How all, in the end, was hatred.

And hatred led to destruction. Hatred led to lost morals and broken ideals. Hatred led to willing violence and bloodlust.

Hatred was the key to breaking the minds of these strangely impregnable creatures.

And thus were born the first orcs. The very first of the warrior race in the service of darkness and evil, turned from the favor of their God and Father. And, by the shaping of Melkor’s hands, they were just as hideous on the inside as they were without.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru


	388. Energy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Narya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 12, 2016.
> 
> This is an idea that took off and wrote itself. I swear. This wasn't at all what I originally had planned and then it just happened. But I kind of like it anyway. Related, of course, to all the Sauron/Celebrimbor works. And also to Adamant, though they aren't quite compatible. Maybe I'll make an edit. We'll see.
> 
> Warning: Seduction of a sexual/sensual nature, but no actual sex scene. Still, just generally rather sexually-oriented. Mentions war, murder and kinslaying, but only in passing.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Annatar  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

_“The ancient enchantments are all about energy.”_

_Annatar’s voice was but a whisper at Celebrimbor’s ear._

_Hands burned where they rested upon the smith’s shoulders, broad and powerful. And he could not help but think that, in that moment, Annatar must be the purest form of energy. Like fire did the maia’s body burn into his back, the welcoming warmth sinking into trembling flesh down to quivering bone._

_“Energy is the chief power of the world,” the maia continued. “And I will teach thee to harness it and master it, my dear.”_

_There was breath against his ear, steady and warm. Celebrimbor could see the glow of blue eyes laced with flame from the corner of his gaze. The hands upon his shoulders slid down his back, coming to rest rather at his hips._

_The elf burned. Maybe this was the primordial energy of which Annatar spoke._

_All he knew was that it sizzled through his skin and set alight his flesh. He turned to stare at his teacher, his not-quite-lover, and he desired. More than anything, in that moment, he_ desired.

_“Art thou going to kiss me, Telperinquar?”_

_Eru, how the maia teased! Celebrimbor had not the shame to be embarrassed at the wildfire of his own spirit or the reflection of his passion in his mortal form, not when Annatar was smiling that way, with his beautiful and perfect lips quirked just so. Not when those blue eyes rested half-hooded and glowing with lust, long lashes brushing against alabaster cheeks heightened with color._

_“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”_

_And he did. And his whole world turned to golden light._

\---

It was not an experience that Celebrimbor ever forgot, that first night as lovers.

Of course, it had been hundreds of years since then, and Celebrimbor had learned much more than the instrument of Annatar’s body and how to make it sing with pleasure. His teacher and lover had shown him methods of enchantment and craftsmanship beyond the ken of mortal beings, arts that made their foundations in the pure knowledge of the world. In the minds and hearts of the Ainur.

Part of the elven smith wondered if he was meant to dabble in such dangerous and forbidden things. So many rings had been forged—by his hands and the hands of his apprentices, all under the watchful eyes of Annatar—and they were strange things. Trinkets imbued with what some might call “magic”.

The wise would know that magic and enchantment were simply energy in the end. Put to a use beyond the known realm of physics, perhaps, but energy nonetheless. Yet, Celebrimbor knew from his exploits that it was from the earth or the air or the sea which the powers of these creations were drawn. That the words spoken in a language that rarely crossed the tongues of mortal creatures—the language in which the world had been Sung into Being before the beginning of the annals of time itself—had the power to do more than touch the hearts of those who heard its Song.

Valarin, some might have called it. The words were harsh and strange, so abstract as to be ugly to ears accustomed to the lyrical grace of Quenya or its more common and guttural cousin, Sindarin.

But that ancient tongue was more than words. It was power. It was _energy._

It was creation and destruction.

Celebrimbor had never dared use it without Annatar’s consent and observation, more than aware that it could be dangerous for a creature as fragile as his mortal self to handle such power without true understanding. But it had been more than two hundred years. Almost three hundred! Years and years of training and practice. Years and years of careful study and lessons of depth that Celebrimbor had before never imagined. He would be surprised if there was any elf alive—before himself or after—with such extensive knowledge in the enchantment of metal and stone. He wondered if even Fëanor had had such knowledge at his fingertips when he captured the holy light of the Trees and placed it within cages of white gemstone.

And now Celebrimbor wanted to try his hand at something more magnificent than the tiny and insignificant projects he had dabbled in at Annatar’s side. Not only did he want to make something of use in the coming darkness—

_For, imagine rings capable of hiding entire elven cities and fortresses from the Enemy! Imagine rings capable of granting greater strength and speed of the body! Imagine rings capable of giving the bearers power over the natural world, over magic!_

—but he also desired to prove himself. To show his knowledge and craftsmanship at its best. To demonstrate exactly why he was a smith second to no mortal except, perhaps, his grandfather. To show that, perhaps, he had surpassed even his sire’s sire in the great arts of metallurgy and jewel-craft.

He wanted to make something _great_ and _beautiful_. A secret part of him wanted to make a gift to outshine all other gifts.

A gift for the Lord of Gifts. 

How quaint. Like a young lord in Tirion courting a maiden.

But, perhaps, Celebrimbor _did_ intend the gesture as more than a simple gift. It had not been uncommon in the ancient days across the sea, in the mingled golden and silver glory of the Summer of Valinor, to present such gifts to a beloved. To an _intended._

For all intents and purposes, he might as well already be mated and married to Annatar, he reminded himself with a faint blush upon his cheeks.

And yet…

_And yet…_

He couldn’t help but think of their time together, how he was drawn with irresistible magnetism towards the maia and his resplendence. Even remembering their first night of bliss left his skin tingling with the heat of his lover’s lips upon his skin, the coil of his lower body tightening with memory the white-hot flashes of ecstasy that had burned down his spine.

Annatar was fire and light. Pure energy.

If he could put the essence of their love—their _joining_ and their _passion_ —into one of these rings…

Celebrimbor could imagine nothing more glorious or powerful. The essence of himself—him, a Son of the Spirit of Fire, and his eternal adoration—and his lover—one of the Ainur, a primordial being whose very power manifested as the molten blood of the earth—meshed together as had their bodies and their minds and their spirits entangled.

That would be a truly grand work of art. Powerful enough to defend Eregion from the coming Darkness. A worthy gift for his beloved, who he trusted and respected and wished to protect above all others.

This project, of course, would require the very finest of materials. The best and purest of gold. The finest and most flawless of gems. The very pinnacle of craftsmanship and spell-craft. Everything would need to be _perfect_.

But then, Celebrimbor would settle for nothing less to adorn the hand of his lover. 

Nothing less than perfection.

\---

And it took months to find what he wanted. The exact, perfect alloy of gold to maintain shape and yet with purity enough to rival the strands of his lover’s lustrous golden hair. The perfect stone, a clear and crimson ruby without flaw, cut and shaped such that his experienced jewel-smith’s eyes could see no crack or deformity in a single miniscule facet. For these things, he had traded many lovely prizes to the dwarves of Khazad-dûm. But it was worth the price.

It was worth it, for he would be creating something in beauty and power beyond any mere trinket the dwarves had bartered out of his coffers. Let them have their diamonds set in mithril! Let them have their chunks of solid gold!

Celebrimbor set himself down to make a masterpiece.

And it was imbued not with the energy of the earth or of the sky. He needed not call upon the spirits of the world—not the Valar or the maiar—to weave the enchantments of this ring. Such sources were so cold and distant, like the stars speckled across the sky, and they would not do for his beloved. Not at all.

Annatar was fire and light. He was the heat that shuddered beneath Celebrimbor’s skin. He was the breath that condensed in the air on a chilly night. He was the molten gold that the smith shaped with such care beneath his steady hands. He was the blast of the forge’s fire upon Celebrimbor’s face. And yet, he was also the whisper of softness playing with the tails of his dark hair. Both the wild and uncontrollable destruction of a fire, but also its infinite gentleness and elegance. Its light-bringing quality and the darkness when it was out of sight.

He was everything that Celebrimbor loved and adored. And the love of a Spirit of Fire was no small thing. After all, for the love of Fëanor and his sons, the Exile of the Noldor had been wrought. For the love of Fëanor and his line, all the wars of the First Age had been fought. For the love of Fëanor and his lust for revenge in his father’s name and the reclamation of his most beloved creations, thousands of innocents had died by the blades of their own kin.

No. The love of a Spirit of Fire was no small thing. It was fey and charismatic. It was the power to bend the hearts of lesser wills to heel. It was the ability to set alight the spirits of cooler beings and arouse their fury and their passion and their stubborn will to survive.

It was energy. Pure energy.

It was everything Celebrimbor put into this creation.

In the end, the elven smith stood in his forge, slicked with sweat and filled with desire. And his creation rested upon his palm, heavy and thrumming with waves of heat. Though his spirit shivered with the drain of its essence, his heart had never beat stronger than it did when he beheld this Ring of Power. Exhausted though he might have been, the smith felt a broad smile come to his face as the red light of the stone reflected against the verdant of his eyes.

Narya, he called it in his own mind. And, in his heart, he imagined that Annatar might bear it hence. For he could imagine gifting it to no other but his lover.

Shakily, the elf lifted the ring to his lips, and he pressed them softly to the scalding heat of the center stone.

A perfect gift for his Annatar.

_His Annatar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As one final note: My ability to get good and consistent internet access may be dubious for the next couple/few days. Rest assured, I am still writing, even if I am not posting consistently. Such is the way of travel. *sigh*


	389. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron can't seem to get over his dead lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 13, 2016.
> 
> This is partially an accompaniment to Energy and partially the result of a comment made by Keenir about the origins of the term "my precious". From then on, as with most Sauron-centric pieces, it just sort of wrote itself.
> 
> Warnings: Surprisingly few for a Sauron fic. Mentions world domination, war, death and slavery, but nothing explicit. Some off-screen sex.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon

Ridding himself of Celebrimbor—effectively ending their messy love affair—should have been cause for celebration. 

No more ridiculous whispered lies of affection beneath the starlight, so saccharine and noxious upon his tongue. No more pretending at friendliness or kindness to those lesser beings with their lesser talents, biting his tongue against harsh words and painful retaliation for failure. No more playing at a benevolent spirit filled with light when all his spirit contained was the stain of darkness and greed. No more!

And yet…

_And yet…_

Mairon could not help but gaze upon the golden band resting red-hot upon his forefinger. Through this bit of gold, reinforced with the indomitable will and indestructible nature of his own being, he could feel all of the other Rings of Power. From the smallest essay, a mere trinket granting invisibility and naught else, to the greatest of the creations made at his lover’s hands.

He could feel them all. The nine. The seven. _The three._

And, through them, he could sense Celebrimbor. Almost as if the elf’s essence had not already traveled across the Great Sea to the Halls of Mandos. Almost as if the elf were _not gone._

It should not have been surprising, really, that the Spirit of Fire haunted all that he created. The methods that Mairon had taught his elf required a certain amount of sacrifice. They required energy, drawn from the natural world as well as from the enchanter, leeching at the innate iron will of the creator while imbibing the quality of the world around it with a bottomless hunger. Each and every ring contained that echo, the shadow of Celebrimbor’s elegant fingers upon its band and the whisper of the elven smith’s chanting voice breaking the darkness.

Each and every ring contained a tiny scrap of his lover. From the smallest, a shadowy wisp of a dream, to the most powerful, and the reflection of verdant eyes clear as daylight.

And Mairon hungered for these creations and likewise hated them. Through greed, he gathered them all from the wreckage of Eregion and coveted them as the greatest of treasures. Through desire, he kept them close and hid them from all others, tracing them beneath his fingers. Through the One, he could feel all of them, their power and their desire to serve his will. Through the One, he _owned them._

_Owned their creator._

All but the three.

The elves were wise to never wear those rings, but refusing to use their power did not make them cease to exist. Mairon knew they were there, sensed in those last three rings the most of his lover. As if Celebrimbor had ripped free chunks of his own spirit and wrapped them in material cages. As if his lover were still living and breathing through these tiny jewels, still looking at him with those smug eyes filled with pain-haze and that mocking smile filled with bared teeth and blood-stained snarls. As if his lover were mocking him with the final prize that was forever tantalizingly dangling just outside his reach, that which Mairon desired most and which was withheld from his grasp.

Killing Celebrimbor should have gotten rid of this ridiculous defiance. This constant desire. This unpleasant display of strange emotion.

And yet, it was still there.

Mairon doubted it would ever fully go away.

\---

Of all gemstones, Mairon came to hate emeralds the most.

Unfortunately, they were rather popular amongst the bedazzled and feathered peahens of the Númenórean Court. It was all the rage to have the blasted things hanging in gaudy strands about the neck and stitched onto velveteen finery and even braided intricately into the hair in swirling designs. He supposed the color was rather lovely and exotic, a rich evergreen as clear and sharp as the winter’s first breath at autumn’s demise.

But he still hated them. Passionately.

And, of course, he laid the blame solely upon Celebrimbor’s figurative doorstep.

Perhaps it was cliché to compare the eyes of his dead lover to a stone, even a beautiful one. It sounded like a rather dwarven thing to do, waxing poetic about sapphires and emeralds and rubies. Yet, Mairon had never encountered anything that reminded him so perilously of what had slipped through his fingers.

Every time he saw one of those blasted stones, he wanted to grind it down to powder and scatter it to the winds.

And, every time the thought crossed his mind, he heard the echo of laughter in the back of his mind. As if Celebrimbor were still there. As if Celebrimbor were still watching. As if every stone he saw in that shade of perfect green were _watching._

 _“Art thou so paranoid, my precious?”_ that beloved and despised voice would whisper against his ear. _“Thou didst always claim to adore my eyes.”_

 _Lies_ , he wanted to cry. _Lies!_

And yet…

_And yet…_

Frustrated, his fingers found their way to the One Ring. It remained perched, ever-faithful, upon his forefinger, gleaming beneath the sunlight or the starlight alike as the etchings glowed with unholy fire through dimness and darkness. A reminder.

 _I own thee_ , they said. _I_ own _thee!_

But still, the specter would not go away. And Mairon hated that he could see those lips curl from the corners of his vision. That he could hear that voice whisper, sibilant and sly against his ear. That he could see those eyes ever watching him from the facet of every emerald upon every necklace, just that perfect shade of green.

 _Go away!_ He desired to scream it out to the heavens.

But he doubted Celebrimbor’s ghost would listen.

\---

He sought other ways of driving the memory of his lover from his mind.

First and foremost amongst those methods was finding a _new lover._

While he had quite the variety of decently attractive humans, both female and male, to choose from, Mairon still found this task to be odious. Certainly, seducing some of these twittering ninnies would further his position at Court and thus had the potential to put him further in favor with certain powerful individuals. Mairon had bowed and scraped at the feet of the primordial Dark Lord for hundreds of thousands of years. Bartering sexual favors with his body was nothing in comparison to the torments he had been dealt at more wicked hands.

The problem was that he _was not interested._

No, Mairon had never been an overtly sexual being. Sensual, certainly. Beautiful, certainly. It was easier to attract allies with a pretty face than with the twisted mockery of a visage sported by orcs or goblins. And Mairon was a vain creature, preferring to be well-groomed and well-dressed even in the dank filth of Angband. Still, he had enjoyed the occasional attraction to some of the Eruhíni, both male and female. Mostly male, he supposed, but he had hardly been so picky as to turn down a lovely pair of breasts when the mood was right.

Now, though, he couldn’t muster much in the way of interest. These people were all too short and too stupid. They lacked in beauty and stature and grace. Either the flesh was too tanned from the sun or so unscarred lily-white as to seem virginal. Once, he would not have cared for lack of conversation, but lying abed with a complete ninny making small-talk after coitus sounded like a torment worse than having his flesh slowly stripped off his bones inch by anguishing inch.

In desperation, Mairon chose a female.

He realized too late that she was the tallest he could find with the darkest hair. Her eyes were green, though not deep enough or dark enough. He fucked her, bringing her great pleasure with ease, and yet all he could see were her eyes. Dull. Too light. Too flat. Like a cheap, flawed emerald of spring green rather than the endless evergreen of the true stone.

 _“Cheap imitations, my precious?”_ Celebrimbor asked him as he lay awake in the aftermath feeling rather squeamish and disgusted.

The next lover he took was male. Skin a shade too dark. Hands not callused in the right places. Lack of scars showing inexperience in battle. The musculature was not too bad, though the height was still lacking. And the hair was too short. And the eyes were green, though not deep or dark enough still. He fucked this human, too, and left his second lover just as satisfied as the first, but he still could look at nothing but the eyes. Still too dull. Still too light. Still too flat. Still that cheap, flawed imitation of the real thing.

And he could still hear that mocking laughter. Every time he laid his fingers upon the One Ring, he could feel that presence, so silky smooth and warm. So teasingly present yet incomplete and tattered. Every time, for a fleeting moment, he thought he sensed Celebrimbor. _Alive._

But Celebrimbor was dead. 

And Mairon wanted to scream in fury and tear down whole armies with his bare hands. He wanted to bathe in blood and crush gore beneath his feet in the midst of his frustrated rage. Because the elf would simply _not go away._ No lover could he take without thinking of the one he had lost. No emerald could he look upon without imagining those gorgeous and sultry eyes. By the Void, but he could not even handle his own Ring of Power without reaching out desperately to grasp at little apparitions, little phantom dreams forged of his lover’s passion and set as invisible stones upon each and every work!

 _“Do not try too hard,”_ the elf’s voice teased him in the darkness as he lay beside the warm body of his lover, too small and too cool and too dark and too ugly. _“Didst thou really think to replace me so easily, my precious? As if these humans could compare to a Spirit of Fire!”_

After the second attempt, Mairon abandoned that method altogether.

\---

Mairon’s goal had been within his grasp. _Sitting in the very palm of his hand!_

With the might of Númenor utterly destroyed, there had been no military power upon the face of Arda which could hope to counter the tens of thousands in the might hoards of Mordor. He would have overrun the armies of Men and Elves, would have taken their lands and burned their forests and enslaved their people. He would have had free reign over all the land to do with as he pleased, destroying and creating at his own will, remaking the world into the image resting like a bitter dream in the most hidden places in his spirit. The purest dream brought into Being through the darkest of evils, the blood of unnumbered sacrifices.

He would have had the nine and the seven and the three. He would have had every scrap of Celebrimbor that still existed in this world. Maybe, he thought— _even though he knew better than to imagine such heinous and unnatural distortion of the world_ —he could even have remade his lover from death. Maybe, he could have had his consort at his side for the rest of eternity.

Maybe, it would have been as close to perfection as the world could come.

And then Isildur had, by pure chance and the sharpness of a broken blade, cut the One Ring from his forefinger. 

For the first time since the day he had entered the city of Eregion, he had no longer felt the presence of Celebrimbor writhing against his spirit like a red-hot brand. As though their bond were a thread of lightning and the One Ring its conduit, the loss of the connection snapped through the constant feeling of awareness and left behind nothing. For the first time, Mairon thought his lover might actually be _dead._

And yet…

_And yet…_

Long years passed, crawling by, each moment its own eternity. There was nothing but bone-deep cold at first. And the blindness as far as the eye could see. Just nothingness. Nullibiety. 

Cold and darkness. Listless emptiness. Hopeless terror. Endless wandering.

Mairon knew not to whence he went. But he knew that his mind strained beneath the laxity and the anguish. He knew that the sudden empty hole in the back of his thoughts lingered, a vacuum trying to suck him through into the never-world of the Void. Insanity waited, poised like a venomous snake prepared to strike if he should step but a hairsbreadth too close.

And then he heard it. The whisper.

 _“My precious,”_ it said, soft and dulcet. The cry of a lover. And it was _his_ voice.

Like a tiny flame in the darkness, blindingly bright in eternal black, it called the moth of Mairon’s spirit forth like nothing else could. Its whispers promised power and purpose. Promised warmth and comfort. Promised rebirth from destruction.

Promised love and devotion.

_“My precious,” Celebrimbor murmured against his ear._

He could remember the moment so clearly.

_That they laid together peacefully, curled around one another. Their shared bedchambers were dark but for the slant of the Ithil’s glow across the floor, across their white skin. It caught in the darkness of his lover’s hair, shimmering in a many-colored array of light._

_Lips caressed lazily over his cheek, searching and finding his mouth. Chastely teasing the sensitive skin with their rosy hue._

_“My precious Annatar,” his lover said, breathing in his exhale and exhaling into his inhale. “Never be apart from me.”_

_“Never,”_ he had promised. _”Never.”_

And Mairon planned to keep that promise. Not out of delusions of love. Not even out of affection or compassion. But _desire_ and _greed_. He lusted after that heady breath and felt the fiery spirit entwined with his own irrevocably. And it was his. _His!_ His to have and his to hold and his to love or to hate.

 _“My precious,”_ came the cry again. Lighting the way back.

And the fallen Dark Lord, half-mad and shivering, felt fey and wild laughter find his throat. And his jubilance echoed in his ears and rippled silently through the Void. For he was haunted still by the words of a dead man. All the great power he wielded had not been enough to banish these ghostly memories. His own utter destruction had not been enough to chase away the memory of emerald eyes.

And he wondered how horrified Celebrimbor would have been if he knew that it was his voice which had led the Dark Lord back from the darkness. Back from the brink of destruction.

That it was the voice of Celebrimbor which gave Sauron the will to rise again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru


	390. Distortion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron was only partially responsible for the shit that went down in Númenor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 14, 2016.
> 
> More Sauron. I've just not been able to get him out of my head. Anyway, just some random stuff about the Fall of Númenor. This one is related to Voice and Magic. Maybe to a couple other things as well.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions ritual human sacrifice, including burning at the stake. Also brief mention of rape. Sauron being himself. So betrayal and douchebaggery. Also, some mock seduction.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon

At this moment, there was no one Míriel hated more than she hated Tar-Mairon.

She hated how he watched from the balcony on high as the Great Armament was set sail, their colors sable and golden glistening in the sunset. She hated how that same light touched his beautiful curls and set them ablaze, as though he were a god of the sun made into flesh and blood. She hated how he stood proudly, tall and unyielding in strength, as though he were the king presiding over the land and the men below. She hated how his lips curved into a superior smirk that only enhanced the beauty of his already perfect face and showcased openly his pleasure at the fruition of his plots and schemes.

She hated that manipulating, lying, silver-tongued scum—that craven creature with his sly voice and his slippery ways—more than anything. Because it was by those elegant hands resting so gently and innocuously upon the marble railing that her people were going to their doom. Because it was from his lips that the glory of Númenor had fallen into shadow.

It had to be him. _It had to be him!_

How dare he? _How dare he!_

“Why?” she burst out. “Why did you do this?”

At the sound of her voice, he turned to look upon her. And, in place of the vivid blue eyes that so many women crooned over and worshiped in the gossip circles of Court, she saw only the depths of the earth’s blood staring back. Those flame-jewels were set in a face cast starkly white and black by the shadows of the dying sun, and they burned her with their bold stare.

“Why did I do what, my Queen?” he asked, his voice soft and steady. As though he knew not of what she spoke. Making it was clear that he felt neither guilt nor shame for his wicked deeds. That nonchalant tone of inquiry made her blood boil in her veins.

At her sides, her fists clenched until her knuckles bled white, and she dearly wished to wrap them around Tar-Mairon’s beautiful swan-throat and wring it dead. “You would deny it, then?” she spat, her voice dripping with her eternal disdain and revulsion. “You have come here. You have corrupted my people’s hearts. You have taught them evil ways. You have turned their sight from the truth of Eru and set them in a hopeless war against the Valar. You have denied them salvation, leaving only a distortion of what they were behind. And, in the end, you would _deny your role in this farce as well?”_

Her voice, which had risen to a shout, echoed with chilly force through the marbled hall. Her panting breaths followed, loud in the wake of her anger, as she stared into his face with those beautiful, diabolical eyes and those gorgeous, cruel lips. Until, finally, silence fell between the pair. Until, finally…

“My role?” As though her wrath meant nothing, he swept it away with the brush of his elegant hand. “My role, you call it. _My role…”_

Before she could move, he was upon her like thunder over the mountains. Míriel found herself trapped, cradled and caged between the iron walls of his body bracketing her in upon either side, his hands buried in the cracked and ruined marble walls to her left and her right. Before her, those eyes hung, their demonic glow dominating even the light of the sun. Mere inches away, he was, and she felt his breath upon her skin like a scalding wind, scorching and blistering.

And he laughed at her.

“My role, you would call it.” He laughed again, high and sharp and cold. Mocking her fury. “Is that what helps you sleep at night, my Queen? The thought that the evil Tar-Mairon _made_ your cousin and spouse go mad. That he _made_ your lords and ladies fall under his spell. That he _forced_ them to worship the Darkness. That he _destroyed_ them with his lies and subterfuge. Is _that_ what you wish to hear? Is _that_ the truth that you seek?”

And she remained frozen, wide-eyed with horror, as he drew nearer. Near enough that she could count the flecks of molten sunlight in his eyes. Near enough that she could make out the vicious points of his canine teeth. Near enough that she could see the amusement written into every line of his face and form.

She stared into the face of a demon. Never had beauty been so disgusting. Never had grace been so slimy.

“Do not be ridiculous,” he chastised, his tone nothing short of patronizing. “I have done _nothing_ but speak. I have neither cast any spells upon your people nor bent their wills to my favor. I have not _forced_ them to carry out any act. Not even the most despicable.”

Never had words chilled her heart so.

He leaned ever closer, until Míriel thought his fire would burn her, charring her outside to spite the pit of ice in her belly. Until she thought there would be nothing but ash melting away to the frozen core of her bones. Until his mouth pressed against her ear in a mockery of a lover’s whispered words of affection.

“Distortion, you call it,” he crooned, breathy and hoarse with a strange sort of ecstasy. “I have done nothing except give that which your people sought. They wanted a way to immortality—to cheat death, as if such a thing were possible!—and I gave it to them. Lies though my teachings might have been, they were naught by ill-intended words in the end.”

His lips traveled over her cheek, burning as they went. And then they left her with a streak of white-hot fire across her flesh and the sound of his chortle in her ears.

“They were _eager_ to take any chance at immortality. They were ready to sacrifice their wives upon the altar, to rape and murder their virgin daughters, to burn their closest friends at the stake!” His voice continued to crescendo, steadily rising to its pinnacle, its power sizzling through her body where she stood trapped and surrounded. “They were ready to listen to anything—to _do_ anything—if it meant a chance at escaping death!”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No…”

“So you see,” he continued through her intangible protest, “Your people were _already_ ruined. Nothing but a sickly shadow of the greatness and glory of Númenor in its golden years. Your people were _already_ trash, corrupted by their greed and their lust and their terror. Your people were already _weak_.”

“No!” she cried out, wanting nothing more to turn away. But she couldn’t look away from his eyes. His fire-jewel eyes set in the pale light of the dying sun.

And she felt his lips upon her own, the softest teasing caress. “With or without my help, Númenor would have fallen to its inner decay. It was only a matter of time before your tower of glass toppled. My only contribution is that I made their end come all the more swiftly.”

She wanted to deny his words. She wanted to call him a liar. She wanted to name him demon and devil and monster. She wanted to _kill him_ for daring to disparage her beloved home and her beloved people so flippantly and irreverently, as though they were nothing but pawns in a game of chess stretching out across the ages.

But then she recalled the hatred spewing forth from blackened lips, the dark words of mistrust whispered behind closed doors. She recalled the resentment in the eyes of her kinsmen when they spoke of the gift of immortality denied their bloodline. She recalled the vitriol and malice when Manwë’s name was spoken and the disappointment and betrayal of voices raised to the distant lights of Varda’s stars.

And she could not argue against the truth of his words. Perhaps her people would never have conceived such dark and horrifying rituals with only their own imaginations to guide their evil deeds. Perhaps they would have lasted longer, struggling against their inevitable demise, until they finally succumbed to their own pride and arrogance and greed and jealousy. But, in the end, it would have claimed them nonetheless. In the end, they would have spiraled downwards into the abyss of their own desire and hatred, and they would have been swallowed.

In the end, they had been on the path to destruction for a long time. 

She had just never wanted to see the truth. She had instead twisted her own reality into something it was not. A mere distortion. Into something hopeful and pure. Into something she could love instead of hate.

And Míriel—the fallen Queen who had not crumbled beneath the hand of her cruel husband, who had not given up hope even in the face of temples belching out the smoke of the Faithful burned upon their altars, who had clung steadily to the delusion of the potential salvation of her people—felt her eyes sting. She closed them tightly against his blazing gaze.

“Now watch your husband sail to his doom, my Queen,” Tar-Mairon purred in her ear, his broad hands resting upon her shoulders, turning her to face the balcony. His mouth burned against her throat, his smile was tattooed upon her flesh and in her memory forever. For there, upon the horizon, the tiniest pinprick of black was all she could see of the sable and golden ships—the folly of Ar-Pharazôn. The folly of Númenor.

“Now watch your people come to their end. The end we both know they have earned,” he whispered. His lips still rested upon her skin. Poisonous and treacherous. 

Her tears fell.

“Now watch all that you love burn.”

And she had never hated anyone as much as she hated Tar-Mairon.

Because she knew that he was unforgivably right.


	391. Rich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beorn on why he rather dislikes Dwarves. And why he rather likes Hobbits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 15, 2016.
> 
> Well, I had a pretty terrible day, so my heart wasn't as in this as I would have liked. Still, I hope it turned out okay. My sister wanted me to write something about Beorn (how on earth he became her favorite character from The Hobbit I shall never know) and so this is what I came up with.
> 
> Warnings: Not much.

Beorn had never been overly fond of dwarves.

It wasn’t just their tendency to be short and ugly in appearance. After all, the skin-changer himself knew that he wasn’t much in the way of handsomeness, so it would be hypocritical to disparage the stunted people for their large ears and noses. Granted, they had that odd obsession with keeping their thick beards braided in all sorts of odd and complicated ways, but there were worse things in the world than vanity.

More so, he thought, it was their ungratefulness and their greed.

Always, Beorn had adored the nature and the land above all else. He was friend to animals and keeper of flowers, his gardens overflowing with giant, furry bumblebees and shaded by towering trees with thick, sturdy arms. There was an abundance of sunlight and honey and milk, and the orcs and other dark creatures stayed well enough away out of fear. It was a quiet life. A life of plenty and simplicity. A rich life.

It was a life without gold and jewels. 

Beorn had no love for the meat-eating sentient beings, and he did not understand the appeal of cold rocks and metals which could neither speak nor love nor bring any real beauty but the superficial outer type that meant nothing in the end. Dwarves were so obsessed with such material things, so overwrought at change in tradition, and so fixated with _having_ rather than _enjoying_. They were selfish and greedy, concerned with wealth and finery rather than comfort, and they had no respect for anyone or anything but occasionally themselves.

The skin-changer could not fathom how such creatures worked. He did not _want_ to comprehend how they worked. He wanted nothing to do with them at all.

Now there were thirteen of them in his house. And thirteen too many at that!

And then there was Bilbo Baggins.

Now, little Master Baggins was a kindred spirit. The pudgy little creature was a bit fussy about his ruined waistcoat and bemoaning the loss of his shiny brass buttons, but he was also wide-eyed with awe at the sight of the garden and smiled with a bright “thank you” with every serving of food and every vessel of milk. The pink-cheeked little bunny took such pleasure in the sunshine on his face and the homely buzz of the bees and the gentle fragrance of the blooming flowers in the evening light.

 _“We Hobbits favor above all else comfort,”_ little Master Baggins had explained. _“We eat seven meals a day, and we take great pride in our pipeweed and our gardens. Mostly, we’re farming folk, and wealth lies in land and a comfortable hearth rather than worldly possessions. Though, I will admit to having a fondness for books.”_

It was a novel thing, to find a creature in this world who would rather have a lively garden and healthy tomato plants than piles of gold. Who would rather sit in the grass and smoke a pipe or read a book than sit upon an imposing, decadent throne turning up their pretentious noses at those lives they valued less than their own. Master Baggins did not seem the type for a quest such as the one these dwarves pursued.

 _“And why would a Hobbit be on a journey to reclaim a mountain full of treasure?”_ he had asked curiously. _“Looking to replace your brass buttons with gold?”_

 _“Gold! Heavens, no! I’m no Sackville-Baggins after all!”_ Master Baggins had laughed at the suggestion that his motivations were of a golden nature. _“No, no! I wanted an adventure, at first. It’s something I’ve always wanted, I think. But later…”_

The Hobbit’s head turned, and Beorn saw how the tiny creature eyed the leader of the dwarven company as though he were something special and admirable. Thorin Oakenshield was a brooding arse—as arrogant and rude as he was surprisingly handsome—and Beorn did not put any trust in the exiled king’s ability to resist the madness running rampant in his line. Yet, it seemed that little Master Baggins had some faith in the dwarven king. Maybe even some feelings of a more amorous sort for the dark-haired dwarf.

 _“Later, I wanted to help them—the dwarves. I want to help them reclaim their home,”_ the Hobbit explained, his voice soft in the twilight hour, his eyes never leaving the object of his affection. _“They’re rude and stubborn and hard to get on with, but they’re my friends. We Hobbits value home and hearth—comfort and safety—above all else. How could I leave my friends without a home and still think myself an honorable gentlehobbit?”_

 _You, Master Baggins, are far better than these miserable little creatures deserve_ , Beorn had wanted to say. Still wanted to say.

For he eyed them in the morning light, watched how little Bilbo Baggins with his shining golden curls turned his big green eyes towards the dwarven king, and he could see something there. Something blooming, a bud unfurling slowly into a flower if only the conditions would stay warm and welcoming to its advances. Something with the potential to be beautiful, if only the block-headed dwarf would turn and look and _see_ something beyond mountains of gleaming gold no doubt put to shame by the glimmer of Bilbo Baggins’ smitten smile.

Thorin Oakenshield was a dwarf, and he measured wealth in weights of gold and glowing stones. But he was already rich. He was already richer than any king on a cold carven throne could ever hope to be. And he didn’t even _know it._

 _Dwarves_ , Beorn could not help but think darkly. _Dwarves…_

But still, though he did not like them and though they gave no thanks for the warm milk he offered them and the honey and bread which filled their bellies, they were the dear friends of little Master Baggins. And the bunny was a sweet soul—far more concerned with others than he was with himself—and he deserved all the help which could be offered.

For Bilbo Baggins, Beorn decided, he would aid these greedy creatures with their ridiculous and dangerous quest. For Bilbo Baggins, he would make certain that these stunted and ugly creatures were not slaughtered before they even reached the sickened boughs of Mirkwood.

And, in the end, perhaps the eyes of Thorin Oakenshield would be turned away from gold by something far more precious and pure.

Perhaps.


	392. Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yavanna gets a taste of the purpose and complexity of the Great Music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 16, 2016.
> 
> More Valarin weirdness. This was sort of born from the idea that Yavanna's works could never function solely by her own will. After all, life requires an incredibly delicate balance of circumstances to exist even in its most rudimentary form. Thus, it must be a group effort, so to speak. Nevertheless, because the Children are so similar to the fauna that Yavanna conceived, I would guess that she probably was one of the few--perhaps the only--ainu who knew something about the Children before the vision that revealed the world created by the Ainulindalë.
> 
> Warnings: nothing much other than mildly philosophical stuff. And science.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Mandos = Námo  
> Lórien = Irmo

Life was harmony.

At first, Yavanna had not really understood this truth. It was her beloved Song—all the knowledge she had been gifted, the true purpose of her existence—and yet it had seemed so very threadbare and delicate, like a fragile glass sculpture destined to topple and shatter into a million pieces at the lightest of touches. The visions of slender green and growing things or mobile, soft breathing things, they had all seemed like daydreams to her thoughts. Impossible daydreams.

They were simply so very incomplete. Their strange, organic makeup was so random, and the building blocks of their physicality so complex. Her Father had given her so many ideas for their shapes and sizes, for their behaviors and their colors and their innate natures, but there was so much that he had _not_ explained. 

How did they gain the energy to move and grow from something small and helpless into a powerful adult form? How could they survive when they were so susceptible to the extreme heat and cold? What power was controlling their thoughts and their actions such that they knew how to survive? Did they have spirits—like the Ainur—when they were brought into the world?

These creatures seemed so very easy to destroy. To burn or to tear apart. To starve or to freeze. To suffocate or choke from thirst. She did not even know if they were intelligent.

There were simply so many questions that her own theme could not answer.

It was not until she heard the Ainulindalë in its entirety that she understood that her theme was never meant to contain all the answers.

It was not until her voice twined with the coruscating soprano of Varda that she saw the garish flash of light in her thoughts, soaking into the fragile green leaves of her dreams to feed them energy and nurture their growth. It was not until her deep croon interwove with delicate staccato droplets of starlight that her mind’s eye understood the radiating of the golden fruits, heavy and shining through the night, and the silvered sheen of soft, fluorescing petals, white and glowing beneath her fingers. It was not until she heard the melismatic bursts of color that she realized what purpose the eyes of living creatures served, taking in all that surrounded them by the light bursting through the blackness of their pupils to fill them with sight of the world.

It was not until her voice was bolstered by the bone-shaking bass of Ulmo that she felt the flow of water surging upwards through her veins, filling her stalks to bursting with life-giving liquid, leaving her refreshed and vibrantly green. It was not until she tasted his most tender lullabies upon her tongue that she realized the feeling of thirst and satiation, that she felt the coolness of water trickling down her throat or splashing upon her feet or cooling her skin and washing all filth away to leave the refreshing softness of cleanliness behind.

Before she had dared duet with Manwë, she could never have comprehended how vital his Song was to hers. For she came to understand, with his whispery verses playing echo to her full, rich melodies, that all living beings would need to inhale the fresh air into their lungs, filling them until their ribcages strained, leading oxygen into their blood and to their cells. With each exhale, they would put carbon dioxide into the wide open sky, and yet her plants would then need those exhales to finish producing their nourishing foodstuffs. And those green and giving things would have exhales of their own, sending new oxygen back up into the airs to replenish that which had been lost. And the cycle would repeat endlessly, again and again.

Even her husband’s Song, which seemed so radically contradictory to her own, was utterly essential to the visions that began to unfold in her mind. For, was the soil not the very foundations of even the largest, sturdiest of trees, giving unto those growing things the nourishing minerals and elements necessary for their continued health? Was not the ground that very same center of stability upon which all living creatures would stand, their rich, earthen carpet and their encircling shelter and their pillar of strength and their welcoming home?

Yavanna came to see small parts of all of her brethren within the Song she conceived in her heart of hearts. And she slowly came to realize that each and every voice had its own part to play.

In the dulcet tones of her sister-spirit, Vána, she could hear the coming of warmth and new life from the old. The summer of immortal beauty rested in that voice as a singular pure tone, and the spring of rebirth after winter’s harsh cold was the birdsong in the trees. In Vána’s voice, Yavanna heard the sound of seedlings sprouting upwards, taking in their first gasp of sunlight, and of infants stumbling upon shaky feet as they breathed their first lungful of oxygen. In Vána’s voice, she heard the sound of many-colored meadows unfurling and tasted the smell of their pollen upon the back of her tongue.

It was the whimsical ponderings of Irmo that granted them desire—the source from whence all dreams and fears were born, the most basic foundation of thought. For, without his touch, how could they feel hunger or thirst in order to overcome their need for energy and water? How could they long for safety and comfort, that shelter which would protect them from harsh heat or cold and from the dangers of the natural world? How could they learn to fear that which caused their pain and to seek that which brought them pleasure, teaching their young and innocent minds caution and motivation, to avoid that which might do them harm and seek that which would help them on their perilous journey to stay alive?

The trumpeting cries of Oromë the Hunter were that instinct to survive, their ruthless will driven purely by their lusts and terrors. Yavanna understood then the seeking of roots deep into the earth in search of nutrients and the stretching of branches high into the sky from a thirst for sunlight. She understood the search of some beasts for green things which would provide energy and fill empty bellies to end hunger. She understood the sharp need for birds to slaughter the innocent earthworms and for hawks to hunt the gentle rabbits. She understood even the need of the wolf to hunt the graceful deer, to gorge himself upon red and bloody flesh and bring his kill back to feed his helpless pups. In these actions, she sensed no malice.

But she knew also that her creations were not without feeling. How could they be heartless when they were touched by the voice of Nienna’s eternal lamentation? Compassion and mercy ran through the spiritual veins of many creatures, who carefully nurtured their young and sought to protect. Many creatures even longed for company to ease their loneliness and depended upon their community for support in their quest to survive. Like the Ainur, they took great pleasure in companionship, in having the safety and wholeness of a family or a pack or a nest or a hive or a herd to return to and to depend upon.

These rudimentary thoughts were an amazing thing to the valië, who had never been capable of fully understanding her own Song and its meaning. An epiphany that brought her the greatest ebullience, a glistening and bubbling feeling of golden warmth sprung from the core of her being and rippling outwards. With this coming of joy, she would have been content. With just these simple creatures with their simple lives, the world would have been a glorious creation indeed.

And yet, as Yavanna carefully observed the interweaving of her voice with many others, an image unlike any other began to unfold in her thoughts. One she did not share, for it filled her heart both with excitement and a sense of urgent secrecy.

Later, she would come to understand that what she began to see—a mere shadowy vision in the back of her thoughts—had been the Children that their Father so greatly treasured. That she had laid the foundation upon which their masterpiece had been constructed. That they would be the greatest creation birthed from their many voices singing as one.

But then, she knew not what it was that she saw.

As the crescendo built to the zenith of its glory and the theme of Melkor burst like a dissonant blade through the heart of their beloved work of art, Yavanna beheld the birth of something that she could never have imagined on her own. Living creatures, mobile and oxygen-breathing like the beasts that had been born in her thoughts, and yet so much _more_ than she had ever dared to conceive.

Their physical beauty at first stunned her. Many odd things had Yavanna dreamed up in her long hours of making Song with her beloved brethren, but these beings were one of the strangest and most beautiful. Four-limbed upright-walkers with bare flesh and long manes of hair sprouting from their heads. They shared the same basic design with the other mobile creatures Yavanna had wrought in her daydreams—two eyes, a nose and a mouth, a neck and a torso, and long limbs used for moving—and yet she had never seen any creature with gazes quite so glorious as those of these beings. So resplendent in their many colors. So bright with intelligence and curiosity at the world around them.

There was such an infinite capacity for love in their wide and innocent eyes, yet they were touched by the wicked disunity of Melkor’s Song down to their very core. They felt the heights of jealous desire, the ambitious drive of greed and the quivering paralysis of terror—the cruel gifts of Irmo that wracked and ruined all living creatures—and yet she heard also from the lips of Tulkas their enduring and adamantine strength of will to resist the call of that which was easy instead of right. Jealousy might call and greed might rattle the gates. Terror might drive the heart to weakness and shatter all courage. But, just as easily as they could fall to craven hearts, so too could they rise above and become brave. Just as easily as they could fall to wrath and ruin, so too could they be moved to great compassion and forgiveness.

They were beautiful beyond compare. Born from the sweetness of Vána’s theme, they began life as young and pure of thought and intent as the unfurled blossom, holding no malice in their hearts. And yet all were touched by the darkness of death and judgment in Námo’s hypnotizing, resonating voice. They were capable of being stubborn. Of being wrecked by pain and ruined by sorrow and scarred by the horrors of which were spoken by the Enemy’s black tongue. 

But they were also capable of great adaptation and change of spirit by will of Nessa’s dancing feet upon the evergreen fields of the earth. They were resilient enough to heal under the tender caress of Estë’s hand from some of the most grievous of wounds of body and spirit alike. And then, from the ashes of something torn and broken and seemingly ruined, they would arise again in might and glory. Reborn again in a new image more perfect and more beautiful than they had been before.

They were life. In them, Yavanna could sense her own voice. Her contribution seemed such a small part, so vital to all they were and yet but a mere grain of sand in the beach of their complexity. Imperfectly perfect. Breathing, surviving, thriving. A constant struggle to fulfill desire up until the very end. And even then, after the end, came the rebirth.

A million and more generations of the world were written into the cells of that which was alive. Interwoven and interconnected, stretching on into the future beyond the ken of even Valarin eyes. Passing down knowledge in an infinite chain.

The living things would truly be a magnificent creations. And the Children would be their crowning achievement, the pinnacle of their wonder.

Never had Yavanna felt so small. Never had she felt so fulfilled.

She was but a single melody in a sea of intricate and vital puzzle pieces which, together, formed the greatest work that would ever Be until the End of Days.

Harmony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy spirits (pl)  
> ainu = holy spirit (s)  
> Valar = greater holy spirits (pl)  
> valië = female vala (s)


	393. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor is still not doing well by the time they reach the Havens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 17, 2016.
> 
> Following Give and Tear. Oddly enough, written from Egalmoth's POV. Yet another character that I will have to play with and develop, but you've got to start somewhere, eh? It should be noted that this has an OMC in it (Ilession) who is Erestor's older brother in this AU, and the both of them are Maglor's brats. Just a reminder.
> 
> Also, I made up names for the pair of them following the traditional ataressë pattern of the Fëanorioni.
> 
> Warnings: Severe depression. Suicidal behavior including starvation and sleep deprivation to the point of loss of mobility and awareness. Dissociation from reality. Fading by heartbreak. Bad coping methods. Crying is therapeutic and healthy.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Erestor = Mornafinwë  
> Ilession = Manafinwë = Mana

_“Keep him safe.”_

The last request of Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower rang in Egalmoth’s ears again and again, throbbing through his veins and leaving him shuddering. The look in those eyes, ringed in dark circles of exhaustion and filled with silent resignation, still haunted his thoughts. The acceptance of death hung like a shadow tainting the skies painted in the other warrior’s irises, for Glorfindel had gone into battle knowing he would not return from that fight alive.

He had gone into his final battle with the assurance that the one he loved above all others would be safe from harm. He had placed his trust in Egalmoth, had handed his lover bodily into the noldo’s arms, and had died with relief in his faint smile—just barely visible beneath the splatter of blood upon his battered face—and in his eyes, staring up at their twin, the sky, with the blankness of death.

Now, the Lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch knew not what to do.

 _“Keep him safe,”_ Glorfindel had begged. But how did one keep safe such a sad, shattered creature? How did one keep safe a spirit which longed to cease the pain of living on and instead pass into the realm of death?

For it was obvious that Erestor was lingering on the very doorstep of fading into oblivion. The poor thing wouldn’t sleep. The beauty’s dark eyes were deep-set and ringed in red, heavy bruise-like splotches resting beneath, and the natural pallor of his skin developed a gray and sickly hue that further blanched by the day. Not only was the constant state of exhaustion causing dizziness and unsteadiness of the feet, but the little sleep Egalmoth _did_ observe was restless, full of whimpering and crying and tossing and turning.

Furthermore, Erestor would only drink if water was held to his lips, and he would only eat if food was forcibly placed into his hands. Even then, more often than not, Egalmoth caught him giving his meager rations away. But he did not push the issue. Not after the first time Erestor had eaten a full meal and promptly vomited it back up again naught but a few minutes later.

Now, the dark-haired noldo could barely put one foot in front of the other. Once shiny hair was now lank and dull. Bright eyes were now flat and distant, staring off into space without truly seeing. Without guiding hands forcing him on, holding up half his weight and steering his body, Eglamoth was certain that the other elf would simply have sat down upon the very ground he stood upon and waited to pass on from his agony into the kindness offered by the separation of broken spirit from failing mortal cage.

Egalmoth could not let that happen. He had promised to keep Erestor safe.

“Just a little farther,” Egalmoth would murmur against the smaller elf’s delicate ear, urgently and with worry. “Just a little farther, my friend.”

And those eyes would look up at him, so horrified. Their dark mirror was split, cracks running over the once-pristine surface of those eyes, leaving them frighteningly broken. Yet, lips would part, but no sound would depart from that throat. No crying. No questions. No blaming. No sobbing. No tears.

Those eyes were dry. As if their sorrow was so great that they had no tears left to give which had not already been shed. Or perhaps the sorrow was so potent that the tears would never cease if they were allowed to begin to fall.

It was normal to cry for the death of a loved one. But Erestor _would not cry._

Egalmoth knew not what to do or say to help the heartbroken elf move on. He could do nothing to bring relief to this suffering being but stand aside and watch.

Eru, but he hated watching.

Still, he continued to trudge on, one arm around his stumbling and faltering charge, and prayed that there might be someone who could help when they reached the Havens. A healer. A miracle-worker. _Anyone._

Only a handful of days more of travel and they would reach the sea. And they would reach possible salvation.

Only a few more days.

“Just hold on a bit longer,” Egalmoth begged softly.

Glorfindel would never forgive his failure if he allowed Erestor to fall apart at the seams and fade away into nothing. More importantly, though, Egalmoth would never forgive himself should he fail in this task.

Failure was not an option. Still, the elf-lord’s heart was steeped in dread.

\---

By the time they reached the Havens, Egalmoth didn’t think Erestor had even a day left. He was wasting away swiftly. Body, mind and soul. 

Skinnier and skinnier, until the muscles of his warrior-hood were diminished into the skeletal shape of skin draped over naught but bone. Now, the slender elf could barely even keep down water, and no food at all would pass his lips without being purged soon thereafter. Still, Egalmoth did nothing to try and force down the food, for he knew that this wasting had nothing to do with physical wounds or fatigue and everything to do with the gaping hole in Erestor’s spirit that Glorfindel’s absence left behind. Eating would not improve this illness.

The problem was that Egalmoth was not sure what _would_ reach his traveling companion.

Egalmoth did not doubt that Erestor’s thoughts were dark with grief and filled with hopeless despair. The Lord of the Heavenly Arch had never mated, and he could scarcely imagine how many times the pain of the death of dear (and not-so-dear) friends need be compounded to reach the agony that clearly wracked his charge’s spirit at losing a closely bonded mate.

Such wounds could not be mended by any potion or herb, nor by the words of a friend or a guardian, nor by an excess of food and drink, nor by a strict regimen of sleep. There was nothing to be done if Erestor did not want to be saved. If the festering and metaphorical infected wound which cracked and radiated out through the younger elf’s spirit was not cleansed and the grief released, then it would continue to rot.

But Egalmoth knew not what could bring Erestor out of this fading trance. He just knew there was not much time left. Especially when Erestor’s legs wobbled and gave way less than a day from their destination, too deprived of energy to even hold their master aloft.

The elf-lord carried his charge the last handful of miles.

His time, Egalmoth suspected, was out.

Yet, shockingly, Erestor was still breathing the next morning. Bedded down in the healing houses, that trembling body was laid upon a proper bed with real sheets and quilts. It was all that could be done for him, the healers had said, to make him comfortable in his final hours.

Even covered by a sheet and two quilts, Erestor began to shiver. And his eyes drooped closed.

_Elves are not meant to feel the cold so acutely._

Egalmoth felt sick to his stomach as he called for more blankets. If he was going to fail Glorfindel so spectacularly, he was at least going to send Erestor back to his lover’s arms warm and well-tended with all the comforts there were left to offer. The former Lord of Gondolin took the other elf’s bony hand into his own, cradling it gently in the dip of his palm.

It was so very cold.

A knock on the door came a few minutes later. Egalmoth did not bother getting up to answer it, merely calling for their visitor—presumably with blankets in hand—to enter.

He turned to catch a glimpse of the incoming elf, but did a sharp double-take that left his neck twinging. At first, he had almost mistaken the newcomer for Fëanor in the flesh, and seeing Fëanor was reason enough for anyone to panic.

Alas, it was not to be. The elf was towering in height and crowned in midnight locks, and his face was sharply reminiscent of the fey visage that Egalmoth still sometimes recalled cast in flame in his darkest nightmares. Yet, as the other drew closer, he caught the stranger’s eyes and realized that they were blue. Just a shade grayer than the midday sky.

“It takes a while to become accustomed to,” the elf commented knowingly, having obviously caught the slight shock and panic which contorted Egalmoth’s face. “I go by Ilession.”

_Son of no-name. Well, that about sums up what this elf thinks of his ancestry._

There was no denying that there was some Fëanorion blood in this man’s line, but Egalmoth knew that there had been a few grandsons born into Fëanor’s line before the Darkening. Which one this was, he couldn’t rightly have said. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t be here amongst the refugees of Doriath and Nargothrond if he had been involved in the second slaying of kin.

Swallowing the distrust that welled automatically in his mind, Egalmoth inclined his head. “Egalmoth of the House of the Heavenly Arch.”

There was a blink of those blue eyes in acknowledgement, and then Ilession brought his precious cargo near. Four blankets rested in those arms, two quilts of soft sea-shore colors—blues and greens and stormy grays—and two woven blankets, heavy and soft. “Now, let us see about getting thy charge comforta—”

The moment Ilession laid eyes upon Erestor, Egalmoth knew the Fëanorion knew Erestor’s true identity. King Turgon had known, but had never felt it necessary to share with even the other Lords of Gondolin. If the young and beautiful elf had been a deserter of the Fëanorioni and their forces, it was no wonder that Turgon had kept his lips sealed.

Still, such shock and horror in those eyes on the face of a demon. Ilession must know Erestor personally to be so stricken.

Indeed, the tall elf quickly set his bundle down at the end of the bed and sat at the bedside of the ill and wilting Erestor, reaching out with a trembling hand to brush back the sweaty and dull locks which framed Erestor’s now-gaunt and sickly-pale face. “Mornafinwë?” the elf called softly. “Hanno?”

_Brother? But that means… Erestor is—!_

And, shockingly, Erestor responded to that voice. For days now, Egalmoth’s calls and pleas had fallen upon deaf ears, for his charge had been too lost in his trance of lax despair and wistful longing to respond to any verbal stimulus. Yet, the dark-haired beauty shifted faintly at the call of his name, head turning and tilting upwards as if by great effort, leaning faintly with yearning in the direction of that voice.

“Mana?”

“Aiya Ilúvatar!” Ilession cried softly, reaching out to cradle Erestor’s face in the cup of his palms as though his face were the most precious of treasures. “I thought thou wert with Atar and the others. How in the name of the Valar didst thou come to be here in such a state? Thou art skin and bone!”

Blearily, those eyes opened. The darkest of grays peered from between long lashes, glazed and seeking as they went.

For the first time since Erestor stopped eating all those weeks ago, Egalmoth felt his breath catch as the wicked and cruel sparks of hope ignited in his chest, burning upwards into the tightness of his throat. For Erestor was speaking. He was moving and responding.

“Mana,” the younger elf called again, voice hoarse and shaky but slightly louder than before. “Mana… Thou didst leave. Thou didst… leave me… Art thou really… here…?”

“Aye, I am here.” Ilession seemed physically pained by the sight of Erestor in such disrepair and decay. “Aye, I am here, pitya. And thou art safe. Open thy eyes all the way and look at me, wouldst thou?”

There was a soft groan of protest, as though the thought of opening his eyes fully were too powerful a struggle for Erestor’s fragile mind and body to bear. And yet, it was almost as if color sprang into his flesh where Ilession touched, radiating out and bringing forth healthier shade of pink stain to sallow cheeks. As if the vehement and blinding light of the spirit blazing beneath the strange elf’s skin were illuminating the darkness which had consumed Erestor’s world whole and left him blind to all else but pain.

As if he were leading Erestor back from death’s door.

“There we are,” Ilession praised as those eyes finally opened and _focused_. “Look at me.”

Single-handedly, Erestor seemed to be pulled back from the brink. Egalmoth watched with his lips parted and his eyes wide, too shocked to think of what to say to the brothers or to be horrified at Erestor’s identity or indeed to feel anything other than relief.

Pure relief.

For those dark eyes looked upon a familiar face—a beloved face—and they blurred and shone with star-like brilliance. Little crystalline tears gathered upon long lashes and at the corners of dark eyes, threatening to spill over the edge if given even the slightest hint of provocation.

“Thou art here,” Erestor whispered. “Really here.”

“Aye.” Ilession smiled, something genuine and pure and filled with such light that Egalmoth had not the heart to think of holding his dark past against him. “Aye, pitya, I am here with thee.”

Especially when Erestor began to cry. First a few tears streaking downwards and the soft gasping sound to match the shaking of shoulders. And then a hiccupping sob. And another. And another as the small elf pushed himself upwards upon impossibly slender arms and leaned himself against his brother’s chest, tucking his face up into the welcoming crook of shoulder and neck like a distraught child seeking a safe haven against the harsh reality of the world.

Erestor had not cried since they had buried Glorfindel. All that grief and all that pain and all that misery had been clogged up inside the empty abyss where Glorfindel once had been a beacon doing battle against the ravenous blackness. But now all that negative emotion spewed forth, messy and wet and loud and heartbreaking, like pus drained from an infected wound.

And Egalmoth suddenly got to his feet despite feeling tired down to his very bones. Neither of the others even realized he had moved, so caught up in each other were they. But that was, perhaps, for the best.

It was not his place to stay. And so he left, closing the door softly in his wake.

He leaned back against the wood, the back of his head resting against the hard surface. Pressing his eyes closed, he sighed. And it was like exhaling ash and dust from his lungs before taking in the heady coolness of fresh air down his raw throat.

 _Thank Eru_ , he could not help but think, once again seeing the resignation and the trust that had alighted Glorfindel’s eyes in those final minutes.

Perhaps his efforts had been just enough. Had kept Erestor tethered to his plane _just long enough._ Perhaps he had not utterly failed in his final assignment as a Lord and protector of the people of Gondolin.

Perhaps everything would be well after all.

_Thank Eru…_

At least now there was a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> ataressë = father-name  
> noldo = deep-elf (s)  
> Hanno = Brother  
> Atar = Father  
> Mornafinwë = dark/somber/black Finwë (reference to Erestor coloration and eyes)  
> Manafinwë = blessed Finwë  
> Aiya = exclamation similar to "Oh"  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> pitya = little (one)
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor (s)  
> Fëanorioni = Sons of Fëanor (pl)


	394. Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron is not above using seduction—all types of seduction—to entice his prey into his waiting trap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 18, 2016.
> 
> I was contemplating Nazgûl, particularly the ones who had once been Númenóreans. This is just me playing with the idea of how one might have been "convinced" to take a Ring of Power. I have no idea which one (could be the Witchking or maybe a different one) and I've left him unnamed throughout for the time being. Maybe I'll think up names for them later if this goes anywhere.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of human sacrifice, including virgin sacrifice and burning people alive. Mainly, though, this has sex in it. Not a complete sex scene. But the sex is there at the end.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Tar-Mairon

_“I can give thee the power thou dost crave. Power greater than that of kings.”_

As a Lord and general of the military and naval giant that was Númenor, he was used to luxury and power. There was no shortage of gold in his coffers of no shortage of lovers willing to warm his bed. His home was vast and decadent with all the amenities that he could ever conceive of or desire, and he had a fleet of his own ships that sailed under his command, alighted with the emblem of his household.

He also had the ear of the King. Though he was not what one would call a _friend_ of Ar-Pharazôn—because the King did not have nor need friends in the traditional sense—he was certainly high enough up in the hierarchy of the Court of the King to sit amongst the King’s advisors and priests and other great military men, to have his voice heard on matters of importance. Short of sitting upon the throne in his own right, it was difficult to reach greater heights of power still than he had already accomplished.

And yet, this beautiful and utterly seductive creature curled up in the silken sheets of his vast bed was murmuring treacherous and tantalizing promises into his ear.

 _“I can give thee power such that thou dost stand above and beyond all mortal Men. I can make thee_ truly _immortal.”_

He could not help but tangle his aging hand in the youthful, shining golden curls of Tar-Mairon’s hair. Could not help but trace his fingers over the unmarred pale skin of that slender, naked body. Into the dip of the beauty’s side and up over the swell of his flank. Over skin so pristine and so untouched by the rigors and cruelty of time.

Eyes the color of aquamarine stones peeked out from between burnished golden lashes, watching him with the sated, lazy elegance of a feline which had just gotten its full of a bowl of warm cream. Though he must have appeared downright ugly to such a strange and alien being of perfection, what with the wrinkles that were beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes and the gray that was staining his dark hair, there was no disgust at all in that gaze. Instead, Tar-Mairon stretched and almost purred, leaning into the feigned tenderness of the moment, unbothered by the distasteful state of his own bed-partner.

“Immortality?” the Númenórean lord asked, both curious and perhaps a touch alarmed. “Is that not what we seek with our rituals and sacrifices burned in our great temple to the Giver of Freedom?”

Those eyes blinked at him, and there was no shame in their clear depths as the beautiful Tar-Mairon, still naked and glistening with sweat from exertion, arched into sitting position. Instead, the statuesque beauty laughed, and it was the sweetest laughter he had ever heard. More beautiful than music with a purer pitch than the finest of bells.

“Do not be naïve,” the angelic being scolded lightly. “Slaughtering virgins. Burning traitors. Thou dost seek the favor of a power greater than thyself with such heady sacrifice, and thou art prepared to prostrate at its feet and beg to receive its gifts. Melkor has the power to give a form of immortality upon mortal creatures—indeed, he has done it before in ancient times, and he might be convinced to do so again—but whether he will receive thy arrogant King and thy arrogant people is no business of mine.”

Such words were downright traitorous, suggesting that, perhaps, they had been deceived by a cunning lie of omission. Slowly, he sat himself up, watching as Tar-Mairon combed out his golden locks with long-fingered, graceful hands, and then swiftly began to braid the locks into a long tail.

What to do when your ideology was threatened? What to say when you suspected something as dangerous as treachery?

“Why wouldst thou tell me this?” he questioned, feeling his heart pounding in the back of his throat. “Thou knowest that I am bound to tell my regent of thy lies and falsities, so why wouldst thou say such a thing?”

Those eyes looked back at him—back _into_ him—and he shuddered at the veins of fire breaking through the veneer of a glistening ocean’s surface.

“Does thy loyalty extend so far that thou wouldst throw away such a golden opportunity for the sake of a King who would sacrifice thy life in a moment to immortalize his own?” Tar-Mairon tossed the long braid of shining hair over one shoulder and crouched down, crawling over the sheets like a stalking predator until his naked body was poised atop the Númenórean’s. Until those eyes were mere inches away and those tempting lips and their cruel smirk were so close he could almost taste their exotic flavor.

He tried to push away the sudden haze of lust. He tried to _think._

It was a generous offer. One so tempting that he truly considered risking his position in Court—risking treason, punishable by burning at the stake—in favor of taking the opportunity to insure his own grasp on the sweet fruit of immortality.

Was it worth risking death at the hands of his King? Was it worth risking his life on the possibility of a lie?

“I should turn thee in,” he said softly, hazily, as if caught in a dream. “I should happily watch thee burn in pyres of thy own making, thou fiend.”

“And wilt thou?”

He looked into those eyes, still watching him with distant curiosity. So beautiful they were, and so wicked and deadly as well. And he said, “What must I do to accomplish true immortality, then, which the rest of my brethren had not yet tried?”

Those lips, which had been parted faintly, now curled into a satisfied smile. Tar-Mairon leaned down and kissed him gently, chastely, before pulling away. “Little needs to be done,” the golden creature told him as one of those graceful hands reached for the discarded clothing upon the richly tiled floor and pulled something from the folds of black silk. “I have a gift for thee, my dear. A gift beyond anything I have given any other.”

It was a ring. At first, he did not know what to think.

Golden as Tar-Mairon’s mane and set with a crimson stone, a cabochon lustrous and polished, it was a lovely piece. If he had seen it at the market, he would have thought it simplistic, though the talent which had wrought its beauty was plain in the high quality of its make. Still, nothing particularly special. Not spectacular or fantastic or even kingly.

Except…

Except there was something just so strangely entrancing about it. About the stone, the color of freshly-spilt blood. About the shimmer of late sunlight upon the band, tracing the metalwork with shining fingers. About the strange heaviness that rested upon the air in its vicinity, viscous and filled with the metallic taste of something otherworldly.

He reached out, captured by the sudden and inexplicable beauty of that strange little thing. And his fingers brushed against the metal, heated by the warmth of Tar-Mairon’s flesh.

_“Thou wilt be great. Greater than Ar-Pharazôn. Greater than Tar-Mairon.”_

And he realized that it had never been the golden being speaking. All this time, it had been this seemingly insignificant ring. Whispering. Tempting. _Promising._

“Place it upon thy hand,” he was ordered by that musical voice.

And he obeyed.

It was like being filled with light. It was like having the nectar of the gods poured through his veins, molten hot gold but not so scalding and deadly. It send energy streaming to every extremity, pouring into his muscles and into his bones. Taking away the ache of aging tendons and ligaments, beating back the strain of weakening organs, leaving him feeling so very _young._ Each breath filled him to the brink with the vibrating bliss of the newfound strength of a man in his prime. Strength that he had not felt for _so long._

This was power. 

He understood then, as he leapt to his feet and moved to look upon his gift in the light streaming through his airy balcony, that he was suddenly something _beyond humanity_. Whatever enchantment this ring carried, it poured into the well of his body something strange and made of fire, as though the sun were suddenly swimming beneath his skin and unraveling all the destruction dealt by time. Shocked and enthralled, he spun to face Tar-Mairon, who was still kneeling upon his bed, watching and quiet. Burning with the same fiery light, the same mysterious heat.

_“Thou dost stand now as a God amongst Men.”_

And he licked his lips, suddenly feeling the vigor of a man fifty years younger. Three quick strides carried him back to his bed, and he pressed his current lover down into the sheets, stealing the smirk off the petal-soft pink lips even as he thrust open thighs to take his place between their softness. The golden beauty managed only a gasp into his mouth as he connected their bodies once more.

He pulled away, panting faintly, and looked down at the arch of alabaster flesh and flexing muscle. Tar-Mairon was looking back, eyes half-hooded and lips glistening. And he briefly imagined this uncontrollable, untamable fiend at his feet in chains. His slave to do with as he pleased. And he, the King, the Lord of all he dared conquer. Unstoppable and invincible.

_A God amongst Men._

“This is a dangerous game thou dost play,” he growled.

“That we both play,” his golden lover agreed breathlessly, head lolling back to bare that slender throat in a show of submission. “Now fuck me, my dear. Seal our alliance.”

And he could do naught but oblige. Leaning over that beautiful body glowing white and fiery in the dying light, he pressed their faces cheek-to-cheek and rolled his hips deeply into the cradle of his lover’s thighs. The broken moan of pleasured agony that echoed in his ears brought a dark smile to his lips where they rested, pressed against the shell of a delicately pointed ear.

Playfully, he nipped at the pointed tip and felt the body beneath his own shudder.

“With pleasure.”


	395. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't happen overnight. And, sometimes, it requires a bit more than sheer stubbornness to be successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 19, 2016.
> 
> Hurt/comfort angst and fluff. Basically about sums this up. It's my headcanon that Ecthelion, after drowning in the fountain, has something of an aversion to water. Because who the hell wouldn't? This plays off both that and the established backstory from Friendship. Also--just so this piece isn't misinterpreted--no, there is no romance whatsoever between Ecthelion and Glorfindel. Just close friendship.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions drowning (semi-explicit description). And killing Balrogs. Has aquaphobia, obviously.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion = Ehtelë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil = Laurë

_This is ridiculous._

That was all Ehtelion could think as he stared down at the gentle waves washing up upon the white-sanded shore.

The water did not quite reach his toes as it rocked upwards, hissing softly and sending a spray of cool droplets over bare flesh, before retreating gently back into the writhing depths. It left behind a line of dampened sand just shy of his feet, an abstract barrier which was shaped and reshaped with each new breath the ocean took. Again and again and again, reaching and pulling back. Reaching and pulling back.

Most would have considered this sight, this sound, to be soothing. Peaceful, even. The rhythmic moan of the tide, alike to the softest of chanting upon the wind. The breeze that smelled of fresh, sea-stricken air sucked into gasping lungs. The motion like the caress of a hand upon the bare skin of the shoreline, so very soft and reverent. So intimate.

It crept forward, tickling the tips of his toes with its softness.

Ehtelion had to lock his legs to keep from leaping backwards like a frightened feline.

The whole thing was irrational. Completely irrational. There was no need to fear this water. No need for his blood to rush through his veins in a fiery tide of terror, or for his heart to throb heavily against his ribs as though trying to beat its way out of its fleshy prison. Just looking into the perfectly clear liquid, Ehtelion felt his whole right arm ache, the joints feeling swollen and stiff and the muscles seizing with phantom agony. Everything felt heavy and stifling hot, as though his perfectly clean skin were slicked down with a layer of molten sweat and shiny crimson burns, cooked beneath the ravages of the super-heated weight of his own armor. Protection turned to deadly weakness.

His breath caught as he stared into the sea, choking on the cool air in the back of his throat. He couldn’t breathe. _He couldn’t breathe!_

Turning, he fled the beach. Not even his innate stubbornness and iron-forged pride was enough to make him slow from a sprint to a walk. Until his feet left the warm sand and touched the feathery softness of the grass, he did not slow. Until he fell under the shadow of the trees, their leaves whispering and dancing overhead in a soothing harmony of the earth’s eternal stability, he could not even stop.

Out of view of the sea, too far away to hear the cry of gulls or the gasping rise and fall of the waves, he stopped. Panting and covered in the cold sweat of primal fear, he stood silently.

And his cracked pride smarted fiercely.

 _This is pathetic._ The warrior who had single-handedly defeated three demons of the ancient world now buried his face in his hands. _It is just a little water. Just a little_ completely harmless _water…_

He could bathe just fine, for that water was too shallow to even conceive of falling under, but he couldn’t put even a toe into a body of water deep enough that he would, eventually, be incapable of touching the bottom.

_Deep enough to drown in._

Viciously, he scrubbed his hands against his face and sighed to expel the panic from his body, trying to ignore the frustrated sting that took up residence at the corners of his eyes. Songs were sung about his bravery in battle. Fire he had faced without quelling. Valaraucar, he had fought without hesitation. And now he was defeated by a few sprinkles of sea-water on his toes.

 _Maybe tomorrow_ , his mind whispered. _I shall try again tomorrow._

\---

Tomorrow was no different.

\---

Nor was the day after.

\---

“I have heard that thou hast been visiting the beach often, meldonya,” Turukáno mentioned over dinner—a small gathering between Ehtelion, his dear cousin, and his cousin’s beautiful wife—a little over a fortnight later. “I never knew that thou wert so enamored with the sea.”

At those words, Ehtelion pursed his lips so tightly they blanched to white. Though he was nowhere near the ocean or its trillions of gallons of water, he still felt the shiver of fear creeping up his spine like the spindly legs of a poisonous spider. So swiftly and easily did his mind betray him, recalling _other water…_

“I would not quite say _enamored…”_

No, not enamored at all. 

In fact, the very thought of it made his belly roil and turn with upset and revulsion. Not to mention the nausea. He remembered swallowing water until he thought he might burst, desperately trying to keep it from flowing into his lungs. And he remembered also the gagging feeling of trying to vomit up all that dirt and liquid and being unable. Of having no more room left to swallow and feeling the ripping, burning agony of having water rush into his lungs and fill and fill and fill as he helplessly writhed and sputtered.

Ehtelion tried to push the memory away. It was not something he wanted to think about. Not ever. He had hoped his strange aversion would diminish with time and exposure to the dreaded water, but…

But he still couldn’t put forth so much as a foot into the ocean. After _a fortnight._

A shrewd look appeared upon the faces of Turukáno and Elenwë. They had both known him for so long—since they had all been children—that he couldn’t hope to hide his fear or his frustration or his helpless fury from them, not beneath the stony façade of indifference cultivated by years of service as a warrior and Lord of Ondolindë. They could see right through him with ease, his defenses naught but a diaphanous veil through whence the truth of his state was laid painfully raw and bare to their gaze.

“Thou shouldst not push thyself too hard,” Elenwë softly commented, her big sapphire eyes alight with concern and a hint of pity. “It is not healthy to torment thyself in such a way.”

Ehtelion didn’t want comfort. Or pity. His anger flashed and crackled like a bolt of lightning from out of the blue.

“What _should_ I do then?” he snapped, arms crossing before his chest in a manner reminiscent of a petulant child. “It is utterly _shameful_ that I _still_ cannot set even a _foot_ in a thrice-be-damned body of completely innocuous water! I was a Lord of Ondolindë! I fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad! I have slain _Valaraucar!_ Yet here I stand, defeated by some calm ocean waves on the golden shores of Valinórë…”

He took a shattered breath, meaning to continue, only to halt at the sharp look in Turukáno’s eyes and the stricken pain in Elenwë’s. And, suddenly, the anger that had been curdling in his belly turned to sharp stabs of shame.

Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me,” he muttered, voice faint and hoarse. “I did not mean to be rude to thee, Elenwë. It was… out of line.”

The silence between them grew long and uncomfortable. Ehtelion was tempted to excuse himself from the table if only to avoid openly displaying the faint red tinge that spread across his cheeks and down his neck. He might have, in fact, except that he felt the touch of fingertips against his wrist, just brushing in soothing little strokes.

“We know that thou art frustrated.” It was Elenwë. He lowered his hand, looking at her gorgeous face from beneath the shield of his thick eyelashes and furrowed brows.

“That is no excuse.”

“It is not,” Turukáno agreed. “We are simply concerned for thee.”

Elenwë’s head bobbed in agreement, her rich golden curls dancing about her shoulders. “Relax a bit. Recovery is a slow process. One small step at a time. There is no rush.”

Though he wanted to argue—to explain that he would not mind taking his time but it had been _two weeks with no improvement_ and that was simply _unacceptable_ —Ehtelion bit his tongue and tried to force a smile onto his face for Elenwë’s sake. It was hard to stay angry in the face of such a well-meaning sweetheart of a woman.

“I suppose…” It came out as an apologetic mumble.

The hand on his wrist gave two soft pats. An attempt at being consoling and supportive, he guessed. It did not have the desired effect, but her support was still appreciated.

“Next time, maybe thou shouldst bring Turukáno or Laurefindil with. Some friendly support might help,” she further suggested, still wearing that bright smile that made her glow brighter than Anar.

Sheepishly, he managed a small nod of assent. Of course, the very last thing he wanted to do was subject himself to the humiliation of having either one of his closest and most respected friends—his brothers in all but blood—watch him flinch and cringe at the sight of a serene afternoon on the beach or flee in terror from the tranquil waves riding up on the shore. He did not believe either one would truly judge him harshly for his fear, not when they both knew that he was more than justified in despising the water, but…

_I should be strong enough to overcome this on my own. Am I or am I not one of the most prolific warriors of the First Age?_

“I shall consider thy suggestion,” is what he said.

But _“I would rather die again than be seen in such a state”_ was what he really meant.

\---

He tried again the next day. And the next. And the next. 

The results were no better.

\---

A fortnight later found him still standing at the very edge of the darkened stain of damp sand, the outline of the lapping water mere centimeters from the tips of his toes. He had stood in this very position every day for an entire month now…

And still, he could not bear to take that step forward.

“Elenwë mentioned thou wouldst be here.”

The sound of a voice right behind him startled the warrior so badly that it very nearly sent Ehtelion hurtling forward straight into the oncoming wave. Instead, his back went ramrod straight, every muscles tensing in preparation for an attack. The reflex was ingrained, the actions of a warrior who was never quite _unprepared_ to face unexpected battle.

But he recognized the voice, and he forced his body to calm and relax. Stiffly, he turned to look at his unwelcome visitor.

Laurefindil.

Golden-haired and blue-eyed, the vanya looked like a being made purely from the sun’s light woven into corporeality. All glorious resplendence and the open sky. A beautiful face with a smile that would make most maidens swoon. There was no doubt that this man was the very epitome of the fairest clan of the elves.

“I was not expecting company,” Ehtelion commented, trying his very best to stop the oncoming wave of annoyance and embarrassment already beating down the back door to his thoughts.

“I gathered.” Laurefindil moved to stand beside him, just shy of the water which reached the full length of its inland journey before slowly sloshing back out towards the ocean.

Ehtelion shuddered just looking at it.

“Does it really bother thee so much?” Laurefindil asked softly, his eyes easily catching the faint movement. “There is no need to push thyself so hard if thy fear really is so terrible. Believe me, I understand.”

That, Ehtelion did not doubt. What exactly Laurefindil feared, he wasn’t quite certain. Maybe heights. Or maybe fire. Or maybe something else entirely. But if anyone had the same propensity for horrifying nightmares and paralyzing phobias, it would probably be this man who had faced down the same wicked evil and died in the process. And Ehtelion wouldn’t have thought any less of him for being stricken with fear in the wake of such horror.

After all, Laurefindil had sacrificed his life to save those fleeing Ondolindë, just as the rest of the valiant fallen had. There was honor in such a deed. And no shame in being traumatized by the battle that had taken his life. It was a common problem amongst warriors to have night terrors, reliving such dreadful moments.

Ehtelion, however, was not afraid of battle, nor traumatized by facing down a demon from the pits of darkness.

It was just the water. _Just the water._

“Such a simple thing,” he commented softly. “I know that it will not hurt. I know that it will not swallow me whole or carry me out to sea and pull me under with hidden, grasping hands. Yet, my mind just will not…” He made a rude sound of disgust. “What is wrong with me?”

A hand touched his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Nothing at all, of course.”

“Right… nothing…”

“But if it bothers thee so much, let me assist.” Before Ehtelion could even turn and ask the question resting upon the tip of his tongue—in what manner was Laurefindil planning to _assist_ him in overcoming this inane fear?—two hands had already wrapped themselves around his forearms and pulled him forth. Straight into the path of an oncoming swell.

For the first time since arriving in Valinórë, Ehtelion felt the waves rush up over the top of his feet in a cold, sleek slide. Foam swirled about his ankles and wet sand seeped into the space between his toes. Perfectly harmless and infinitely gentle.

But his whole body went rigid, breath catching in the back of his throat. One blink. And another. He tried not to see the sight of deep blue from beneath the surface. Tried not to see the shades of red and black dancing overhead, cut through with a beam of blindingly garish and mocking sunlight just beyond reach. Tried not to feel that same coolness in his mouth and throat and stomach and lungs and…

“Ehtelë?” a familiar voice called gently. “Aiya, Ehtelë. Look into my eyes.”

He blinked again. Familiar eyes swam into focus, several shades darker than the memory of water. Instead, they were the color of the sky just as Anar disappeared beneath the horizon, caught somewhere between midnight and the pale sky mixed with golden and scarlet watercolor. “Laurë?”

“Aye,” the vanya affirmed, grinning in that sunny, charming way that made it difficult to be angry or even irritated at such an abrupt and presumptuous move. By rights, Ehtelion should have been snarling and growling with indignation, the very picture of his sharp-tempered and irascible Noldorin bloodline, but he knew that Laurefindil meant no harm with this deed. There was no malice in that gaze.

Besides, he thought he might turn tail and run if he dared look away. Especially when the next wave washed up over his feet. Ehtelion winced.

The sympathetic look Laurefindil had in those eyes made him feel… uncomfortable.

“I suppose I am not used to needing help,” he admitted.

“That could not have been more obvious,” his friend commented, casually moving a handful of steps backwards. “But do try to remember exactly who it was that got both myself and Turukáno through Helcaraxë in one piece. The least I can do is return the favor as any good friend should.” _As any good brother should._

Ethelion almost failed to notice the next wave slicing up around his ankles, licking at his lower calves. He still shivered, but it was not so terrible an experience when he was distracted by his feigned glaring and griping at the sunny visage of his sworn brother.

“Not so bad, is it?” The vanya took them two more steps back, and the water was halfway up their calves now. “Slow steps.”

They were in water of a depth comparable to that of a bath. One more step and Ehtelion was standing in the deepest water he’d been in since…

His sudden disquiet must have shown on his face, for Laurefindil did not take them any farther out. Instead, the vanya began to move them back towards the shoreline, his hands never leaving their place wrapped gently but firmly about Ehtelion’s wrists. “Perhaps thou hast had enough water for one day.”

A sigh of relief escaped Ehtelion without permission as soon as his feet were officially back on dry land.

At the obvious display, Laurefindil chuckled faintly. “Maybe thou canst try again tomorrow. Same place?” the vanya suggested.

“Aye, I can agree to that,” the dark-haired warrior managed, still feeling a bit frazzled from the sudden and bold expedition. And also a bit dizzy from the shock and the transparent flashes of memory overlaying his eyes. But otherwise, not too terrible. Not stricken with blind panic, at the very least. “If it is no trouble to thee, I would like some company.”

“No trouble at all,” Laurefindil assured, grinning.

And Ehtelion found himself returning the gesture. And not even half-heartedly. 

Though the very thought of putting his feet back in the water still carried the rotten and slimy feeling of dread, it was in part assuaged by Laurefindil’s presence. And, though he was not used to taking comfort in the support of others, Ehtelion was still wordlessly grateful in ways he knew not how to express.

“We shall take a couple more steps out each time. Nice and slow,” the vanya suggested.

“Aye,” Ehtelion agreed. “That sounds perfect.”

_Nice and slow._

Recovery would come. One step at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Valaraucar = Balrogs (pl)  
> meldonya = my friend (meldo + nya)  
> Ondolindë = Gondolin (lit. The Rock of the Music of Water)  
> Anar = the Sun  
> vanya = fair elf (s)  
> Aiya = approx. Oh!


	396. Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron contemplating the many necessity of Power and its usefulness to his cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 20, 2016.
> 
> Basically, this plays off my recent obsession with the Rings of Power. I blame the fact that I'm rereading LotR yet again. Anyway, one could call this their earliest conception. This is Sauron in evil plotting mode deciding how he's going to ultimately achieve his goal of world domination and reshape all of existence.
> 
> Warnings: Talk of war and enslavement as well as fiddling with souls. Other than that, a lot less blood, gore and sex than is usually seen in Sauron-centric pieces.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Morgoth = Melkor
> 
> Final note: Obviously, I did not come up with the inscription on the One Ring. Just throwing that out there.

The greatest weakness of mortal and immortal beings alike had always been Power.

Mairon was well aware that even he, a being of fire created before time had even begun, a being beyond the bindings and trappings of mere mortals, was not immune to this truth. While his primary motivations had little to do with the actual wielding of power for its own sake—he had been born with all the Power in his being that he needed for the endeavors that clawed and yowled at the chambers of his inner heart—the maintenance of such was a necessary component in the fruition of his true goals. 

After all, it was not so very easy to force his will upon the world unless the world was already prostrate at his feet, subjugated beneath his might. In the First Age he had tasted the meddlesome stubbornness that could be attributed to certain notable members of both the races of Elves and Men, and he would not deliberately underestimate their strength as his former Master had so often done. No, he needed something better than what Melkor had mustered, alliances built on more than the flimsy false promises of lying and traitorous silver tongues.

He needed servants under his command. Servants who, in their own right, could bring thousands into submission and force their cooperation to align with the will of their ultimate Master. And, to this end, he would need Power.

Thus, it was a necessity. A rather attractive and seductive necessity. But one to be handled with great caution and attention.

But how to use his guile and cunning to achieve his ends…

Mairon was well aware that all the tens of thousands of orcs in his hoards would break like water against stone upon the shields of the armies of the High King of the Noldor and upon the bows of the great Númenórean naval fleets. Strength of arms were not in his favor. When this realization first dawned upon the Dark Lord, holed away upon his dark throne in his sky-piercing dark tower, he first began to plot.

He needed to bend the wills of lesser beings to his own. He needed to steal away armies of elves and men and dwarves, take them for his own and force them to march at his bidding beneath his banners and his orders. He needed to devise a way to make this happen without strength of arms and pure force of destruction. He needed the process to be so subtle that his prey was ensnared already before it ever had a chance to struggle within the silken threads of his web.

He needed a source of temptation. And what material thing tempted all beings alike more than trinkets of great beauty made from precious metal? 

All alike, these simple-minded mortals were, in their pursuit of wealth and treasure. Pretty baubles and colorful gemstones, symbols of all that these lesser beings craved. Jewelry would play well to the vanity of the arrogant. And who better to make such trinkets than the Dark Lord himself? 

If there was anything Mairon excelled at, it was craftsmanship of all things metal—the creation of great and unfathomable beauty—and the destruction of all that stood in the way of this genesis.

And if there was one universal truth, it was that Power corrupts even the strongest of mind and purest of heart in the end. To his advantage.

In the ancient days before the reckoning of even the Valar truly began, it was not uncommon at all to imbue all manner of finery and trinkets with enchantments and spells for purposes both cosmetic and practical. The Ainur were creatures of pure energy, their essence bound to the world but also at the beck and call of their own desires, and they understood better than any other being the matters of the metaphysical world. Phenomena beyond the corporeal body were their specialty, one might say. Bodies were fragile and breakable. It was the mind and the soul which had the true power over the actions and reactions of mortal creatures.

It came to Mairon then that he might _tempt_ some allies into binding themselves to his own being. No mortal will would ever stand even the faintest chance at rivaling his own, and he would be capable of crushing them with ease, bringing them under his influence. All too easy would it be to seep into the minds of the Eruhíni, to whisper silently through their thoughts like a poisonous fog of lust and envy, of greed and desire, and turn their hearts to evil in the name of sating their whims and their overpowering need for dominance.

And he knew just how to do the tempting.

Rings.

These simple and elegant little bits of metal had always been symbols of power. The prestige of a noble house could be represented by its insignia carved into the precious metal of a band upon the finger of their paterfamilias. The superiority of a noble over his peasant brethren could all too easily be represented in the display of vibrant jewels and fine craftsmanship over the rabble and riffraff tainting the poverty-stricken dregs of society.

And they were binding. Bands of duty. Bands of marriage. Oaths that were not so easily forsaken at the first sign of suffering or malcontent. Oaths not so easily forgiven by the fabric of the universe when broken.

The maia envisioned suddenly having these servants at his beck and call. Perhaps great warriors of elves who would turn upon their High King and vow themselves and their followers into his service for eternity. Perhaps great lords or chieftains of men, tantalized into accepting his alliance with the promise of great influence and great wealth, would flock to his side and aid against the overpowering might of Númenor.

Perhaps, he thought, even some of the Númenóreans might fall from grace and be swayed to his side. And would that not be so very delicious, to see those disgusting mariners tear one another apart like rabid animals? To see them destroying their culture and race from the inside out like ravenous, mad beasts gnawing at their own rotting flesh?

All he had to do was offer Power. There was no need to mention the price that would be demanded in turn.

In fact, he thought to himself, such an offer would be accepted with far more grace and far less suspicion coming from a beloved friend rather than a despised enemy. Bringing foes under his influence while he stood as the Dark Lord would add an extra and unnecessary layer of difficulty to his seduction, for they would distrust first his intentions rather than accept his promises. But, from a seemingly well-intentioned source, tried and tested true in intent to fight against evil, they might accept _gifts_ to fortify their strength against the oncoming onslaught of Darkness. Without ever knowing with whom it was they bargained, these foolish lesser beings might fall directly into the palms of his hand to be imprisoned in the iron grip of his cruel and torturous fingers.

Rare was it in the past that Mairon had used the beauty of his body to trick fools into believing he was harmless, for all in the War of Wrath knew his name and visage upon sight, knew that he was chiefly a creature of sadistic glee and ruthless malice. Still, few had ever seen him in the raiment of the ancient days, a paler and less molten gold more akin to fields of wheat than melted metal and with eyes that carried the blue of the sunless and moonless sky dappled with starlight rather than the iridescent and demonic glow of the bowels of the earth. If he could say so himself without sounding excessively vain and conceited, he had been a rather beautiful creature then, whose only ugliness was the lack of amiable friendliness in his innate nature.

Such a creature would look divine to Men and to Dwarves, like an angel or a god descended to the mortal plane. Such a creature would seem like a dream stepped straight from the pearly sands and evergreen pastures of the Undying Lands to the Elves, desperate for aid from their negligent deities. A welcoming and benevolent spirit sent by the grace of the Valar to guide them in their quest to destroy the last great evil plaguing Middle-earth.

A smirk formed upon perfect, petal-soft lips, showcasing only the barest hint of fang beneath. To an outsider, the Dark Lord’s face would have been glorious in that moment. But his eyes were scarlet and opalescent, the twining of many colors into something that would have sent shudders down the spines of even the most hardened souls.

For he imagined in his mind’s eye a single circlet of gold. A trifling thing in appearance at first, simple and pure of the unnecessary frivolity and decadence that so epitomized the insecurity of lesser beings, but lined with elegant script written in his own sprawling hand.

 _One Ring to rule them all_ , he thought as he twirled the pleasant image about in the back of his mind. As he imagined it upon his own finger. _One Ring to find them._

The ultimate symbol of his Power. The instrument which would allow him success.

_One Ring to bring them all…_

And he would have the world at its knees.

Yes, what a lovely thought.

_And, in the Darkness, bind them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Noldor = deep elves (pl)  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru (pl)


	397. Delicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron enjoys seeing the terrible things his hands have created. And destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 21, 2016.
> 
> Once again, a Númenor piece. This one is sort of based off of a reference in yesterday's piece, Power. It's pretty much related to all of Sauron's Númenor escapades as well.
> 
> Warnings: Torture, semi-explicit (that is, blood and gore is described but not in excruciating detail), for both interrogation and sport. Sadism. Someone gets burned alive as well. Thou hast been warned.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon

There was little in the world that Mairon loved more than seeing his plans end in success.

That is to say, it was a rather natural thing for creatures to enjoy the world turning in their favor. However, most had agendas less malevolent than those of the Dark Lord, and they would have been more disgusted than anything else at the direction that the world—at the beck and call of his meddling and whispering—had taken. Most, indeed, would probably have been horrified to see what such plans had wrought, how they had blossomed into blood-soaked and black-edged blooms with rotting tongues for petals and iron thorns upon their stems.

For his part, though, Mairon found the sight before him invigorating.

After all, long years of masquerading in the guise of something pure and beautiful, something of nameless but unquantifiable and mysterious evil, were upon the verge of shattering entirely to reveal the monster that lurked beneath. So much time had been spent courting and seducing, dancing delicately upon the edge of a knife as he wriggled and wormed his way into the trust of King and noblemen alike, that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be so free and unbound. While there was a certain pleasure to playing psychological games with his prey, Mairon had missed his other passions.

He had so missed the sound of screams. The symphony of torment wrought beneath his hands. The sound of flesh tearing, of blade scraping bone. The copper-scent of blood and its sticky feel between his fingers. The wide eyes filled with primal terror and faces contorted with agony.

Unleashed, he was all too pleased to have a specimen to work with. While the King looked on, dark gray eyes filled with something bordering on glee, Mairon had his way with the helpless man chained in place in the temples “seat of honor”. The altar for the worship of Melkor, Giver of Freedom, had seen much use these days—many slit throats amidst demonic chants hissed and growled in the Black Speech, carrying the weight of evil magics in their depths—but nothing so brutal and barbaric as that which lay before their eyes now.

Doubly so did it please Mairon that this farce—this act of pure sadistic pleasure—was the ultimate symbol of the fall from grace of the Númenórean people. Mighty and high in the esteem of the Valar once, these people had finally been brought low. Dogs, playing into the Dark Lord’s hands with ease. Sheep, following his guidance without question. Fools, too stupid and too arrogant to realize they were being tricked.

Lustful and wrathful, filled to the brim with their own vanity and their own desire for eternal life and great power, the sea-faring titan of Númenor was about to be torn apart at the seams, shredding itself sunder and devouring its own chance at redemption with an unholy hunger.

 _“We must find out where the rest of this traitorous brethren hide, and amongst whom,”_ the King had said, his dark eyes fixed upon their bound captive with boiling, swirling hatred. _“I will not have such heresy in my kingdom, jeopardizing my great works!”_

 _“Then let me flush them out,”_ Mairon had purred into the aging ruler’s ear, still the subservient and glorious golden creature hiding his true nature beneath a mere veil of persuasion. _“I was once a master in this art. I once served in the torture-chambers of Angband, and Utumno before, and none are better for this task than I…”_

 _“Very well…”_ Ar-Pharazôn had hesitated, but barely. _“Let us see the cruelty of the Tar-Mairon in action.”_

_“I would not dare disappoint, my King.”_

That Ar-Pharazôn had so thoroughly abandoned the original ways of his people as to even tolerate such horror as this sight before him, it spoke volumes of the depth that this human was willing to go—the humanity he was willing to sacrifice—in the name of immortality. In the name of fleeing from death.

Now, the Faithful were being hunted. Númenor was upon the brink of destruction.

Like this ruined body beneath his hands. What delicious destruction it would be!

Carelessly, Mairon traced the heaving, sweating form that now trembled with pain and fear beneath his touch. Whips were child’s play, and he had little interest in doing more than stripping some flesh off his captive’s back with the barbed tongues of braided leather. That had been a mere appetizer to the main course of this inquisition. Blood and fire had always been more to the tastes of the Dark Lord, the former Lieutenant and resident torture-master of Angband.

He enjoyed now seeing the fresh blood spilt upon the floor. The tremors in ruined hands—their fingernails plucked ruthlessly one by one and their finger-bones firmly snapped and pulverized bit by bit to the sound of high-pitched pleas and cries—they were magnificently deformed now. Beyond repair. And then he had done the feet and toes to match. Sadly, that was all it had taken to have this pathetic scrap of meat bellowing his deepest and darkest secrets unto the heights of the temple’s silver dome, spilling the location of his bedfellows without remorse. Betraying the trust of his own side in this civil war of faith and damnation.

 _So much for the salvation of the Faithful_ , he had thought, scorning such weakness even as he pulled out a knife. _Blessed indeed!_

Having gotten what he wanted, he thought to play some more. Half expecting Ar-Pharazôn to stop him, he had continued without mercy. He had carved up his plaything like a butcher, loving how the little lines of crimson dribbled down bare skin in tiny rivulets like overflowing paint upon a pale canvas. But was this not a work of art? The design bourn now by bare skin, slashed upon the torso from neck to groin, spiraling down the shaking limbs and up to mar the handsome face, was beautiful in its own way. All red meat beneath pealed flesh. All white bone peeking through a sea of gore. Carven words or punctured marks, so very graceful as they spelled out the lovely words TRAITOR and HERETIC upon his living subject.

Though this thing hardly resembled a person anymore, it still breathed. When Mairon had finished with his punishment—when screams had turned to weak whimpers and gurgling cries, when blood had appeared upon the lips of his fast-fading prisoner—the high priest and advisor turned to his King.

“What wouldst thou have me do with him, my Lord?” He was half-tempted to suggest beheading, followed by stringing up the lifeless body by its intestines at the center of the city as a warning—as a _promise_ —to all those who dared defy the King.

To all those who, by defying the King, dared to defy Mairon’s own will.

Yet, Ar-Pharazôn seemed to have his own ideas. The King looked upon the traitor struggling for breath with eyes that held neither pity nor compassion. Were it not for the gleam of pleasure that Mairon could see in those eyes, not too distant from lust—from the elation that the torture-master himself felt whilst spilling blood and prying screams and sobs from his playthings—the maia would have thought this human had transcended his own humanity entirely and become something cold and distant, incapable of understanding the suffering of others or of taking enjoyment its unique bouquet and succulent aftertaste. But, alas, even the Ainur could not escape such terrible emotion, such basal instinct, and this human had no chance at all of overcoming such powerful beings.

No. The King took pleasure in this act, though he might try to hide it even from himself. He took pleasure in the subjugation of those who would defy his will. He longed to show them what it meant to be utterly under his thumb. He desired to satiate his own wrath by showing them the punishment for daring to question his authority.

He wanted it to be excruciating. More painful than the long hours of torment that had come before.

“I have long since declared that the punishment for the worship of Eru Ilúvatar, the false god, and the Valar, silver-tonged liars and oppressors, is _death_. I will say further now that, for those who commit such treason against my crown and against my people, death by _fire_ is only appropriate. For they have turned their back on the water-people, the true Númenóreans who seek freedom from mortal chains and knowledge denied to us by our captors.”

Those eyes narrowed, and that head tilted. The serene expression of royalty was broken, cracked down the middle by a smirk that would have done a demon of the ancient world proud.

“Burn him alive,” the King ordered.

And Mairon could only obey.

He could only watch in glee as the captive was doused in lantern oil, eyes glazed but still aware enough to showcase gut-wrenching terror at the knowledge of what was to come, and set aflame by torch. And it seemed that the dying creature still had the lung capacity and the strength of body to scream after all, for the choked and inhuman sound echoed all through the temple halls upon marble and stone. It rang as a death toll in the echoing heavens of silver, reaching out like a prayer to the Darkness as it pierced the night.

The scent of burning flesh filling his nose was an old friend that Mairon welcomed with open arms. The feel of hot smoke against his skin was soothing, a dearly missed commodity. And the sight of skin blackening and eyes bursting and blood boiling away which had not been his companion since the days of the First Age, it was so raw and so perfect.

A foreshadowing of the destiny of Númenor. For was that body anything more than a representation of the descent from pious and harmonious worshippers, taken and twisted beneath his wicked touch, turned to the sinners burning in the lowest pits of the world? Water to fire. Flesh to ash. Salvation to damnation.

The beauty of Númenor was already scarred and tarnished beyond repair.

Mairon licked his lips and tasted the bliss of oncoming death upon his tongue.

Now, it would burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)


	398. Fresh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Sauron managed to crack Angrod's veneer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 22, 2016. 
> 
> For some reason, I've been in the mood to write horror for the past couple of days. So sorry if that's not your cup of tea, but this is pretty much just outright horror and angst. Basically, it's the last part of Angrod's captivity in Angband where Sauron finally manages to begin to actually break him down after such a long resistance.
> 
> Warnings: Torture, both physical (in a way) and psychological. Starvation. Slavery. Non-con/dub-con sexual intercourse implied. Cannibalism (some of which is unwilling). People being eaten alive (semi-explicit). Self-hatred. Unhealthy coping methods. PTSD.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Sauron = Mairon

Everything in Angband was utterly rancid.

Its soldiers and slaves lived in squalor. Its floors were made of rough stone and covered in grime, slicked with decaying corpses. Its dungeon cells were splattered with blood and fluids, and the prisoners slept upon the floor in their own filth. Its meat was old, rotting and festering long before it was served, and its stale bread was filled with mold and maggots. Its water was tinted rusted red from dust or blood, and it tasted foul, like iron and refuse. There was no fruit nor green growing things to stave off malnourishment and decay of the bone, and no rain ever fell to feed thirsty, parched mouths gone days without even the filthiest of drink.

Truly, the fortress of the Dark Lord Morgoth was as close to hell as would ever exist on the mortal plane. A place where captives went knowing they would never see again the sunlight. That they would never again breathe the clean air. That they would die alone—tormented and enslaved, forced to work in dank, black caves until their bodies were broken—without ever seeing the outside again.

Without ever seeing home one last time. Without ever saying goodbye to family. Without ever finding closure.

In the waning days of the War of Wrath, the conditions had only worsened. Food was scarce, for the few supply lines that had existed were now cut by the advancing armies of the Valar spreading north across Anfauglith. It was disgusting to watch the orcish creatures fall upon each other, slaughtering their own kind and devouring the flesh of their kills.

It was even worse when they started taking the thralls.

Angaráto, of course, was in no danger of being either eaten or starved despite his enslavement. As the current favorite of the Dark Lord, he was exempt from most forms of torment or heavy labor, instead serving as little more than a bedchamber toy and a lap-warmer for his Master. And Morgoth evidently wished to keep him at least moderately healthy, providing some of the best water and the richest foods for his personal thrall when all the rest went thirsty and hungry.

Back when it was just food and water, it had all been part of the game of obedient defiance. Now, sitting at his Master’s feet, the elven thrall could only watch as his people—his kin and wards who he should have protected!—were dragged into the room in chains. As they were served up like roasted pigs on a platter for the starving hoards.

As their flesh was torn from their still-living bodies. As their ribs cages were bent open and their organs were ripped out of gaping wounds in their torsos. As they were devoured alive, their eyes filled with the excruciating pain and their mouths parted in pleas for mercy that they could no longer speak. As they screamed and squirmed and bled and died beneath the gaze of their once-prince.

He watched, and he did not dare even blink. He watched, and his face did not even twitch. No disgust. No hatred. No pity. No reassurance.

Nothing.

It was all part of the game. The fight. The battle of wills.

From the shadows, golden eyes formed of unearthly fire watched, waiting for a weakness in his armor to exploit. Waiting for that soft patch of belly to skewer if only Angaráto would roll over and bear it to that gaze. He did not doubt that his enemy—his foe in the twisted competition for their Master’s praise and favor—would not hesitate to take advantage of even the smallest sign of horror or revulsion on the former prince’s part.

However, said prince had never been talented at removing himself from the suffering of his own people. Ever had he strived, in any way he could, to save them from the terrible fates that awaited them in the pits of Angband. Even if it meant sending them to their deaths, poisoned by his own hand. Even if it meant getting down upon his knees and bargaining his own suffering in exchange for their torment to end. Even if it meant wheedling and worming his way into the Dark Lord’s own bed just so that he could whisper sweet nothings and veiled suggestions into willing ears upon the twilight of red-hot pleasure and agony.

Remaining removed from the inconceivable and inhumane deeds before his eyes was growing to be impossible. And he could sense that his foe knew that the iron fortress of his will was upon the verge of cracking—not just cracking, but shattering entirely—as the days of Angband’s might grew short and the armies of Darkness more ravenous. As the number of thralls dwindled down into nothing and food became scarce finally even for the favorites of the Dark Lord.

Angaráto began to lose weight rapidly in the face of starvation. But starvation was better than eating orc-flesh. Starvation was better than eating the meat of an elf.

Unfortunately, his foe had found his weakness, had seen through his charade of indifference. Now, the wolf was closing in upon its prey.

“Master, thy poor pet is looking rather skinny as of late. Dost thou not feed him still? He looks as though he could use some fresh meat to fill his belly.” the despicable torture-master had asked in that sly, gleaming voice from where he knelt before the Dark Lord’s throne.

The Dark Lord said nothing, and a quick glance into those crimson eyes sent icy shudders down Angaráto’s spine. For he could see in those swirling depths the first hints of amusement, as if Morgoth already knew exactly in what direction the teasing of his Lieutenant would lead. As if he altogether approved of the humiliation and repulsive wickedness that was about to occur before his very eyes.

The former prince huddled against his Master’s leg and stared up into cruel eyes—eyes which had no capacity for anything but finding a source of entertainment to sate twisted, sadistic lusts. The Lieutenant leaned closer, scalding breath washing over bare, pale skin. “Art thou not hungry, my dear thrall?”

He shook his head, looking down at the floor. _Eru, no! Please, no!_

“Art thou certain, my dear?” the Lieutenant purred, suddenly drawing so near that Angaráto had to bodily resist the near-unconquerable desire to crawl backwards and hide away from those eyes as far into the deep, black shadows as he might. Burning hands touched him, tracing the places where muscle had faded and bones jutted sharply from beneath his skin. “There is plenty to spare yet from this meal, if thou dost wish for a taste.”

This meal, of course, being the half-eaten elven corpse being gnawed and chewed at where it was splayed across the filthy, scum-encrusted floor of the throne room. It was limp and cold now, the puddle of blood around it congealed and turned brown. At the mere _idea_ of putting that cold, dead elven flesh into his mouth, Angaráto almost gagged.

Somehow, he managed to shake his head again without spilling his stomach bile all over the floor. He was starving, but the ache in his belly was nothing compared to the nausea churning now in his gut.

Yet, it seemed that his Master was not going to allow him to escape from the game so easily. Morgoth’s large hand touched him then, petting him down his back and combing through his loose, burnished golden hair in a mockery of affection. “Come now, mólinya,” the Dark Lord crooned. “Or is this meat perhaps not to thy tastes? Something fresh, perhaps?”

He dared not shake his head, and he dared not look up. He could not say “no” to his Master without risking a worse fate still than the one already before his feet.

What difference would it have made anyway, when Morgoth’s mind had already been made?

“Bring us something new. Something alive,” the Dark Lord ordered with a dismissive wave of his massive hand. Angaráto felt his whose body flinch and shudder in the grips of horror, for he suddenly could see exactly what it was that was planned for him this night.

The Lieutenant was all too willing—all too _eager_ —to follow through with that request. Almost as if the golden-haired fiend had been waiting for this very moment to come, the doors were opened and another thrall was immediately brought inside. One who was young and mostly unspoiled, who had obviously not yet seen enough back-breaking work to look worn and aged, waning into slow, gray death. This one was dark-haired with bright, wild eyes and a fitting snarl upon his features, still beautiful but for a handful of bruises upon his body and whip-marks upon his back.

Dragged, he was, right up the steps to the apex upon which the throne rested. Alabaster hands were more manacles than anything else, holding the thrashing and cursing thrall with such ease as to seem utterly effortless. A limb was thrust in Angaráto’s direction, held up to his mouth in offering, as though the flesh with blood still pumping frantically through the veins and arteries just beneath its surface, with the muscle still twitching in paroxysms of struggle, were nothing more than a cooked leg of fowl or a rib off a pig. As though something so obviously raw and alive was _food_ that he was expected to _bite_ and _chew._

Despite the game and despite his pride, despite how he knew it would anger his Master and despite how he knew he would be punished, Angaráto turned his face away.

He was not at all surprised at the crushing grip of his Master’s hand about his jaw, nor the growl of the Dark Lord’s voice shaking the floor beneath his knees. “Art thou refusing my generosity?” the deformed and disgusting creature boomed, “A mere thrall refusing the favor of the Lord and King of all Arda? What arrogance! What ingratitude!”

As though they were not trying to make him commit a sin further than anything his Kinslaying brethren had accomplished. Even the maddest of the mad sons of Fëanáro would not partake in a feast so diabolical as this! And he was expected to play at gratitude for being thus lowered!

The fingers squeezed, and his jaw was pried open. “Very well, then. Mairon, why dost thou not teach this ungrateful bitch a lesson?”

“If thou dost wish, my Lord,” the fallen maia purred. And the sound of tearing flesh followed, as did the accompaniment of high-pitched screams of agony. Horrified, Angaráto was held in place and forced to watch as a muscle was peeled back off the other elf’s forearm, leaving the visible bone bare and white even as blood was pumped frantically through torn veins and spilled onto the floor below in torrents. The meat, dangling now from the crimson-stained white hand of his foe, was brought forth to his mouth. To his parted lips.

And thrust inside against his will.

Angaráto gagged.

He gagged and choked and tried to spit it out as the flavor of fresh blood spread across his tongue and the squishy texture of raw meat invaded his palate. Only to find that a hand clamped over his mouth, preventing the meat from being expelled. Another hand, still coated in blood, pinched his nose and cut off his air.

And he had no choice but to swallow or suffocate. Mindless with the sudden lack of air circulating into his lungs, his body automatically and without permission chewed the raw flesh to a pulp and swallowed in great gulps, if only to be allowed oxygen again as soon as the hand was removed. All around, he could hear the faint sound of laughter at his plight, even his Master’s deep chortling, but the ringing in his ears was such that he could not concentrate on any sound. The taste of blood would not depart his tongue even when he gagged again and drooled upon the stone floor at his own knees.

“Dost thou wish for more, _my dear?”_ the Lieutenant asked, those eyes gleeful as they took in the shattered veneer of the opponent, at last trapped and cornered like an animal with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. No doubt, there was pleasure taken in witnessing the shameful, stinging tears resting now at the corners of Angaráto’s bloodshot eyes and the sobbing breaths beating their way out of his lungs.

He shook his head, and the beautiful monster before him sighed as if in exasperation. Like a parent with a misbehaving child. “Now, now, thou canst not be full yet!”

Another tear of flesh from bone. The thrall from whence it had come had been whimpering, but a thin shriek split the air at the act of cruelty. No doubt, the strength of the other elf was waning quickly as death drew near from blood-loss and shock. The next strip of meat was held up in offering, still dripping blood. The liquid ran like rivers down the pale hand of the Lieutenant, soaking into the dark fabric of his sleeve.

Angaráto turned his head away.

“I suppose thou art not satisfied with this meal either? Shall I hand it off to the orcs then, since thou dost obviously not want it?”

 _The thrall is still breathing_ , Angaráto registered, hearing the gasping breaths echoing against metal and stone. _He will be eaten alive._

Said thrall would not be the first to be thrown to the orcs and ripped apart while conscious. But he was the first whose fate rested in Angaráto’s hands. The first whose eyes looked up at the golden elf who had once been his prince, the defiance fading into the pure and visceral instinct of prey that knew it was about to be torn apart.

And Angaráto could not bear to turn his back upon one of his kinsmen in need. Better a death by mere torture and bloodlust than by being torn asunder by a hundred sets of ravenous fangs. Slower, perhaps, but less painful. Less disrespectful. Less irreverent and blasphemous. Less horrifying a burden to place upon an already terrified soul in its last minutes amongst the living.

Eru, but the Lieutenant knew him _so fucking well!_

“I want it,” he whispered. “Please, Lord Mairon.”

And he hated the smile that came over that gorgeous face. More even in that moment then he hated himself. For none but the most depraved of creatures would ever have thought to force such an act as cannibalism upon another for sport. And sport this most certainly was! The enjoyment and laughter in those eyes was plain as daylight!

“What a good bitch,” the Lieutenant purred. “Open up, my dear!”

And he ate it. Chewed and swallowed without being forced. And another mouthful. And another. More flesh was torn from the dying thrall and fed through his lips, and he continued to eat even unto the point where he felt too full to fit any more. Even to the point where he thought he would be sick from too much weight in his belly.

Because the thrall was still alive. Hanging on by a mere thread.

Finally, when he could fit no more, Angaráto retched helplessly. The laughter in the room so turned his stomach that he vomited a second time right upon the tail of the first. All that he had just consumed came right back up in a burning tide of bile and acid.

The Lieutenant merely tsked, like a mother scolding her child for eating too many sweets or making a mess of their bedchambers. “Now that will not do, will it? It seems thou hast eaten more than thy fill after all, my dear. Thou shouldst not be so greedy! It would be a shame to waste the rest of this delicious treat on thee if thou art just going to throw it back up again.”

“Please,” he groaned. “Please, more…”

But the Lieutenant merely shook his head and mockingly sighed. As though he were being inconvenienced to the extreme, he picked up the broken body of the thrall—whose arm was almost completely stripped of meat and half of whose leg was missing, who somehow was still hanging onto life by some devilish sorcery—and threw him bodily down to the voracious and bloodthirsty monsters below. Like a swarm of insects, they descended upon their meal.

And Angaráto watched with blurred vision as the last moments of the thrall were lost in the horror of being eaten alive, teeth bearing down upon flesh even as squeals and screams echoed into the cavernous heavens. Until, finally, there were no more sounds to be heard but the sickening squish of flesh being torn and devoured.

Angaráto had, in that moment, never hated anything so much as he hated himself.

\---

In the end, Angaráto had outlived Angband. The fortress was taken a mere two weeks later.

He was still there, still grudgingly living and breathing, when the gates came crashing down. He was still there, chained at the foot of the Morgoth’s throne when the armies of the Valar surged forth and slaughtered the masses of monstrous servants of evil. He was still there, bruised and beaten, aching with hunger and with soul-sickness, when he was found and carried away.

To the outside.

Where he tasted fresh air again, cold and crisp and clear, no longer clogged with dust and foul smell, leaving his lungs aching at its purity. Where he felt the coolness and softness of grass beneath his body as he was laid gently down and tended, stark to the memory of the cold, unforgiving hardness of stone. Where the wind touched the bareness of his skin like soft hands trying to soothe away the weariness of his soul and lay balm to its fractures and lacerations. Where the sunlight was bright and cutting, and his skin once again felt its warmth—its accusing burn—after so long hidden away in the pitch darkness.

Where there was fresh water that tasted like divinity upon his tongue. Where there was fresh fruit—exotic and filled with succulent juices—that should have called to him with the tantalizing seduction of a Silmaril.

But it meant little to him in those first hours of freedom.

There was only the taste of fresh meat and fresh blood staining the inside of his mouth, the taste of his sins that neither clean water nor richly-flavored fruit could wash away.

 _They should have lived_ , he could not help but think as his nails dug into his palms and his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the vision of open sky.

_I would gladly have died, if only they would have lived._

And yet, the sad irony lingered forever in his thoughts like an invisible whip to torment beyond the graves of his tormentors. The realization that his people had died as a testament to his defiance, their torment a mere tool to break his will. That their flesh had been forever sullied by his mouth and their blood tainted when he drank it down like wine, and yet that unholy meal had been all that sustained his failing body in the final days.

And the laughter of the Dark Lord and his Lieutenant shook him down to his bones. Their eyes, glowing in the dark with sleepless mockery, would not allow him rest.

Angaráto could not bear to sleep, for he saw naught but the mangled corpses of thralls he had failed to save when he closed his eyes. He did not allow himself to eat nor to drink, for he had feasted upon the flesh and blood of his own kin like a demon.

He dared not even weep. A creature such as he did not deserve the comfort.

Because he dared to live to breathe the fresh air. And guilt was a cruel master indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Valar = great holy beings (pl)  
> Eru = the One (God)  
> mólinya = my slave/thrall (mól + nya)  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)


	399. Complete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor has learned to live without Glorfindel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 23, 2016.
> 
> This piece is a companion of sorts to Tear and Relief, and it also serves as the reflection of Found, written from Erestor's POV. After so much horror and angst, I thought a change of pace (for a day, at least) would be nice.
> 
> Warnings: Sappy romance ahead. Some mention of death.

Long ago, Erestor had learned to live with being incomplete.

Some wounds could not be fully healed—either by sorcery or by herb-lore—and his was one such wound. Patched though it might be with the imprint of the warmth of his brother’s hugs and the image of sweet memories woven from sunshine hair and luscious kisses, beneath the stitched-up outer layer the flesh still gaped open and bled. Red and raw where his lover used to be, the shredded bond lay infected with the never-ending agony of grief and the throbbing ache of loneliness.

But, like an amputee learns to live without their hand or arm or leg, Erestor learned to live without Glorfindel’s smile. He learned to live without the warmth of his mate’s hand wrapped around his own and without the presence of his mate’s voice nestled comfortingly close in the back of his mind. No more whispered words of love laced through his dark thoughts, and no soft breaths puffed against the back of his neck as he slept.

Just memories. Only memories.

They were not the same. Not even close. Erestor always and constantly felt that empty black hole in his sanity and the corresponding tear rent through his fëa.

But it had been enough.

He had a purpose in this life, a drive that kept him going even when the gloomiest of depressions settled like a low-hanging fog over his thoughts. The ambition and the stubbornness of his bloodline coupled the will to keep going and keep living—at first for his brother’s sake and then for Celebrimbor and Gil-galad and Elros and Elrond as well—fueled the heat that burned away those misty mornings of dread. Even when all but Elrond were gone, dead or disappeared into the nighttime of the world, Erestor still kept moving. Kept rising each morning. Kept doing his duties until the night. Kept eating and sleeping and repeating it all over again.

When the Darkness was defeated—or when it triumphed and they were all slaughtered and collected into the arms of Mandos—then Erestor’s work would finally be done. Then he could go home to Valinor and, hopefully, find Glorfindel there waiting with open arms and that glorious smile.

But he would not abandon his duty or his friends. Elrond needed him now more so than ever as the remaining elven folk began to turn the fortress of Rivendell into a home instead of an encampment of war. There were provisions to be organized and alliances to be negotiated and food supplies to be arranged and building to be managed. Erestor was far too busy to spend any time at all these days sitting around and daydreaming about his dead lover.

For that, he was grateful. Even if the nights were still long, the days, at least, were tolerable.

It was certainly not an ideal existence, or even a particularly desirable one. But Erestor was content. Incomplete and broken. But content.

\---

The keeping and organization of the library was, in particular, Erestor’s favored pastime.

He had been a warrior and an assassin and the councilor to a King, but in the end he was, first and foremost, a scholar. _A librarian_ , Elrond often teased. And, though Erestor scoffed and grumbled in feigned annoyance at purported disrespect, he truly did not mind the label.

Thus, many an afternoon—as with this afternoon—he found himself tending to the many books that called the library of Imladris home. There were still many works, tomes and scrolls and all manner of maps, to be sorted and stored in their proper homes. Truly, the library was massive, likely the largest accumulation of ancient knowledge on this side of the Great Sea, and there was never a shortage of work to be done in its keeping and caretaking.

Erestor’s current handful was an explicitly (and perhaps slightly unnecessarily) detailed account of trading agreements between Gondor to the south and Arnor to the north—seven tomes worth of them. Each generation of kings seemed to feel the need to look at, revise, and minutely alter his end of the contract, resulting in dozens of nearly-identical agreements and treaties that virtually all said exactly the same thing barring one or two small differences. Sorting through them had been tedious, but Erestor was somewhat glad for the tedium. His only other duties currently consisted of sorting through Elrond’s correspondence whilst the Lord of the Valley was out and about assisting in the construction of the eastern wing of the house, and that would be equally dull and time-consuming.

Heaving a soft sigh, he moved around the large shelves, searching for the one which housed other trading agreements between settlements and kingdoms. Coming about the corner, his route took him straight past the entryway to the library. Much to his surprise, he caught a quick glimpse of a visitor—tall and fair-haired—from the corner of his eye.

“Hello?” he called. “Is there something I can help you with?”

As he spoke, he peered around the large stack of tomes cradled in his arms, trying to catch a better glance at the newcomer. Only, when he finally did take in the sight before him, Erestor felt his breath sweep out of his lungs in a hard gust, as though he had been struck in the solar plexus by a broad, powerful fist.

At first, he thought he must have been dreaming. Or hallucinating.

Yet, impossibly, there was Glorfindel. Staring back at him. With that same head of waving golden hair trailing loose over familiar broad shoulders and with those same deep sapphire eyes glistening as the blanket of the night sky set with jeweled stars. The beloved face which Erestor had last seen stained with blood and gray with death was now alive, sun-kissed with warmth and faintly pink in the cheeks and the lips.

Breathless, he stared, mouth gaping in shock.

And then, without warning, Erestor felt their bond snap back into place. That deep, dark cluster of shadow that always lingered in the back of his thoughts was suddenly and inexplicably filled with light and the sound of joyous laughter, sending heat shuddering throughout his still body. Like two shattered pieces come together, the pair of fëar fused once more into one being, and Erestor’s fingers abruptly went numb. The tombs he had spent hours organizing and binding now slipped and fell, but the buzzing in his ears drown out any semblance of a thud as they hit the ground at his feet.

All he could see was this _impossibility_ standing before him. For how could Glorfindel be real when he was dead? How could he be real when Erestor had lain his body to rest in its cairn with his own two hands?

And yet, even as he desperately reached down the bond that had been dormant for more than three thousand years—even as he heard the whisper of his beloved’s voice stroking softly across his panicked and dazed thoughts—his lover’s lips curled into a broad smile and parted.

“I think there might be,” the impossibility said in his lover’s voice. _“Erestor…”_

The sound of footsteps reached his ears as Glorfindel’s form drew closer and closer. Hands grasped his own, their warmth and their familiar calluses stroking over his trembling fingers and soft palms. Arms wrapped their way around his back and waist, pulling him close until their bodies touched, until he rested just so against a broad chest of rippling muscle. Erestor’s face burrowed instinctively into the hollow between shoulder and throat, his breath finally coming in a long, wet gasp.

Even the scent, a hint of lavender and a dusting of sunlight and the metallic hint of a swordsman, was just as he recalled.

It was impossible.

And yet, undeniably, this was _real._

Tears welled in his eyes even as his arms came up to desperately grasp about his lover’s neck. Even as his fingers tangled into the familiar locks and curls and pulled gently. Even he finally managed to sob out his lover’s name and press his lips to that resplendent smile.

_This was real._

For the first time in more than three thousand years, Erestor was complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> fëa = spirit or soul (s)  
> fëar = spirits or souls (pl)


	400. Juxtaposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeglin on the similarities between the man Aredhel married and the brother she left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 24, 2016.
> 
> Basically just some character exploration from the POV of Maeglin in Gondolin prior to his betrayal. I have a hard time imagining that the son of two individuals with such strong and stubborn personalities would ever yield to torture and betray a completely loving family, so, in my headcanon, Maeglin and Turgon are passingly friendly on the political stage but not really all that close personally. In part, Maeglin explains why.
> 
> Warnings: Prejudice. Attempted murder and accidental uxoricide mentioned. Execution (not explicit). Messed up family dynamics.

Maeglin was _wary_ of his new uncle.

When he was young, his mother had told him all sorts of grand tales about her great brothers. Fingon the Valiant, her courageous oldest brother with his wild laughter and his steadfast heart, undaunted by any challenge or obstacle in his path. Turgon the Wise, who she named scholarly and boring, a stickler for the rules, but a loving and caring brother nonetheless. And Argon the _Incorrigible_ who was constantly getting into all manner of trouble, so reckless and untamed was he in his youth.

Her words then had been fond and wistful, and it had been clear that she missed them all dearly. The youngest, she told him, was dead. He had been slain in battle; having gone off on his own, he had been surrounded and cut off from the main forces. The oldest, she told him, was serving as the Crown Prince, and she had not seen him oft even before she had gone to the Hidden City, for he was busy always.

Turgon, she spoke of then, and with the most adoration and annoyance. Her brother who had, in his brilliance and foresight, devised the Hidden City and ordered it constructed in secret. A stubborn man, she called him with an affectionate shake of her head. He had wanted her to stay put where it was safe, to spend her days frittering away at frivolous womanly pursuits rather than pursuing hunting and swordsmanship and travel. Though he had meant well, it had been his overbearingly protective nature which had driven her from the white walls and glimmering gates of her home in the first place. And it was longing to again see his face and hear his voice, to be wrapped up in his welcoming arms, which were pulling her back as if by an invisible tether towards her home.

Perhaps, if Maeglin’s first meeting with Turgon had not been tainted by the ill events that had unfolded between his parents, he would have had less cause to be cautious. Perhaps, if he had met Turgon at his mother’s side alone somewhere private where they could have smiled and welcomed one another as loving siblings, things would have been different. Perhaps, he would have seen a side of his uncle beyond reach to all but Aredhel’s smile and resonant voice.

Unfortunately, Maeglin’s first impression of Turgon was of a bitter and malicious man. One as equally dark and forbidding as his own father.

Eöl was not a pleasant person. He never had been and probably never could be even if he wished to try. Though the dark-elf had clearly cared somewhat for his wife and his son, there had always been a burning, forbidding wall of hatred standing between the man and any sort of love or affectionate freely-given. Like a festering, rotting smell, it followed the smith like a shadow, swirling like pollution in the pools of his dark eyes and appearing as a ghost laid over his snarls and scowls.

_“He has his reasons for being hard and cold,”_ Maeglin’s mother had once told him when he had been young enough to carelessly proclaim how much he despised his progenitor. _“Thou shouldst not judge without knowledge, ion-nín. To do so would be unwise, even foolish, and I did not raise a fool.”_

But that was easier said than done. It was hard for a mere child to love a father who would not hug him or praise him, who would not kiss his brow and smile with pride at his blossoming skills and accomplishments. While Maeglin knew that had simply not been his father’s way, it still stung fiercely.

Equally fiercely did Turgon’s distance sting.

Where was this protective older brother whom Aredhel had loved so dearly? Where was this caring soul who, though he might be stubborn and stiff, genuinely cared for his family?

Instead, Maeglin had encountered a phantom of his past.

For, he heard the same hatred spew, putrid and ashy, from his uncle’s tongue as it had from his father’s. While Eöl was chiefly concerned, of course, with turning his son’s heart against the invading elven people from across the sea— _“A people so consumed with their own vanity and greed that they think nothing of the lives they have destroyed by bringing evil to our shores”_ —Maeglin found that Turgon was equally embroiled in his own malicious intent.

_“I would not have thee traipsing around, consorting with those Kinslayers,”_ his uncle had snarled the one and only time that Maeglin had mentioned his mother’s cousin Celegorm, of whom she had often spoke fondly. _“Were thee to place before me Celegorm Fëanorion and the Dark Lord himself, I could not be certain who I would more gladly strike down!”_

Maeglin had been horrified. First and foremost in his thoughts had been his father’s voice raised in fury, saying: _“Would that I could erase the stain of those foreigners from the face of Arda, I would do it! I would do it in a heartbeat!”_

And then later. _“The second choice I take and for my son also! Thou shalt not hold what is mine!”_

The image of his mother on the ground, lying in a pool of blood, gasping for breath. The memory of his father, spitting and cursing, dragged away into the bowels of Gondolin’s dungeons. The terror that struck him at the rage of his uncle’s face when his mother passed, and the chilling calm that rested over the King’s face as Eöl was thrown from the Caragdûr into the abyss below, bones cracking upon the stone. The glimmer of pleasure in those icy blue eyes, savoring the taste of perceived comeuppance.

_“If he had a choice between giving his daughter unto the hands of the Fëanorioni and killing her by his own hands, would he choose her death rather than allow her to fall into the hands of his hated enemies? Even if she went by her own free will?”_

What a sickening thought. Especially when Maeglin honestly could not guess the answer.

It was the first time that he had considered that, perhaps, his mother’s memory—indeed, her recollection in her deepest of hearts—of her sibling had been tinted with rosy light. Never had she spoken of such malevolence, such darkness of the spirit and thirst for revenge, as was seen in this man with his vengeful words and near-homicidal intent. The forgiveness and understanding that Maeglin would have expected from a man with the epithet _The Wise_ was simply not present. If it had ever been there, it was long since lost.

But then, he thought perhaps she had always seen the best of the men in her life and ignored the worst. For, she had married a man not too different from her brother. And, by doing so, she had exchanged one prison readily for another.

Truly, Eöl Móredhel and Turgon, King of Gondolin, were inherently the same man. Their juxtaposition, at first, might seem as night to day, as evil and greed to good intent and love. But, under the layer of mere superficiality, it all too closely resembled a mirror. A reflection. They might be of two different kinsfolk with two different faces, but their eyes—the infinite blackness of his father’s and the icy paleness of his uncle’s—were exactly the same.

Thus, there was little trust to be had.

While Maeglin would gladly accept his uncle’s gift of a high-ranking position in the Court of Gondolin, he did not imagine for a second that his uncle cared deeply for him. When Turgon looked at him— _really_ looked at him—he seemed to see only the echo of Eöl rather than the beloved son of his sister, and his mouth was flat and his gaze was cold and his voice was empty of affection.

There was no pride and there was no love. There was just a towering wall of hatred resting between them.

But Maeglin was smart and cunning. And he learned from experience.

His experience told him that Turgon was every bit as dangerous and unpredictable, every bit as willfully blind and prideful, as Eöl had ever been. Much as he might long desperately to seek the fatherly affection he had never found with his father by blood instead with his new guardian and uncle, Maeglin knew better than to seek such emotional bonds in the arms of the man who had so easily, without so much as blinking with shame, thrown his father—the man whom his mother had loved—down a precipice to die upon the rocks below. Such bitterness and loathing, such unforgiving wrath, would yield nothing of affection to boy with the eyes of Aredhel’s killer.

So Maeglin watched closely and he learned intimately the ways of Turgon’s Court. He learned how to play one noble against another, becoming adept in the political dance, and he slowly began to collect allies amongst the Lords. He kept himself firmly planted at his uncle’s shoulder from whence he could whisper advice into the King’s ear.

But he never went closer. He did not dare, lest he be turned away with cold indifference in that voice and the embers of hatred scorching at his back.

Maeglin did not think he could bare the weight of rejection a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> ion-nín = my son  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor (s)  
> Fëanorioni = Sons of Fëanor (pl)  
> Móredhel = Dark Elf


	401. Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The price of Power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 25, 2016.
> 
> Our still-unnamed Nazgûl friend returns and realizes that taking a Ring of Power from a known Dark Lord (and well-documented liar) was probably a stupid-ass decision. But he did it anyway. Now he has to deal with the consequences.
> 
> Warnings: Mental instability. War, violence, death, enslavement, sex, implied potential rape. All the nasty things that come with war, basically.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Tar-Mairon

At first, he wallowed in the Power of his ring.

It was an easy thing, to be lost in the overflowing tide of newfound strength in his aged limbs. For the first time in decades, he felt hale and healthy enough to broach the possibility of conquering lands under his King’s banner, and he took his fleet and made gladly for the distant southern lands in search of some as-yet unclaimed richness or some free people to bring under the thrall of Númenor.

He was happy to be going somewhere, though he missed the warmth of his lover’s pale skin and golden-veined blue eyes. However, he sensed the machinations of Tar-Mairon in his appointment to such a distant post, as though the Dark Lord were maneuvering him into an advantageous position for unknown benefit. Once, he might have balked at being ordered about like a puppet upon silver strings, but he knew that he owed Tar-Mairon a great debt—the greatest debt—and if this was all the payment asked then he was glad to pay such a price.

For years, he explored his newfound place in the world. He found it easier, suddenly, to seduce the hearts of lesser men—even other Númenórean men—to his purposes and will, as though their minds broke beneath his words, their personal thoughts and desires becoming a haze of mist in the wake of his searing heat. As a lord of a distant city, a marauding commander traveling up and down the coast, conquering the dark-skinned heretics in the south and creeping up upon the fair-skinned barbarians of the north, he never lacked for any sort of wealth—though what wealth could compare to that which rested upon his finger?—and his belly was constantly filled with rich, exotic foods and heady, strong wines. If he wanted a woman, he had her in his bed. If he wanted a piece of land, he had it within his palm. If he wanted a thousand warriors called to arms in a single night, there they stood the next morning, silent and awaiting his command without question.

Perhaps he was not _the_ King—because, so long as Ar-Pharazôn lived and held prisoner Tar-Mairon, the Dark Lord, there was only one true King of Men—but he might as well have been. He doubted any in this land or in Númenor lived such a life of luxury as he had been granted through the Power of this crimson stone upon his hand.

And yet, he began to notice strange things.

At first, he thought it might be aging. Though the tireless strength of his muscles and bones never waned, he still felt a strain upon himself, perhaps something less physical and more spiritual than he had at first realized. Like being pulled inexorably in different directions. Like being stretched and twisted until his body ached. Like being spread out thinly as a layer of creamy butter upon a slice of white bread.

But there was no more gray in his hair than there had been so long ago when he had taken his ring from the white hands of Tar-Mairon. There were no more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes or where his frown bent his mouth than there had been when he had first set it upon his finger. His reflection in silver yielded nothing strange or odd about his appearance but for the expected unnaturalness of the promised immortality, his immunity to the passage of time.

Still, something was not right. And that should have been the first sign to make him wary even of the ally who once had rested, golden and graceful, in the silken sheets of his bedchambers. Trust was not something that should ever be given to one such as the Dark Lord, no matter the temptation.

But, at the time, he believed he had the Power to resist any ill will that might try and overtake him. For now, he would dance to the tune of the Dark Lord as any good tool or toy might do, but, by giving him this gift, Tar-Mairon had given him the chief instrument of the golden beauty’s own destruction! No great commander and Lord of Númenor would bow to the Dark Lord of Mordor! One day, when his power had grown to the apex of its glory and he governed all the lands and the people to the south and the west of Mordor, he would crush the one who dared try and control him like a bug beneath the heel of his boot!

He continued on with this belief for a while yet, satisfied with his own gorged greed and confident in his own renewed strength. He was yet unaware of his own diminishment.

But his eyes still failed. At first, it was but a thin veil of gray mist that blurred faces and obscured colors. Then, one day, he awoke to find that he could not perceive at all the shade of red set in his ring, though he knew it to be a fine, deep crimson set in a band of gold. No amount of squinting or head-tilting would change or morph the shades of gray that consumed his world.

Really, though, if loss of color was part of the price to pay for the beloved gem upon his hand, he would pay it gladly. What were colors in comparison to such Power and wonder?

Then his skin began to grow chill. This, in of itself, was not the oddity of the matter, though that alone would have been off-putting. More so was that he _felt_ the chill acutely, as though his limb had been dipped in icy water and held under until his blood thickened and the flesh went pained and numb. His heart still beat steadily and strongly, but he could feel the frost creeping up upon him slowly, overtaking the warmth of his organs and skin and breath.

It was near this time that he stopped taking lovers, though his thoughts strayed often to the fiery warmth he recalled in Tar-Mairon’s embrace, and stopped cavorting with his highest ranking followers. Though he looked no less handsome than he had decades past, women now flinched away from his touch upon their heat, and there was a strange and primal sort of reluctance in the eyes of his men whenever he drew near, as though they longed desperately to step out of his path by ten or twenty feet but dared not move for the paralyzing fear of his anger.

He had enjoyed for many years the ease with which he gained the affections of any he desired. He could have had any woman—or man, if he fancied—that he chose! And yet, he did not want them to look upon him with revulsion as he fucked them, and so he ceased to take them to bed despite his earthly desires.

He had also enjoyed loyalty of his followers. His men, who he commanded now for two generations at least, had always been richly rewarded for their services. Slaves, women, gold and jewels were freely given, for they were plenty in the lands overtaken by the might of the Númenórean colony. But, lately, his men had shuddered when he drew near, and those who spent too long in his company seemed to grow ill and pale. Their loyalty faltered.

But still, what were the affections of a woman in comparison to his Power? What was the loyalty of his men worth, when he could force them to follow his rule by fear if they would not yield by love, greed or reward?

He did not need them. He did not want them.

Soon after, the men began to experience nausea and dizziness when they drew too close. His gaze made them quail and tremble as if beneath a menacing and dreadful shadow. His breath sent shivers of disgust crawling up and down their arms and spines, raising gooseflesh upon their skin as they shuddered and flinched. His touch, when he willed it, left black marks, a plague which slowly seemed to drain the life from their bodies until they lay cold and dead like corpses and succumbed to death’s embrace in excruciating pain.

Now, fear was his greatest ally and camaraderie a distant wisp of useless memory. Another generation of men was born under his command, and they knew not of him as a harsh but fair commander, nor a scowling and dark-faced but typically generous man. They knew him only as a strange and grotesque monster with pale skin and glittering, dark eyes whose voice was a sibilant and high-pitched hiss that struck terror into the hearts of friend and foe alike. That they dared not cross him—that they looked upon him as a strange creature stricken with cursed immortality—did not bother him in the least. For he had eternal life and Power, and he needed not their regard, good or bad!

During that time, when his list of personal allies grew thin and Tar-Mairon still played courtesan to the Númenórean King in the West, he took to wearing often his ring and passing unseen amongst his followers, rooting out spies and disturbers without mercy. Pleased, he realized that they knew not how he went about his discoveries, these traitors and rats, but the violent and ruthless public executions struck even greater fear into the hearts of his followers.

None dared oppose him. His Power was now too great.

But he found that, soon, he did not want to negate his invisibility at all. The urge to put his ring on, to keep himself hidden even when he slept—out of paranoia or something else, he could not have said at the time—became a constant nagging in the back of his mind. Why should he not wear it all the time, if only for safe-keeping? Why should he ever go without its rejuvenating heat and its glittering (albeit gray) beauty when he could wear it whenever and wherever he pleased?

Later, he would realize that the voice of the ring, that soft and sweet whisper that sounded in the dulcet, honey-laden tones of Tar-Mairon, purring away in his ears of his perfection and his Power and his ultimate glorious domination of all peoples, was the voice of deceit. Seductive, tantalizing, offering paradise and bliss and everything he could ever desire—it was a _lie_.

Later, he would realize that he was being a willfully blind fool. That the Power was exacting its price still, warping him out of his mortal shape and denying him the passage beyond the edges of the world.

But, on the morning he woke up and found his arms and hands translucent as a ghost and colder than solid ice, he wasn’t at all alarmed as he should have been. It was not so strange to his twisted mind that a ring which could grant invisibility might eventually make its wearer altogether invisible. He connected this strange state of being not at all with his growing inability to see living creatures and recognize faces by sight rather than by smelling them upon the air or by catching flickers of white or dark halos about their unsuspecting heads.

Eventually, he disappeared entirely. But he was not dismayed! He could don a cloak with a hood if he wished to travel seen by those who could not step into the invisible limbo-dimension, and he could travel unseen as well without worrying in the least for being caught should he leave his body unfurnished in the shadows.

Really, what was such a mere thing as sight of his own body worth when, in the end, he would stand above all free peoples and have them scraping at his feet like the scum and trash that they were? He did not need such a frivolous thing as vanity!

He needed only his ring. _Only his ring._

And he never removed it after that.

He kept it upon his finger even when news of the drowning of Númenor came. In fact, he rejoiced to think that Ar-Pharazôn was finally out of the way, that he would no longer be restrained by his supposed loyalty to distant Kings and their failed search for the gift unto which his hands had already been given. Finally, he was free of his oppressor, free to pillage and ravage and burn to his heart’s desire!

He kept it upon his finger even when Tar-Mairon returned. He kept it upon his finger thinking that he could subdue the golden creature to his will, keep the Dark Lord as a pet or a slave for his own entertainment. He kept it upon his finger, for who could have stopped him now when it gave unto him its support?

Except… Except…

Except, suddenly, his ring’s whispers turned to screams of fury that beat away all thoughts of turning aside. Suddenly, the gentle compulsions turned to impossibly strong tidal waves of intent. Suddenly, he heard the call of a fair voice in his mind and yielded before he could think even of rebellion. As if in a dream, he rode out upon his fastest steed, traveling north with all haste towards the black tower of Barad-dûr whence Tar-Mairon—Sauron, the Dark Lord—dwelt.

All thoughts of dominion were swept aside. The memory of gold was faint in his mind, for he felt no want of it, and the memory of companionship was distant, for he had no need of it. Suddenly, without any thought to his designs of dominion and conquering, his chief desire was to serve his Master, the bearer of the One. The Lord of the Rings.

He could not think of anything else. He could not remove the ring upon his finger. He could not turn away the voice circumventing his will. The proud Númenórean warrior was bound tightly behind thick walls of rock and steel, screaming and cursing and begging and pleading and crying as he pounded his fists into a raw and bloody pulp against the seamless and unforgiving door to his prison. All that was left behind was the shell of a thrall, hungry for blood and eager to please.

 _“What didst thou need individuality and free will for?”_ that slavish part of him asked. _“Thou hast thy Power—a mere sliver of thy Master’s Power—and thou shouldst need nor want anything else but to please him and follow his words.”_

 _But that is not I!_ The part of him that still knew his own will and remembered his own plans and longed for his freedom, it was crying out in agony and helplessness. _I would serve no Master but myself! And certainly not this craven bitch of a Dark Lord!_

And yet, that part of him was overcome with ease by the whispers of the ring—his most beloved, most hated, most precious ring—and he found himself kneeling at the feet of a dark throne made from black metal and stone. Upon its carven, thorn-encrusted might sat a creature which vaguely resembled the Tar-Mairon he had known, but blanched and snarling. The golden, lustrous hair was now pale, wispy gray, and the sky-tinted eyes of gold were now blazing scarlet red in his mind’s eye. Rosy peach skin was paler and grayer than death. And he realized, with a start, that he was seeing the Dark Lord not as he would with mortal eyes, but as the Dark Lord truly was in the shadow realm between mortal worlds. Malevolent and ugly with sharpened fangs and clawed fingers, a black shadow that crawled across the walls and melted upon the floor and reached out to him as a tendril of pure evil to wrap its way about his helpless, motionless form.

The Dark Lord’s touch tainted his ring, stroking the stone with its poisonous essence. And the Dark Lord’s will permeated his mind, slaughtering all unsanctioned thoughts.

He knelt like a slave before this hideous being. He knelt with many others, similarly gifted, at his side. He knelt as one of Nine. Not even singular in his spectacular Power.

He knelt as a slave.

 _“But it is not a small price to pay, this service for immortality?”_ his beloved, precious ring inquired, as though it were discussing a few coins of silver rather than an eternity of enslavement. _“Thou didst want Power. Thou didst want to live forever. Thou hast those things.”_

And yet, in the end, what did he really have?

The thrall that dominated his body—the creature that bent without a fight to his Master’s will—was content to serve the darkness that called to it and welcomed it. The man—the prideful Lord of Númenor who had dreamed of sitting upon the throne of all mortal men for long ages of the world—was horrified.

Power he had, yes. But the price had been so high! The price had been _too_ high!

The price had not merely been a life without colors or warmth. It had not been a life without lovers or friends or loyal comrades. It had not even been a life without freedom and the comfort of death waiting in the end to embrace him and carry him home.

The price had been everything. Wealth, lordship, and kingdom. Dreams, hopes, and wishes. Free will, individuality, and identity. Body, mind, and soul. The Gift of Eru unto the Race of Men. Everything taken by the Dark Lord in exchange for a guarantee of Power. Power delivered. Power that had gained him all he ever wanted through cruelty and had taken it away just as mercilessly.

And now he had nothing. Nothing but the shadowy hell of nowhere resting between the somewhere of the land of the living and the somewhere of the paradise of the dead.

For eternity. Or unto ultimate destruction.

Such was the price of his Power.


	402. Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is one hundred years to the day after Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and Maedhros is in a funk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 26, 2016.
> 
> Just some hurt/comfort angst and fluff. Part of all the stories revolving around Elrond and Elros as elflings being raised by Maedhros and Maglor. This one takes place when they're a little older than usual (40).
> 
> As a note on the aging of elves: Some people have them reaching physical maturity around 50. In my head-canon, they reach physical maturity (as in, their full adult height and stature) closer to 100, when they are actually considered to be functioning adults in their own right, albeit very young ones. Thus, in my head, the twins right now look somewhere right around ten years of age, give or take. Not quite little kids anymore, but more like adolescents just before puberty strikes its first blow.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions war and death, including semi-graphic description. Depression, self-hatred, PTSD, nightmares, unhealthy coping methods, mental instability... stuff. But it's got fluff, too, I swear!
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro
> 
> Note: Use of names in different languages was completely intentional. Sorry if it's confusing.
> 
> *The Doom of Mandos is quoted from "Of the Flight of the Noldor" in the Quenta Silmarillion and is not my creation.

A century had passed. A _century!_

One hundred years since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. One hundred years since Findekáno had died.

One hundred years to the very day after that sunlit morning that ended in tragedy long ago, Maitimo awoke to the sound of his own grasping breaths. Light streamed through his open window, catching harshly upon his sword where it rested upon the wall. The metal glinted blindingly, flashing into his eyes, and his whole body shuddered as he recalled the glow of his cousin’s helmet in the rising light of day. As he recalled the foreboding red gleam on pale silver as Findekáno turned his mighty head.

He remembered the white burst of light when the axe had come down upon his cousin’s skull from behind, cleaving that helm in two like butter and splitting the bone beneath. He remembered the splatters of blood and brain-matter, the instantaneous dulling of brilliantly bright blue eyes, and the snap of a pair of golden wings rent down the middle, the pieces sent scattering into the mire below.

He remembered watching Findekáno fall. The helpless rage as that axe continued coming down on the dead body of his cousin, defiling the corpse as it rent limbs and shattered bones and tore open flesh. An unrecognizable mass of white and red gore lay at its feet as its comrades joined it in its blasphemy. Greedy hands reaching and tearing off meat. Mucky boots stepping upon the pulverized flesh and in the spilt blood. Grimy claws tearing the heraldry down, ripping the deep blue fabric and dying the silver stars scarlet with the blood of the High King. Such horror could he recall twisting in his gut, and shock, for Findekáno the Valiant was a prolific warrior not easily felled by blade. Even Maitimo had been hard-pressed to defeat his dear cousin in single combat. Yet an orc had killed him in the end.

A fluke. A trick. A moment of chance. No orc could have felled Findekáno except under the direst of circumstances.

But had the Nirnaeth Arnoediad not been the direst of circumstances? Had it not been so that their lines had been broken and scattered, that their troops were lost in the confusion and surrounded on all sides? Had it not been so that they were betrayed, caught off-guard by the treachery of their own allies, and swept away in the riotous mass of the Enemy?

Findekáno had not even seen his doom approaching. Briefly, there had been a shock of pain and surprise in those eyes. And then nothing.

Had he two hands, Maitimo would have buried his face in both. But he had only one, and he sat in his bed and hid his face, scrubbing harshly at his eyes as if to remove the traces of the nightmare which had brought him screaming back to reality. What he would not do to be able to erase the sight of Findekáno’s defiled body from his mind’s eye!

What he would not do to have switched places! Maybe the world would have taken a better turn had it been Nelyafinwë Fëanárion who had perished in the filthy mire of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad rather than Findekáno the Valiant.

No amount of grief and no amount of guilt would change the past. No amount of wishing or dreaming would bring Findekáno back from the dead.

He knew that. _He knew that._

But he felt the shadow of grief upon his heart and the sting of guilt in his fëa all the same.

Sighing, the eldest Fëanárion climbed out of his bed, still rubbing the sleep and horror from his eyes. Today, he decided, was going to be a _long_ day.

\---

“Maglor, why does Lord Maedhros look so sad today?”

The comment was innocent enough, but it still caught Makalaurë by surprise. Trying not to be too conspicuous about it, he glanced over at his brother—likely who had heard the comment and was steadfastly ignoring it as he scowled down at his plate as though it were Morgoth himself—and at first thought Nelyafinwë simply looked angrier and more sleepless than usual. Nightmares, probably. A frustration Makalaurë himself was well-acquainted with.

But then he got a good look at Nelyafinwë’s eyes. Normally, the pale silver gleamed like a knife in the moonlight, sharp and filled with cruel intent. However, those normally pristine and white-hot orbs were cool and watery, darkened to the shadowy pale gray of an overcast sky upon the plains just before the strike of rain. Their fire was diminished.

Indeed, they held a look that Makalaurë was all too intimately acquainted with. They looked to be drowning in sorrow, half-hidden but undeniable.

It was a look he saw oft in the mirror. Less so with the arrival of sweet Elros and Elrond, for children lightened his heart in ways naught else could. But, still, sometimes the mood still snuck up behind him, taking him captive and filling him with the throbbing ache of his grief before he could think even to counter its horrid pain, the draining sag of his own limbs as their energy was sucked away beneath depression.

Nelyafinwë looked just like that now. One who did not know him well would have thought he looked ready to murder the next person who inspired his ire with his bare hand. But, in reality, he just seemed strained and distracted and wilted. Just sad.

Once he thought about it, why was not terribly difficult to guess.

It was fall of the year five-hundred and seventy-two of the First Age. One hundred years since the failure of the Union of Maedhros. One hundred years since Findekáno Nolofinwion had been slaughtered upon the field of battle by the folly of their arrogant and flawed plan.

Nelyafinwë felt guilt. After all, they had been warned of their impending doom.

 _“To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass…”_ *

But Makalaurë shook the morbid thought from his mind. They could blame their folly for the death of Findekáno, but, in the end, no one had forced the High King to come to their aid or fight at their side. No one had held Findekáno at knife-point and marched him onto the field of battle against his will. No one had stripped him of his armor and mail or taken his sword and shield, leaving him defenseless against the oncoming swarm of the Enemy.

Findekáno had chosen to be there at their side. The treachery that had shattered their carefully-fortified plans may have contributed to the High King’s eventual death, but none could really say what exactly had happened to distract their cousin, to pull Findekáno’s attention away from battle and allow the lucky strike which had killed him instantly. No one could really take the blame save only the hand of the orc who had done the deed.

In the end, perhaps the Curse could be blamed or perhaps it ought to not be held responsible. In the end, Nelyafinwë still blamed himself one way or another. But Makalaurë refused to feel guilt, for it was a simple fact that men died in war. And Findekáno had died protecting his fleeing people from being cut down and slaughtered. A noble death if ever there had been one.

Of course, Nelyafinwë would never see it that way. Makalaurë never even bothered to argue.

Instead of pondering the subject further, he turned back to his charge. At forty years of age, Elros no longer resembled a baby or even a small child. Now he looked to be a young lad caught at the very beginning of the gangly phase between child and man, and his eyes were no longer filled with the sweet and ignorant innocence of one who could not comprehend the severity and gravity of difficult words and subjects.

A simple “Thou art imagining things” would not suffice to negate his charge’s curiosity.

“It is a personal matter of his own,” Makalaurë instead replied. “Perhaps it would be for the best if thou didst keep out of his way for the time being, until the mood passes.”

There was an annoyed flash in the boy’s eyes. Clearly, Elros was not satisfied with the vague explanation. That little mouth with those pouty lips pressed taut together into a faint frown even as the boy’s hands curled against the table-top. But Makalaurë did not scold, for he could see that it was not only pure curiosity that drove the boy to question. He knew that Elros was closer to Nelyafinwë than his twin, caring for the old, redheaded warrior less like an uncle and more like a father or brother, and the concern that came out from beneath the annoyance—a ray of pale sunlight from behind a dark shade—was genuine.

“That is all I shall say on the matter,” Makalaurë concluded. “Eat thy breakfast, hên.”

\---

Of course, Nelyafinwë _had_ heard the conversation, though it had been whispered between his brother and the eldest twin at the other end of the table. Elros had accepted the gentle scolding and had gone obediently back to his breakfast, not broaching the subject again as they ate their meal.

Part of Nelyafinwë was grateful that Kanafinwë had put the boy off. He wasn’t sure that he wanted any company at all today.

The rest of him was secretly just a bit sadder. That part of him that desperately _did_ want companionship—even that of someone too young and too pure to understand the horrors of war and the complexity of his guilty conscience—it yearned to escape the loneliness of his morbid ponderings. That part of him would have eagerly grasped at even the faintest bit of comfort if only to assuage the ache that settled like a dull ache beneath his ribs.

But it was not a burden for a child, he told himself. It would not be fair to place knowledge of such evil and terrible deeds upon the shoulders of a boy just barely removed from infanthood.

Retreating to his study, he tried instead to concentrate on getting something done. Some correspondence or some light reading or some organizing of trade agreements and lists of supplies. Anything to take his mind away from the flash of red light in his eyes and the ring of a shattered silver helm and the snap of golden wings being torn in two.

But then he saw it. The golden, mocking sunlight streamed through the window, crawling across the floor. And Nelyafinwë closed his eyes tightly against the rising sting.

Of course he wasn’t going to get anything done…

The morose thought was interrupted by the sound of a soft knock at his door. The redhead rubbed at his eyes roughly, driving away any hint of the tears that had drawn so perilously near to the surface in the moment of weakness. Instead, he turned to stare at the wooden barrier between himself and whoever had come to interrupt his mourning and brooding.

Probably not Kanafinwë. His brother thought it futile to try and comfort him or to argue with him about anything concerning Findekáno’s death. A wise one was he.

It could have been one of his soldiers, but they usually had a firm, loud knock. Professionalism demanded that they announce themselves promptly, and they would have called through the door to him with their name and errand in order to check if he was even present.

Which left the most likely suspect. Elros.

It seemed that the curiosity of the young could not be so easily stifled after all.

Feeling more exhausted than he had for many years—indeed, probably since the days after the Second Kinslaying when all had seemed hopeless and despair had rested heavy upon his fëa—Maitimo resisted the urge to sag in his chair and rest his face in his hand. Instead, he made to stand, heading for the door with the intention of sending Elros away with a scolding.

He opened the door, and there the boy was. Now at perhaps the height of his belly, no longer the tiny little babe he remembered with the round, chubby cheeks and the wide, awe-filled eyes. Instead, there was something altogether more serious about the child. More understanding.

Before he could even get a word in edgewise, Elros had crossed the threshold into the study and wrapped his toned, skinny arms about Maitimo’s waist. A small face was buried into the hard lines of his abdomen as the child caught him in a hug and squeezed tight, clinging even as Maitimo’s lone hand floundered in indecision.

He was utterly caught off-guard.

“Pen-neth?” he asked in the softest voice he could muster. “Elros?”

“I am sorry,” was whispered against his stomach, soft lips tickling at his skin through his tunic. “I am sorry for whatever made thee sad. Thou dost not need to explain if thou dost not want, but I…” The arms tightened faintly.

Finally, Maitimo—still somewhat frazzled and unsure—laid his good hand upon the boy’s upper back, stroking gently. Dimly, he remembered embraces, for once he had been the go-to for affection of all of his younger siblings in their tender and youthful years. But it had been hundreds of years since anyone had dared actually _embrace_ him.

Anyone, except Findekáno, of course…

“Ai, thou shouldst not be worrying about such things,” Maitimo choked out, still feeling a bit uncomfortable in his own skin. Sadly, he was no longer accustomed to people—his brother or his people or the Enemy’s—running _towards_ him rather than fleeing at his coming. And, certainly, he was not accustomed to others caring much about his feelings, especially little elflings. “Thou art young and free of such burden,” he added.

Yet, when Elros looked up at him, there was a stubborn little scowl on that cute little face. And the nostalgia—for how many times had one of his brothers worn just this expression of indignant insubordination?—was nearly enough to rend him in two and scatter his shattered pieces upon the floor to be crushed beneath unwary boots. Clearly, the child was having none of his dismissal, nor was planning to simply let the topic go unspoken.

“I don’t want anyone to be sad anymore,” the boy told him. “When we were still with Nana, she would get that look, too. Every time Ada sailed off for weeks or months on end she would just sit still and look so _sad._ And I hated it! I hated it when she cried and stared out the window and never smiled!”

The beginnings of tears—perhaps both stricken and frustrated in origin—gathered upon the child’s dark lashes. Cheeks flushed, and Elros shyly pressed his cheek back against Maitimo’s belly, hiding away his overflowing emotion. “Hugs helped. They made her smile.”

Of course, the child had no understanding of the innate differences between his own mother and the bloodthirsty, half-mad conscience of the monster that was Maedhros Fëanorion. Perhaps there was similarity in the longing and the heartbreak, though Maitimo did not pine for his cousin as a lover might but rather as a dear friend and brother. Still, the re-forged blade of the eldest son of Fëanáro had not been made for smiling and laughter or for comforting embraces from sweet, well-meaning elflings.

“The sentiment is appreciated, pen-neth. However, I think there is little thou canst do to help. Even with hugs.”

Big eyes peeked up at him from the dark folds of his tunic. “Thou art wrong. And I will not leave until thou dost smile. I do not want thee to be sad anymore.”

“Aiya, pen-neth…”

“Please?”

_If only it were so easy… If only a mere hug and smile could drive away the guilt and the pain…_

Nevertheless, Maitimo managed a small smile for the elfling. Not a broad one or even a happy one. Just barely there, the curl of his lips up at the corner, more indulgent with a hint of wistfulness than anything resembling happiness. But it was enough. Just barely enough.

Carefully, he ran his fingers through the child’s dark, unbound hair, taking in the softness against the leathered calluses of his fingers and palms. Those big eyes watched him closely.

“Satisfied?” he asked with the faintest hint of amusement.

That, at least, garnered a tiny nod. Carefully, the boy withdrew from where he’d been clinging to the redheaded warrior, and Maitimo at once noticed the chill where their bodies had been pressed, both tingling with the afterimage of warmth and prickling with the cold unpleasantness of loss.

“Did it help?” Elros asked, both flushed from his shyness, his embarrassment at the boldness of his actions, but also too stubborn to renege on his plan now and flee.

“A bit.” And maybe it did. Just the tiniest bit. The inner part of Maitimo—the part he so often denied—seemed pleased with the few moments of gentle comfort. And he felt just the smallest bit warmer. The icy fingers of his nightmares had retreated now behind a thin wall of heat and sunlight, still there, but more a niggling in the back of his thoughts than an overpowering front of agony and guilt. The sunlight on the floor did not seem quite so viciously garish and accusatory.

“Now, thou shouldst be off. Thy lessons are to start soon, I expect, if they have not already. Maglor has never appreciated lateness in his students.” Carefully, he turned the child and nudged him back out into the hallway. “Stay out of trouble.”

One more glance back over a thin shoulder. Big eyes watched him closely, as if checking to make sure he was still better. “Do not be sad anymore.”

Then the boy walked off, turning the corner at the end of the hall and disappearing.

And Maitimo stood in the doorway and sighed. The hint of a smile dropped off his face, and there was still the ever-present poison of guilt crawling through his veins, but the fatigue of a restless night did not weigh quite as heavily upon his lethargic body as it had before. The scattered and unfocused jumble of memories that dominated his thoughts were held at bay beneath a bubbling little spring of affection.

_Aiya, Findekáno, he reminds me so of thee at this moment. Thou wouldst have been just as bold, demanding my happiness as though it could be summoned at my beck and call. What a thing to say!_

Shaking his head, the old warrior turned back to his sunlit study, closing the door quietly in his wake. It was best not to ponder such things for too long.

Still, the passing thought—the echo of Findekáno’s spirit in Elros’ voice—never did quite go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro  
> fëa = spirit/soul (s)  
> Nolofinwion = Son of Nolofinwë  
> Aiya = exclamation similar to Oh
> 
> Sindarin:  
> hên = child (s)  
> pen-neth = young one (s)  
> Nana = Mommy/Mama  
> Ada = Daddy/Papa  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor


	403. Legend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case of severe mistaken identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 27, 2016.
> 
> So, this is just me having fun, doing a bit of world-building and trying out a slightly different style of writing than my norm. It is OC-centric technically, though the character is (as of yet) of little consequence and remains (and likely with always remain) unnamed. This is sort of built off my little arc began at the beginning of the Fourth Age after the defeat of Sauron, particularly focused on Celebration, Peace and Begin, as well as off all the Ilession-based works (another OMC of mine). I have no idea if this will ever go anywhere, as it is thus far but a bit of a half-baked idea in my mind.
> 
> I should put a note in that there is some Haradrim culture in this, entirely based off of my headcanon and the little shown in movies and throughout other fanfiction. I don't want this to seem racist or sexist, but it may come off that way to people of more delicate sensibilities. Nevertheless, it is as it is. I have also assumed that the Nazgûl primarily live and function out of Mordor, and thus have not been seen in the southern lands since they ruled there as Kings. It's the foundation for this little splurge of mine.
> 
> Warnings: OMC-centric (main narrator). Cultural/physical differences. Middle-earth lore. Elves being their normal strange and incomprehensible selves.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Curufin = Curufinwë  
> Maglor = Makalaurë

There were two strange men passing through the village.

This, in of itself, was not terribly unusual. Strangers often traveled down south from the Harad Road—merchants in search of trade, or defectors fleeing from distant battles, or other characters both savory and unsavory—so most would not have given the pair a second glance. Most did not, in fact, for night was falling over the land and soon the arid country would grow cold and desolate. It was best to be indoors when the night’s chill set in.

However, there was something strange about this pair.

They were covered completely, their heads draped with deep cowls, the shadows hiding away their faces from searching eyes. Even though they were perched upon great steeds—and it was odd to see horses at all in these parts, for such creatures did not do so well for the lack of grass to nibble and the lack of water to drink, but they were not so far from the northern lands that it was impossible—it was obvious that they were very tall men. Broad-shouldered with their heads held high and aloft likes lords or chieftains. The only feature that could be made out in the fading light, other than the darkness and wear of their traveling attire, was that both shared long manes of dark hair that peeked out from their hoods, splayed like black hands resting upon their shoulders and chests.

Honestly, the boy thought they looked very foreign and strange. Creepy and perhaps a bit unnatural. Abruptly, they reminded him of the whispers—whispers of Black Riders come down from the land of Mordor, servants of Sauron the Great. The boy shuddered at the thought.

No one doubted the might of the northern god in his land of shadow and flame. For too many generations to count, the knowledge of the Lord in his Black Tower had been passed down and down from mouth to mouth. A powerful ally, protector of the southern lands from invasion by the northern hoards of Gondor. But a cruel ally, with a long reaching arm and a harsh hand, swift to punish those who failed in their duties or betrayed their promises. And he had, in his arsenal, nine great servants whose powers could wither the bravest man’s heart to cowardice and whose breath was a poison upon the air that settled in the flesh like a black, rotting plague. Supposedly, their voices were hissing and cold, and none ever saw their flesh, for they were always covered completely in black cloaks. Truly, they were a formidable thought—the Dark Lord and his nine generals.

It was a great honor to send their most powerful warriors and sorcerers north to serve beneath the banner of such a god of war. But that did not make the rumors—both of the god himself and of his wrathful and merciless servants—any less terrible. Any less spine-chilling or bone-jarring.

Could these men be two of those servants?

They certainly had the air of danger about them as they went unhindered—a chilled atmosphere that crawled over the flesh like unseen eyes and cold spectral hands. There was no pause in the gait of their steeds as they went, the hooves of their beasts kicking up clouds of dusty, dry earth that swirled about them in a haze. Unbothered, the pair continued on without fanfare and without talk, silent and poised. They stopped neither to barter for food nor to look at the stalls and carts of the traveling merchants and local craftsmen.

In fact, they walked right through the village without stopping. And the boy stood and watched them, feeling as though his feet were frozen into the rapidly-cooling sand beneath his soles. Not once did their heads even turn in his direction, and yet…

“Strange folk,” someone commented once the riders were out of earshot, already several paces out from the village and heading towards the nearby river. “Unpleasant.”

“At least they aren’t seeking shelter or food. No one wants to deal with that sort.”

The pair of men were about ten feet away, and both looked uneasily at the retreating backs of the strangers, their dark eyes narrowed with the instinctual dislike and disquiet, both of which the boy also felt like a sickening, gelatinous mass in the pit of his own belly. A wiser boy would have decided then and there that the words of the older men of the village were sound and that he should make for home, forgetting all about the strange travelers in the dusk.

He was not such a boy.

Fearless, he would not quite call himself, for he indeed felt the slow creep of fear veiled over his heart as he stared after the mysterious pair. But craven, he would never be. Curious—too much for his own good—and bolder than he had any right to be, the boy was undaunted even by the legend of the Black Riders.

Far too eager to get a glimpse of these strange beings without their customary hoods—and what a wonderful story it would make for months to come, bragging to the other boys that _he alone_ had been brave enough to follow Black Riders and spy upon them in the night!—he made the split-second decision to slip through the shadowy spaces and haunts of the village until he reached its southern edge. The pair of riders were but specks in the distance.

They were headed for the river. No surprises there. It came down from the northern mountains, and it served as the only source of clean water for miles in any direction. The next nearest source was an oasis some twenty miles west, and beyond that the mouth of a river leading down to the sea rested a week’s worth of travel—and that was riding rather than on foot.

He trailed after them in the dark, his eyes trained upon the marks of their horses’ passage through the sand and dirt. A soft breeze bit over the land, and he shivered faintly.

 _Awfully cold for bathing, already_ , the boy couldn’t help but think. After trailing behind for a few minutes, he was cold and uncomfortable from lack of layers. The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, and its warmth was long lost to the blood-spattered artwork that streaked across the sky in the wake of its passage.

Carefully, he tracked the pair. Across the sand, he had to stay far back to avoid being seen by vigilant eyes, but upon reaching the river he had less problems remaining unseen. The bank was sandy and bare, but there were places, too, where reeds and small trees grew and blossomed, their boughs littered with the only green and growing things the boy had ever seen beyond the few herbs and shrubs that could be cultivated in the nutrient-poor sand and were used to feed the few livestock kept in the village. Livings were scraped out by craft and weaving here more so than true agriculture in the middle of the desert.

Still, the cover of the trees and their long shadows was appreciated. The boy peered through the tangle of scrub and reed, searching for the strangers. Their horses were nearby, picking and snuffling at the river-plants, so their riders could not have been far off. Indeed, each steed bore upon its back the drape of a black cloak.

_The Riders are uncovered! Now is my chance!_

Finally, after some careful and silent maneuvering, the boy moved such that he caught a glimpse of the pair of strangers.

He had to admit that they were not quite what he was imagining.

First off, he had never met anyone so pale. 

One man was already submerged halfway into the slow-moving waters filtered by the nearby reeds, and the upper half of his body was exposed completely. Besides the color, it was almost exactly what the boy imagined a warrior’s body would be like: dappled in scars and marks, rippling with lithe but nonetheless impressive and undeniable muscle. But the boy had never seen anyone fair-skinned before, and it was strange to see someone who looked woven of moonlight and starlight rather than properly of the earth. Of course, there were rumors about the barbaric Gondorians being fair as well, but no one ever said anything about them being like alabaster, bleached of all color.

Nor had anyone ever said anything about their beauty. The face of the bathing man, though undeniably male, was beautiful to the point of being disturbing to gaze upon. The skin contrasted so starkly with the hair as to be like looking out of a black curtain and being blinded by the garish revelation of daylight beyond. The eye color was visible even from a distance as well: the color of rich emeralds, the likes of which the boy had only ever seen in the most expensive jewelry ferried to and fro upon the Harad Road from one great city to another. And the ears were pointed at the top, shaped oddly alike to leaves rather than rounded as properly ears ought to be.

Stricken at the strangeness of the first rider, he barely noticed when the second man began to disrobe. When he did look, he at first he perceived a face like in form and exotic oddness to the first man, as though the pair were brothers. They shared, too, the form of a warrior’s body and the incredible height, dwarfing easily even the tallest of men the boy had seen either in or passing through his village.

But then he saw the markings.

Jagged, sharp black markings crawling in tessellations and labyrinths across all that white skin. They swirled dizzyingly before his eyes as the man moved, each rippling in turn with the bend and twist of his musculature. From the back of his neck, climbing up to scrape at his cheeks and jaw, but also twisting down across the chest and back, curling like abstract snakes down his arms and legs to decorate even his fingers—of which several were missing—and his toes. Barely any flesh was left untouched, and the only interruptions to the design were pink and faint scars, the marks of a successful and experienced warrior tried and tested in battle.

The most striking mark, however, lingered upon the back of the right shoulder. A gaping and lidless eye with the pupil of a cat gazing into the sun. The mark itself was wreathed in the sharp lines of fire and was colorless but for its black edges, but it was cast by the dying light of day in hellish hues of vibrant orange and molten gold and bloody red. It stared at him as though it were a living thing, as though it were peering into his very soul.

The boy quailed then, a soft sound departing his lips in horrified shock at the sight. At the breathy exclamation, both heads snapped in his direction. The green pair glistened, a pair of gemstones catching the last rays of daylight and reflecting back a hue of demonic scarlet. But the man with the marks had eyes like miniature suns or giant white stars, eyes that seemed to part the falling curtain of the night before their resplendence, casting their light down upon the trembling watcher so that the boy felt naked beneath their incisive look.

Later he would deny it, but the boy fled. His heart was throbbing its way up his throat, and he wondered if he would vomit the pounding organ right out into the sand at his feet, so violent was its pulsing and leaping. Without pause, his feet carried him across the course sand, now cold to the touch, until he saw the familiar lights of the village rising up ahead of him from behind the small, sandy hills.

There was no denying it. Those two men were servants of Him. No other Lord or Master would dare to ever touch the design reserved solely for the heraldry of the Dark Lord of Mordor, Sauron the Great. A single eye, flaming and casting a piercing and scorching light down upon all those who rested beneath its gaze. Daring them to look back as proud men who feared neither pain nor death or to cower like dogs with their tails between their legs and flee.

The boy was young, and he was brave indeed, but to have even these lesser beings of power—the dark servants of the war god whispered about in battle-legend—look upon him, it felt like having cold spears pierced through his body. Not painful, but numbing. Terrifying. A tiny beetle or rabbit looking up into its demise at the claws or beak of a ravenous and merciless hawk.

Yes, terrifying indeed. He did not look back, fearing to be pursued by knives in the dark and hissed words in black tongues. But he was not followed.

\---

“Didst thou hear that?”

Indeed, Ilession had heard, but he shook his head dismissively. “Just a boy from the village. He has been following us for a while, thinking himself sneaky. Probably just a lad too curious for his own good. Nothing to be worried over.”

Telperinquar, whose viridian eyes were sharpened and ready for attack, now relaxed once more into his cool evening bath. The younger cousin—by a fortnight, if one wanted to be specific about it—and son of Curufinwë sunk into the water and dipped his head beneath the surface, washing the dust from his dark hair and driving the coat of hot grime from his naked skin. Coming back up, the green-eyed elf sighed in bliss.

And the older cousin, the son of Makalaurë, turned away from the reeds from whence their little spy had been looking, disregarding the child entirely. No danger would come of such a waif, especially an unarmed and frightened one. He drove all thoughts of their visitor from his mind and waded into the water alongside his cousin, enjoying the sudden coolness and the rush of the soft currents curling about his saddle-sore and travel-weary body. Perhaps a hot bath would have eased his muscles better, but the cool one was certainly refreshing after spending all day beneath the blazing sun whilst wrapped up from head-to-toe in two layers of black clothing and a black cloak to add to the stifling heat. Elves might be less sensitive to such distinctions as hot and cold, their bodies made to endure harsher conditions than their more illness-prone and fragile brothers, the Aftercomers, but even an elf could take only so much.

“Heavenly,” he purred after dousing himself. “By the Valar, but I needed that.”

Telperinquar hummed in agreement.

Together, they rested, letting the clean and clear water swirl about their bodies as they looked upwards to the heavens. There was nothing but endless miles of stars, a whole sea of lights, and the churning and milky arms of distant clusters and nebulas beyond. Such skies in the open desert were clearer even than any sky in the far north, though the stars were strange. But they were still beautiful and still carried the old and welcoming gleam of memory in their silvered eternity.

It was a nice rest for the weary travelers at any rate. They enjoyed it while it lasted.

\---

Meanwhile, their strange watcher was still startled out of his wits by the time he finally reached his home upon quivering and burning legs.

Panting, he arrived back into the village with a parched mouth and wide eyes. Skulking his way through the fallen darkness, he snuck into his family’s house. Many pairs of dark eyes looked at him—his father was there, and his two older brothers, and his mother and sister as well—and most seemed annoyed at his antics. This would not be the first time that his adventurous streak had resulted in impulsive quests out into the desert and late-night returns after dark and after dinner.

“Where have you been _this time?”_ one of his brothers asked sharply.

“I followed them,” the boy said, still short of breath and still with a hand pressed over his galloping heart beneath his ribs. “The strange riders.”

Disapproval stared back at him from his father. “Why must you always meddle? You best not have waylaid any strange folk, boy.”

But he shook his head. “I only looked. I saw them, the Black Riders!”

“Black Riders!” There was much scoffing. “The Black Riders have not been seen nor heard of around here for a dozen or more generations, if they ever existed at all! Even that isn’t certain! Besides, why would powerful servants of the Dark Lord be wandering around in the desert wastes?”

The boy wanted to say that he certainly wouldn’t know what business a Black Rider might have there or anywhere else. Such things, he reckoned, were not for mortal men to know or to ponder.

He knew only that the two men he had seen could not be men at all, and he told his skeptical audience so. “Demons!” he named them. “Or angels of war! Carved of moonlight shimmer and emblazoned with the Great Eye in black runes!”

More scoffing and a few snorts of laughter. “A trick of the light, surely,” he was chided. “Your imagination will need to be curbed one day, boy. Manhood is not too far off for you.”

Now slightly irate at the dismissal, the boy sulked and crossed his arms about his chest. When he was younger, perhaps, fanciful tales had been a well-adored pastime. His brothers had always smiled indulgently at the fabulous quests and tales he wove in his mind, and his mother and sister had allowed him to regale them with these strange stories he created sometimes long into the night whilst they mended or washed or braided their hair. But this was no made-up bedtime story, and he was no longer a little boy!

“I am being serious!” he cried aloud. “They were taller than any man I had ever seen and whiter than sun-scorched marble! One had emeralds for eyes, and the other stars, and their faces were oddly slanted and sharp, more beautiful than any maiden! They were like _gods!”_

Granted, he supposed it did sound strange, like a fairy-story. Really, Black Riders in their village in the middle of nowhere so many leagues out from the sea. And white-skinned, beautiful, alien creatures forged of silver moonlight and moonless night sky. The Great Eye blazing in the sunset was just the sugar crowning the honey-cake of ridiculousness.

Suffice to say, none really believed his tale.

But the boy still told it the next day to anyone who would listen. People who had seen the riders in the village, who had felt the creep and crawl as the legs of spiders pitter-pattering across their skin, who had felt a touch of icy fear dripping down their backs despite the late-afternoon heat, seemed to pause at his telling. Some of them looked upon him like he had lost his mind, unwilling to make anything more of such mystical phenomenon than simple distrust of strange and unfamiliar folk. But some shuddered and glanced about as if expecting the pair to hurl themselves from the nearest shadow, swords blazing in the midday sun, and their eyes said that they might believe his tale.

Regardless of who believed it or who didn’t, everyone in the village had heard about it within a couple of days, though trips to the river revealed no sign of the duo left behind. Not even footprints in the sand. And every traveler who passed through now, whether they stayed seven days and nights or whether they paused only to buy a mere loaf of bread, also heard the strange whispers of Black Riders passing down the Harad Road all cloaked in black with star- or gem-eyes and white angel-faces.

Many thought that that description even seemed plausible. For, did not the most dangerous and cruel beings come to tempt the hearts of men with fair visages? It seemed oddly fitting that the nine warriors, the rumored generals of the armies of Mordor, would be some strange deities beyond the ken of mortal men.

In any case, travelers passed both to the north and the south, carrying the rumors along with them. And, when the news of the defeat of Sauron the Great followed, it made all the more sense—to those who fancied themselves knowledgeable in such matters—that the servants, freed from enslavement to their Master and God, would flee into the southern lands from whence they had supposedly sprung in ancient days remembered only in song and crumbling temples or dark worship.

One thing was certain, though. These strange and wondrous beings had returned from the dead annals of memory, though where the missing seven might be—dead or scattered or yet hiding somewhere in the vast deserts or plains to the south or the east—none could say. And they kindled anew both fear and hope in the hearts of men.

The people looked anxiously upon the horizon for two dark specks lasting their blackness upon the pale sands. Some with dread, fearing to be conquered and pillaged, collected like trinkets and gold coins in the coffers of an ancient warlord or king with a taste for land and wealth. Some, too, with eagerness, for many feared that the loss of the protections of Mordor would lead to a resurgence of invading northerners from Gondor seeking the rich dyes, spices and wares that traveled through the lands of Harad, and they sought now the protection of greater beings to shield them from the possibility of facing the white-faced northern barbarians.

People forgot entirely that but a handful of people in a small northern village far out in the desert were the only people to actually _see_ the supposed Black Riders. And that but a single boy had seen them uncloaked and marveled at their bare faces.

It was a generally accepted fact that they were out there. Somewhere. Plotting or waiting or perhaps even watching and biding their time.

And the moment the pair of elves passed through the next town, hooded and cloaked in black upon the backs of their unholy and invincible steeds, all eyes were turned towards them in silent awe, and all the people moved from their path with reverence and fear. For these strange folk, hardly more than a little dusty from their travels, heads unseen but held aloft with the pride of ancient lords, were the Black Riders.

The pair of elves exchanged glances, unknowing of the tidings that had swiftly traveled to all corners of near Harad in the mere month that they had camped out, enjoying the riverbanks and the stars overhead. Neither had any idea that one mere glimpse had sparked the reemergence of a legend long left to gather dust in the backs of story-tellers’ minds, nor that they were at the epicenter of this strange occurrence.

Neither had any idea what strange happenings their mere resemblance to the Nazgûl, the foul wraiths that had been destroyed alongside their Master in the final days of the War of the Ring, had sparked.

But they would learn soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Valar = great holy beings (pl)


	404. Ecstasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the creation of the Silmarilli.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 28, 2016.
> 
> So I was sitting around, pondering how the Silmarils could actually _work_ because, even if they absorbed light, eventually they would still stop phosphorescing and go dark. This is what I came up with. As a side note, things are named once in Quenya and a second time in Valarin because, for the duration of this story, the inner monologue of Fëanor was spoken _in_ Valarin. He, in my head-canon, is one of the few elves who learned the tongue despite its supposedly distasteful sound.
> 
> Warnings: Science and philosophy and religion all mixed together. Brief mention of sex. Unhealthy obsessions.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro = Curufinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Galadriel = Artanis

Years of experimentation into depths of sciences yet unexplored. Years of preparation, of searching and searching for the perfect vessel or the means by which to shape it. Years and years and _years_ of exquisite and mind-rending craftsmanship, bridging into realms of alchemy, mathematics and sorcery beyond any yet touched by the mind and hands of a mere mortal creature.

And it culminated into this moment.

He hardly dared to _breathe._

Alone, he had come, to the summit of Corollairë—Ezellôchâr—upon whence stood Telperion—Ibrīniðilpathānezel—the Silver and Laurelin—Tulukhedelgorūs—the Golden. In the softness of the grass did he set his precious cargo: three empty cages of transparent stone, harder and more impregnable than adamant. And then he knelt like a worshipper before his altar beneath the mingled light of the Two Trees. Breathless and stricken, he stared up at their blinding resplendence. He watched as silver droplets of dew rained down upon the land, gathering in shimmering pools and touching upon his face with the most refreshing coolness, and as golden sap seeped down lustrous bark, the viscous and molten liquid tracing the edges of each delicate spring-green leaf before plummeting, warm to the touch upon his upturned and outstretched palms.

It was rare that any elf came so close to the Trees as he was now. They were in the sole keeping of the Valar and their Maiarin servants, who tended the roots and sang to the branches and gathered the dew and sap into vats of glowing light. But he had come on a mission this day, one that would not be halted or postponed merely because he should not draw so close.

He had told nobody to whence he traveled, not even his wife. He doubted most would approve of his quest.

Still, he cared not what they thought.

With a shivering breath leaving his lungs, he reached out to cup in his palms the first of the empty vessels, arranging it such that the light overhead burned down upon its facets and lit up its innards in white flame. Carefully, he moved the second and third vessels until they rested upon either side of the first, directly before him in the cradle of the grass. They lay shining garishly bright into his eyes, leaving behind purple, bruise-like echoes in his retinas and glowing softly beneath his eyelids as they closed to protect his sight.

Making such materials as these— _silima_ , he called it—had been somewhat trying, for he needed a substance that would take in every ounce of light and reflect it all back outwards as though it were a star of its own right. There were, of course, stones which naturally glowed, but such phosphorescence was an impermanent phenomenon. Whether in hours or in moments, the glow of such rocks would fade back into darkness. He, however, sought something which lacked such imperfection.

Careful delving into chemistry and alchemy, into the growing of crystals and their faceting, had achieved the creation of these three beauties. Even as they were, if taken away from the light now shining down upon them from above, they would shine bright as miniature stars for days or longer. But they, too, eventually would fade.

After all, light was but the result of photons radiating outwards through space. Just pure energy. Thus, any stone that glowed needed a source of energy from light. Most—including those resulting from his early experimentation—gained energy from the ambient light that reflected off of everyday surfaces and happened to be caught in their atomic net. Absorbance occurred, and then release of energy as light or heat.

His creations had been engineered to take in every ounce of energy without heating, losing no energy from their source through vibration. Every photon caught was devoured and reflected back out in its purest form.

But it still needed a source.

He then looked back to the Two Trees for inspiration. Ever-glowing without any discernable source of energy. At first, he had thought that, perhaps, the spirits of Varda Elentári and Yavanna Kementári sustained them, for the valier had admitted that they could never again create something of such glory and majesty on this earth until the End of Days. But certainly the Valar could not sustain that which they created with their own energy—Varda, the Two Trees and the stars, nor Manwë the airs and the winds, nor Yavanna all trees and plants and birds and beasts, nor Ulmo every drop of water and every cube of ice—for they would eventually run dry. Perhaps, they had used some of their own energy in creation, but what _sustained all?_ What was the _source?_

And then the Valar had told the Children of the Flame Imperishable. It was vague in tales, a side-note in the annals of history. Most scholars and philosophers were more interested in the nature of the Music in the Ainulindalë than they were in the light of temptation which corrupted the heart of Melkor.

Fools, the lot of them, to ignore the light of creation. _The source._

He was sure that it must be so. And he was equally sure that the Valar, in their creation, were tapping into the Flame Imperishable. That the energy which sustained these everlasting creations of beauty before him—silver and golden light entwined, alighting all the world to otherwise blind eyes wandering lonely in the darkness of space—came directly from that source.

For long, he had pondered by what means the Valar accessed the Flame. Could it be accessed otherwise? How might he tap into its glory in his own right?

The answer, of course, had been Song.

It had come to him from his second son, Kanafinwë, whose voice was such that it could move even the Valar to tears with its beauty. But there was more to his words than mere beauty, than mere notes written upon a page and entwined with the vibrating strings of harps. Though he had never really approved of such a gentle art over metallurgy and jewel-craft—he had never appreciated _any_ of the more delicate arts, for he was made to work in the forge with the heat and the soot and the fire—even he was forced to admit that there was something otherworldly about his child’s singing. As though the words became real before his very eyes. As though the touch of a hand was upon his skin or the droplets of rain fell upon his head or the sea lapped with its wet tongue between his toes were _real_ , though he knew in his rational mind that he had not left the indoor room where he sat before the hearth.

Somehow, Kanafinwë could bring sensations into being with the power of his voice, if only for the briefest of moments. It was, he would later discover, a form of sorcery. An entirely different field of study which he had always looked upon with doubt and distrust.

Words of Power, they were called. And they were used only by those who understood the world intimately. Some of those very philosophers and poets that he had always scoffed down his nose at could, with but the softest whisper of their voices, even croon flowers into blossoming or tease raindrops into snowflakes or summon soft breezes to whistle through the trees. He had always been a being of logic, focused on the material and visible world, and now, for the sake of his ultimate creation—his finest work, and his most taxing—he needed to draw upon the very essence of the world which rested outside his sight and innate understanding.

But he had always been a fast learner. And he learned in secret, in the depths of his halls whilst his wife cast upon him exasperated looks and resigned sighs at his lateness to meals and his children watched him suspiciously as though expecting his mind to tumble down into senility at every turn. Perhaps it might have seemed crazy, the amount of time he devoted now to his craft. The nights he went without sleep. The days he went without food.

He barely noticed the suffering of his own body. Hunger was but a distant thought in his mind, and thirst but the sting as a prick of a needle. Fatigue was a distant knocking at the door in the back of his skull, for his limbs twitched with excitement and his fingers trembled at the heat of his own spirit igniting.

Now finally— _finally!_ —he was ready to attempt this great work.

Curufinwë Fëanáro sat beneath the boughs of the Two Trees, and he Sang his greatest work into being. Off his tongue rolled the ancient language of the Valar, and he spoke of the golden and silver light as he understood their beauty. He spoke of their grace and their eternal brilliance upon the distant waters of the sea and over the vast fields of wildflowers. He spoke of their delicate mixture, their bringing of light to all of Valinórë and their burnishing in midnight blue the sky. He spoke of the rainbows split from their joining, painting the dark walls of the Pelóri in vibrant color and nacreous luster. He spoke of his desire to make their like with his own hands, of the golden loveliness of Artanis’ hair and his faded memories of silver butterflies.

He reached out to touch the Flame Imperishable with his voice, asking—begging—pleading—to be granted a small portion of its might and its bliss, a piece of the light of creation immortalized in living stone so that he might always bask in its glory and feel its gentle warmth upon his skin. So that he might make something of beauty surpassing any craft that had come before or ever would after.

And he felt it answer.

Even just the smallest brush of that immense Power against his spirit—the fieriest and most blindingly bright of mortal spirits—was like being touched by paradise. His body and his spirit knew pleasure in its many forms, from the simple touch of dew upon his fingertips to the joy of shaping metal and gem to the carnal burn of his wife’s inner muscles about him as they mated, but nothing— _nothing!_ —could be compared to the bubbling ebullience and awe and terror and love that filled him up to overflowing and then spilled down the sides of his fëa as it melted.

To touch the Flame Imperishable was to feel the purest of ecstasy. And he drowned in its whiteness and its fires.

If this was the tantalizing feeling that forever Melkor reached towards, he could understand the obsessive lust to possess its might that consumed the Dark Lord and drove him to evil in his pursuit. If this was the feeling of creation by means of the sorcery and magics beyond mortal ken, then he could understand the paroxysms of joy that suffused the bodies of the singing and dancing Ainur as their feet flew above the grass and their voices brought into being all manner of things. If this was the feeling of making something of his own—something born of holy light and his own inner spirit, pulling and tugging and cracking and breaking away with each passing moment—then he could understand why it was that the Valar held their own creations above all else in love and devotion. For such things were part of their very being, and they left a part of themselves behind in their making.

There was no real comprehension of what might be happening in the realm of physicality, not at this moment. Even if this experiment failed and his great work was cut short and left to darken and decay along with the world, he would still have these few moments to look back upon. These few moments spent cradled in Flame.

Even if he succeeded, would that be enough? Or would he forever long to return?

But, at this moment, he could not bring himself to wonder further or to care of the consequences. All about him was silver and golden light, and his spirit was boiling and burning away. Ecstasy indeed, but so great as to be painful. So great as to be destructive. It consumed him entirely, until his vision was blinded and his ears were ringing with the celestial choir of a thousand angelic voices answering his calls. It pressed in on all sides, the pressure crushing him inwards and pulling him apart.

And then he fell into darkness and silence.

\---

Waking up was strange. As though he were stepping out of the real world—the kaleidoscope of color and the tessellation of sound and the caress of light upon his skin—and back into something foreign and strange and wrong. The touch of grass was incomprehensible against his feet, its alien strands tickling at his cheeks and nose. The sight of its green form, so very tangible and material, was a mystery at first to his thoughts.

But he blinked his eyes, interrupting for a moment the sight of silver light upon verdant, and the ringing in his ears began to fade away. Suddenly, Arda—Aþāraphelūn—was coming back into his understanding. Solid form against solid form—his body draped in velveteen robes resting upon the warm earth of Ezellôchâr beneath the Two Trees—was realized.

He sat up, feeling wobbly in his arms and weak in his neck. There was no small amount of nausea either, as at first everything spun around him in a dizzying array of sensation. But his head cleared quickly as he recalled the life and the world of Curufinwë Fëanáro, Crown Prince of the Noldor, and he breathed cool night air into his lungs.

He recalled the feeling of hunger—the gnawing ache that now rested low in his torso, throbbing in complaint at being so neglected—and the searing dryness of thirst—for his throat was parched and raw, his lips cracked and rough, and his tongue swollen and awkward in his mouth. Food and water, he suddenly desired. And sleep, for his limbs seemed to be made of iron, weighed down beneath all the gallons of water in the ocean.

Groaning, he rubbed at his eyes and winced at the pain bursting to life in his abused vocal chords. Who knew that Singing could be so taxing?

But why had he been Singing?

For a moment, he sat stiller than a statue carved from stone, but then it began to come back to him suddenly. The years and years and _years_ of work. Experimentation and preparation and finally— _finally!_ —the creation. He remembered the heavy weights of the three vessels of silima in his palms and the glisten of holy light glittering within the prison of their facets.

Carefully, with eagerness and nervousness rising up in the back of his throat as bubbles and butterflies, he turned onto his side and looked at his creations.

And they were perfect.

Without checking, he could sense that their light would not fail even in the deepest of darkness, that they had achieved their intended state. They _felt_ different than had those empty shells, as though they ought to be touched only with the cleanest of hands and intentions. As though they were filled with something beyond mere light. They were a gift, cradling and personifying the glow of the Two Trees that nurtured all things in Valinórë.

They were beautiful. He reached out and touched them, finding their surface cold but their light warm. Wistfully, he gazed into their depths, though his eyes protested and squinted with pain at their sheer brightness.

All too easily, he fell back into the world of the Children of Eru, material and tactile. Solid and prisoner to the laws of physics and mathematics. But still his mind remembered the freedom of briefly reaching out beyond the edges of the world. Touching, perhaps, the Timeless Halls and their crowning jewel.

The Flame Imperishable stared back at him, blazing.

And his hunger and his thirst and his fatigue paled in comparison to the longing that suddenly overwhelmed all his thoughts and curled like the deepest of sorrows in his breast. All worldly desires, mere soft clothes and sweet scents and golden wealth, seemed small and unimportant and bleak when compared with that which he would never touch again until the End of Days. Until he passed back beyond the edges of Eä and the world was destroyed and remade.

Never would he part with them, nor leave them unguarded. For these scraps of light, so glorious as to steal the breath of lesser beings with their resplendence and harmony, were but mere droplets of the ecstasy which he now could never hope again to forget, and they were all he had left of the world beyond.

Gradually, the awe-stricken and shocked visage that adorned his face would fade. Slowly, he would return back to the bright-eyed, sharp-witted, scowling man with the hot temper and unshakeable hands. Eventually, the raw and open wound of his nostalgia and his longing would drift off into the back of his mind and everyday life once more came to consume his thoughts and dominate his actions.

But it would not go away. Like a mist, it would hang low and soft across his memories, never allowing him to forget what he had so briefly touched.

And so his obsession with the Silmarilli would never fade. And all who dared gaze upon them would lust for that which they embodied but could not grant. The world might have been a kinder place with less strife and less wickedness if they had never come into existence. If they had never captured and destroyed so many hearts.

For the moment, though, they were tokens of memory, drawn to the Prince’s chest like precious heirlooms and cradled in the velvet beds of his sleeves, their three lights looking up at him from the shadows of their nest. And, through the agony that echoed in the depths of his fëa, he smiled upon them in adoration.

Nothing greater had ever been made by mortal hands, he knew. And nothing greater would be made ever after which could possibly compare.

Such was the legacy of Curufinwë Fëanáro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Corollairë = Ezellohar (lit. Mound of Ever-summer)  
> silima = possibly "substance which shines white"  
> Elentári = Queen of the Stars  
> Kementári = Queen of the Earth  
> valier = female valar (pl)  
> fëa = spirit/soul (s)  
> Valar = great holy beings (pl)  
> Maiar = lesser holy beings (pl)  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)
> 
> Valarin:  
> Ezellôchâr = Ezellohar  
> Ibrīniðilpathānezel = Telperion  
> Tulukhedelgorūs = Laurelin  
> Aþāraphelūn = Arda


	405. Skip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor and Nerdanel are going to become parents a little earlier than intended. Oops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 29, 2016.
> 
> As has been mentioned in a couple of other instances, poor Maedhros was the child conceived accidentally out of wedlock, leaving Fëanor and Nerdanel scrambling to get married without anyone outside the immediate family figuring it out. Basically, this is Fëanor being his usual arrogant self, but still showing off a bit of his gentlemanly side when the pair are cute and coupley.
> 
> Warnings: Some sensual/sexual content (not incredibly explicit). Implied premarital sex. Old-fashioned elven courting customs. Pregnancy out of wedlock. Young people in love being dumb.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Curufinwë = Fëanáro

Curufinwë Fëanáro was the Crown Prince of the Noldor.

This meant that he was used to being in the public eye. Not only were all of the snobby people of the King’s Court watching his every move with interest—usually not of an entirely benevolent nature—but the whole rest of Tirion looked to him as an example as well. They wanted to see him dressed up in his best finery, smiling and putting forth all his charm and charisma. They wanted to see his works of art so that they might marvel at the creations they could never hope to dream of either making or owning.

They wanted him to be perfect. Less of an individual and more of a concept.

Long since had he grown used to this reality. By no means was he dissatisfied with his place in the world. A little bit of extra work to look nice and play at friendliness whilst in public were small concessions, ones that had other uses and therefore were not a complete waste of his time. And the Crown Prince _liked_ to show off his creations to anyone who might stop and admire them, so presenting his genius before his people—and, better yet, before the jealous eyes of Court—was hardly a chore.

Still, there were some downsides to being subject to the public’s opinions. One of which he had not even considered before, for it had hardly been relevant to his existence until just a handful of weeks ago.

That was when he started secretly courting Nerdanel Mahtaniel. An artisan. And not a nobleman’s daughter.

In most cases, Fëanáro would brush convention aside, but in this instance he had seen an opportunity to make his marriage to the fiery redheaded copper-smith’s daughter go smoothly. The last thing he wanted was some ridiculous noble trying to convince his father that he ought to be chasing the air-headed ninnies of Court. Therefore, it had come into his mind to court his soon-to-be-wife in the archaic and traditional manner expected of royalty.

That meant he would need to ask formal permission from her father for her suit. That meant he would need to spend months—possibly more than a year—paying visits to her house with gifts and going on afternoon strolls in broad daylight with accompanying chaperones and many staring eyes. That meant that he would need to formally present her to the Court, though by then he was certain everyone and their dog would know of his intentions, so that she could publicly meet the King and be assessed by the supposedly important and upper crust people of Tirion.

(Not that their opinions, of course, mattered much to him. Regardless of what they wanted or thought, he would still marry his beautiful Nerdanel, even if they had to go behind backs to do it.)

The whole process would then be concluded by much public flirting during at least an entire season’s worth of parties and dances. More gift-giving would ensue—in an attempt to prove that he could provide for her and any children they would produce, though everyone would know from the start that that would not be an issue—and, finally, after most likely two wholes _years_ of courting and wooing, he could ask her father for her hand in marriage.

And then they would be engaged for another year at least, preparing for the wedding.

Even thinking about waiting that long to be _with_ her had been… painful.

Both of them were already lost completely. They already shared hidden kisses in dark corners or in fire-burnished shadows of the Prince’s forge whenever they might catch a private moment. They already had progressed to stripping each other of clothing—he felt his cheeks burn faintly with both slight shame and lust for having already seen her naked before he had even asked the permission of her father to court her—and exploring one another’s bodies to the fullest. Already, Fëanáro knew several ways in which to make Nerdanel’s legs tremble and give way from bliss, or to make her release those breathy little cries that never failed to make his loins pull taut. He knew intimately her smell and taste and the color of every inch of skin on her body and the placement of every sweet nutmeg freckle.

He had wondered if they could both stand to wait three _years_ to finally reach the point of coitus. Both were already aflame with their passions for the other. Both were already yearning sharply to come together as they knew they were meant to be. And both were incredibly stubborn and hot-tempered individuals who did not _care_ what the rest of the world thought of their choices.

In this instance, though, a bit more foresight would have been advised, he would later admit.

But, at the time, the last thing he had been contemplating was consequences of his foolish actions. All his carefully-sculpted plans to smoothly bring his wife into the upper echelons of society evaporated, boiled away by the heat of his need for her and hers for him. All it took was one secret liaison in the dead of night.

Unsurprisingly, they skipped over the recommended courting period and went straight for the wedding night.

Several times.

Several times a day, most days, if they could manage.

And, in hindsight, it was probably one of the stupidest decisions Fëanáro had made. For all his supposed intelligence, he still hadn’t even seen it coming…

\---

“I am pregnant.”

The three words that had caught him completely and utterly by surprise.

Nerdanel stood before him, green eyes lowered nervously beneath her lovely copper lashes and her hands twisting the tail of her braid between anxiously fidgeting fingers. And Fëanáro felt as though he ought to bash his own head against the wall, or at least that he should find something comforting to say to soothe his mate. Yet, his charm and his silver-tongue were failing him at that moment as his thoughts began to race through the back of his mind in wild, incomprehensible spirals.

There was something resembling panic in the leap of his heart beneath his ribs. And something resembling disappointment at the thought that she looked forlorn instead of happy. And something resembling excitement at the thought that he was going to be a _father._

But then there was the crushing reality. She hadn’t told him how far along she was, but they had been copulating for about two months. The entire gestation of their child would only take a full twelve, so if she was already two months along that gave them ten months to find a suitable way to resolve their situation without her ruination and without problems with the legitimacy of his heir—the heir to the throne of the High King. Less if they wanted to have the wedding prior to the birth of their child, which would be the most advantageous outcome in this ridiculous situation.

Ten months. Maybe half that. What a mess!

Really, he couldn’t help but feel like a complete fool for forgetting that she might fall pregnant. Or maybe he just hadn’t though that conception might happen so quickly after they joined together for the first time. After all, he was aware of many couples who tried for children for _years_ before they managed to have a baby. His own father had been married to Lady Indis for more than two decades before they had managed to conceive Findis.

Still, what kind of idiot failed to remember that reproduction was the natural progression of copulation? It was not something he had ever forgotten before—the few times he had had intercourse for simple fun and enjoyment—but for some reason with Nerdanel, he had just been so caught up in the moment and in her body and in her laughter, and he just…

Well, he was certainly not going to be angry with her about it. He would not lie and say he hadn’t enjoyed himself immensely nor would he ever claim that she had seduced away his self-control and was to blame for their mishap. Really, he was angrier with _himself_ than with anything she had done because, even if he had lost his thrice-be-damned self-control, he _still_ should have known to attempt to minimize the possibility of children. And it was also clear to his gaze now that she was incredibly nervous about his reaction—and was it not just a blow to his pride and self-worth as a proper man that she could even _think it a possibility_ that he might be upset, or that he might (Eru forbid!) turn her away for some ill-conceived transgression!—and the last thing he wanted was for her to doubt.

Carefully, breaking the tension of a half-minute of stunned silence rested between them, he lifted her chin and chastely kissed her soft lips. “Look not so worried, nárinya,” he told her. “I hate to see thee upset.”

“But this… What are we going to _do?”_ she cried out. “Thou hast not even asked to _court me_ yet! I have not even met thy father! This is a dis—”

So much so did he dislike the flashes of terror between the red-hot embers of fury in her green eyes that he silenced her words with another kiss. And, as with all of their kisses, he felt the molten heat between their twining tongues stir the first vestiges of arousal lower down, further spurred on by her soft moan and the gasp of her breath when he allowed her brief moments of air. But he did not give in to the temptation of her breasts pressed to his lower chest or to the softness of her lower belly against the sudden hardness of his cock, not even when she went languid against him and leaned her full weight into the hard planes of his body.

He waited until he felt her tension draining away entirely and her panic fading into relaxation. When he broke their kiss, her green eyes were soft and hazy, and her panting was of passion instead of fear of ridicule and ruin. Carefully, he rested her head against his shoulder and just held her there against his chest.

“Everything will be alright,” he murmured. “We shall solve this problem, thee and I, though I cannot think of any way to worm our way out of this mess without at least help from thy father and mine. Still, there is no need to panic yet.”

“How art thou so calm?” she murmured, sounding half-asleep in the aftermath of her short burst of panicked anger.

“I got us into this mess, and I shall get us out.” He silenced the protest she tried to give by stroking his fingers across her parted lips. “Though, it may require that we skip a few steps in the original courtship plan.”

“Skip a few? Because they have not all been skipped already!” She snorted with amusement as she glanced up to meet his gaze. “I did not know thou hadst a talent for understatement, my Prince.”

“I have many talents!” His feigned indignation at least drew forth a laugh. It might have been a fatigued laugh, tainted by the sudden exhaustion that followed the relief of high stress, but it was still a laugh. They both needed the humor.

“Well, Sir Talented Crown Prince,” she mocked back in that cheeky way he adored, though perhaps lacking a bit of the usual energy and flare in her words. Carefully, she rested her head down against him again and sighed. “I think I am in need of a nap. And I think thou art in need of some time alone with my father.”

Fëanáro grimaced. He could not honestly say he was looking forward to the conversation he suddenly realized he would need to have with his lover’s father. It was not every day that a man—even a Prince such as he—had to go to a man who had once been his mentor and teacher in order to admit that he had impregnated said mentor’s daughter _without_ even asking to court her first. No doubt it would look scandalous, as though he had intended to use her for sport and drop her when he grew bored of her fire.

But Fëanáro had no intention of ever letting this woman go, nor of denying the child that she now carried in her womb. _His_ child.

“Thou art correct, wise one,” he replied, giving her another soft kiss. “Go and rest, and I shall speak to Mahtan.”

He bid her farewell, watching her walk away (with his eyes admittedly fixed firmly upon the sway of her callipygian form and the corresponding swing of her long, russet braid, the end teasing just below her waist), and then sighed half in admiration and half in resignation. Truly, there was no point in postponing the conversation. He would simply have to skip the two year courting period and take the conversation straight to “May I have thy daughter’s hand in marriage?”

Delightful.

But likely better than the conversation waiting for him when he told his _own_ father that a royal wedding need be arranged before Nerdanel began to show. Fëanáro winced even _thinking_ about it.

And then he scoffed and squared his shoulders, snapping his spine back into its straight, proud position. Purposefully, he set off at a brisk walk towards the private forge of Mahtan. He would not be cowed by fear at talking to his own father and or his father-in-law, even if it meant the anger and derision from two of the most important male figures in his early life!

He would do whatever need be to fix this problem. If there was one thing he was _not_ willing to skip, it was insuring the happiness and safety of his wife, and the legitimacy and comfort of his child. No matter how many tongue-lashings on irresponsibility or awkward conversations about intentions or long days of arranging and preparing and scrambling it would take to get them married with the full extravaganza of royalty in only a handful of months, he would do it willingly. Happily.

Nerdanel would be his wife. And she would spend her first pregnancy pampered and smiling and excited for their first child.

For Curufinwë Fëanáro was the Crown Prince of the Noldor. And he would make it so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Mahtaniel = Daughter of Mahtan  
> nárinya = my fire (nár + -nya)


	406. Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm both longs to return home and never wants to go back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 30, 2016.
> 
> And here we have the second part to Seek. This pair of stories together are something of a prelude to Rules and sort of poke around at Celegorm's characterization and early life which make him into his later ill-tempered, uncooperative self. Also, origins of Huan. And Valarin weirdness.
> 
> Warnings: The Ainur. Implied sexual content. Family issues. Unhealthy coping methods. Teenage rebellion with a new level in badass pending.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

_“Thou canst not hide here forever, pitya.”_

Oh, but how Tyelkormo wished that he could!

Beneath the boughs of the Woods of Oromë, life was so very simple. So very beautiful. After weathering decades of the deceit and subterfuge of Court life, being in such a wholesome and altogether innocent place was like bathing in a pure spring after being doused in toxic slime and left to rot.

There were few elves who ever came here, and none who lived here but for himself and a few devoted maidens of Vána. After coming to Valinórë—after tasting power and sampling wealth and being drowned in materialism—the elven people had devolved from their state of oneness with the earth and the sky and the birds and the beasts and the water and the stars. Where once they had taken greatest pleasure in singing to the heavens and dancing beneath the silver waterfall of light breaking the eternal darkness, now they were shrouded always by blinding light and safety. At Court, there was little pleasure taken in any natural vista, and even the gardens were less for pure enjoyment and more for courting and flirting in privacy. Unsurprisingly, there was little appeal for those sorts in living outside the luxury within which had spawned complacency and malice. The few elves who chose to return to their roots and heritage of ancient days were few and far between.

Here, there was rather only the pair of valar and their faithful maiar. Oromë was the lord here, with his eyes reflecting the shades of leaves in the trees, remaining vibrantly green through the spring and summer but falling to gold in the autumn and deep, earthy brown in the winter. And Vána was his lady, whose golden hair was always woven with flowers and berries, whose eyes shone with love for all things and whose fingers could not harm even the smallest and most ferocious ant or midge. The hunters of Oromë were the male maiar: a merry bunch, carrying bows sometimes longer than they were tall and with keen eyes that broke through even the deepest shade beneath the trees. But they did not hunt for sport—not like the cruel peoples of the King’s Court—and only took what was needed for clothing and, with the arrival of the few elven residents, for food. Anything left was taken to market and traded for other necessities: Yavanna’s grain and exotic fruit for baking fresh bread and other delicacies, herbs from the far western shores beside the Halls of Nienna for Vána’s medicinal gardens, or other things of that nature. And the maiar of Vána, well…

Well, Tyelkormo could not deny that they were beautiful. As the hunters of Oromë were fascinated with the attentions and giggling of the few elven maidens tending Vána’s gardens, the followers of Vána were equally entertained and curious of Tyelkormo’s awe-stricken and (admittedly) somewhat lustful stares. And they were not shy of sensuality, either, enjoying a bit of fun behind the shrubs and down at the river without demanding anything further and without desiring anything deeper. They were far more interested in singing flowers into bloom and playing with fawns in the thickets than they were in enduring romantic affairs.

Altogether, they were a strange people. A simple people to match the simplicity of their home and the simplicity of their lives. All that really mattered to them was tending the land and finding joy in each day they walked upon this earth. Truthfully, Tyelkormo was in envy of them for all that he loved them as well.

He would have liked to think that his time among the hunters had moved them to love him in return, but he knew better than to expect familial love from beings who had no siblings and thousands all at once. They felt fondness for his gangly adolescent stumbling and shyness, perhaps, and they took great joy in teaching him the ways of the forest and the harmony of the hunters who resided within, but…

_“This is not where thou dost belong, pitya.”_

He knew it was true.

For all that he felt so at one with the land—for all that he could spend days or weeks alone with only the whispers of the trees for conversation, with only the birdsong in his ears for music and the curious gentleness of the forest creatures as his companions—he was made for the outside world. His spirit, burning hot and fierce, was restless with the peaceful stagnation.

For all that he longed to grasp on to the simple beauty of this place with both hands and fight to stay forever, part of him longed to take flight as well. He had learned all that Oromë had had to teach him, and now it was time to depart.

If only life outside these woods were so simple.

Soon, he would need to go back. Back to the unpleasant complexity of Court life. Back to the unspoken rules and back to the half-hidden hatred. Back to the decadent luxury and back to the open wastefulness and avarice.

Back to his father, obsessed with creation of _objects_. Fëanáro, who valued his works of great and meaningless art over the children he had created with his wife. Cold, heartless, ruthless Fëanáro, who sneered down his nose at muddy boots on the foyer carpet and grass stains upon torn trousers. Empty, greedy, wrathful Fëanáro, whose eyes were scorching hot with his disapproving scorn and blind to the pain of the burns they left behind.

But not yet. Tyelkormo was not ready to leave this place yet.

In fact, today he was thinking little about his dilemma. Instead, his attention was caught by the twittering and excitement spreading through the beautiful maiar of Vána with their flower-encrusted raiment and their exhilaratingly captivating voices of bells and spring blossoms. Oddly enough, they were not amongst the livestock in the barns and pastures, nor were they coalescing about some new wonder or delight in their gardens. Rather, they were gathered about the dog kennels today, a place normally frequented only by Tyelkormo and the other hunters.

Naturally, Tyelkormo had to go and peek at whatever had captured the attention of these sweet-hearted creatures.

Carefully, he approached just close enough to peer over the shoulders and flower-crowned heads of the females cooing and giggling. In retrospect, it was not terribly surprising to realize that they had congregated about a new litter of puppies, tiny and helpless things with their eyes still closed, nuzzled close to their mother’s belly. Well, Vána’s followers did, after all, have quite the affinity for baby animals.

Their excitement was almost childish, and yet Tyelkormo felt it rubbing off a bit. How Fëanáro would have scowled and sniped at the very thought that one of his children might be enamored with the innocence of newborn animals more so than the majesty of the forge-fire and molten metal shaped in beauty. Half in imagined defiance and half because he found the cute little creatures just as irresistible and exciting a development as the maiar around him, Tyelkormo shifted closer and felt a helpless smile on his face.

“Thou dost look pleased.”

The sudden appearance of that overwhelming presence at his side nearly had the elf jumping out of his skin. Somehow, he had still not gotten used to how _silent_ Oromë and the others were. Of all the hunters, Tyelkormo was undoubtedly the loudest, in part because he still sometimes accidentally ruffled leaves or grass with his breath. His mortal trappings did not allow for the deadly silence the others carried with such ease.

Still, after the initial surprise, the young elf felt his smile returning. “There are new puppies,” he replied softly.

“Aye.” An amused glint came into eyes the shade of pale spring, and Tyelkormo felt a blush suffuse his cheeks as he realized how very _open_ his comment had been. The realization had his vibrant smile fading a bit, and his thoughts turning circles about in his head, chasing their own tails relentlessly in vain.

“I have thought about what thou hast said,” he began softly, not daring to look at the vala.

_More than I would have liked. More than I wish I had._

“And what dost thou think, pitya?”

Tyelkormo licked at his dry lips and scuffed his toe nervously in the dirt. Honestly, he wished desperately to say that he never wanted to leave this place. He wished desperately that he could say he would be happy living amongst these folk. He wished desperately that he was _like_ them and not like those horrible, two-faced liars filled with nothing but greed and arrogance that he had left behind.

But, in the end, was he not also hiding beneath a mask? Was he not afraid, too, of allowing anyone to see his true nature?

As was his father, he was wrathful and hateful, quick to form a grudge and very slow to forget a slight. While he carried some of his mother’s gentleness, he also had inherited her vicious temperament in the grips of anger. Passionate joy was in his breast, and yet he had been taught too well to hide it away because such openness was a dangerous weakness in a world where all eyes were watching and waiting for a mistake.

This place was too simple for such a complex being. Such a tainted being.

“I should leave,” he replied. “I _should_ leave. But I am afraid to go. It prevents me from even deciding when to start my journey home, let alone actually carrying out the deed.”

“Afraid…” The word had a rhetorical ring about it, as though Oromë contemplating the idea of fear in his mind. It would not have surprised Tyelkormo much if the vala was not really afraid of anything and thus did not quite understand why his elven ward might be fearful. Those eyes were watching from beneath lowered brows, thoughtful and somewhat perplexed.

“I fear that my only advice would be to make up thy mind,” the vala admitted. “I feel it is not my place to make the decision for thee.”

Glumly, Tyelkormo accepted this wholly unhelpful but not unexpected advice. For the vala, the decision probably _was_ as simple as just deciding on a day. Oromë would not really understand the dread that bubbled sickeningly in the young elf’s belly at the thought of watching that date approach slowly and inexorably. The foreknowledge of departure would be like a festering wound on his spirit, aching and twisting until he writhed in unspoken, invisible agony at his injury. One that could only be soothed by pushing the day farther and farther out from the present. By steadfastly ignoring the future and focusing, as did the ainur of these Woods, on the here and now.

“Do tell me, though, why dost thou fear going home? Dost thou not miss thy family and places of familiarity?”

The words were very curious, accompanied by a faint tilt of the head that almost made Tyelkormo laugh for its childishness. In some ways, Oromë was incredibly wise, and in others he seemed to wholly lack understanding. It was clear, however, that he understood attachment to home, for the Valar had a home just as did the elves, one which they loved and in which they felt safe and longed to return to whenever they departed.

“I do miss home, and my mother and brothers,” he admitted. “Sometimes, even my father, though I cannot fathom why. But life outside is just so _complicated_. Here, it is enough to be happy and to delight in everyday things, but in the Court of the King people are different. Expectations are different.”

Tyelkormo very much doubted that the vala really understood what he spoke of. After all, he barely understood it all himself sometimes! Still, it was nice to openly admit his fear to someone, even someone who did not really understand.

And that point could not have been made clearer by the vala’s next words. “Then why do you not make life simple _there_ as well? Surely, the complexity of thy life is in thy own hands—in thy own decisions.”

The first instinct was to reject the thought as ridiculous and idealistic. Unrealistic. To scowl and proclaim that such a thing was quite impossible! But the young elf paused as he turned the words over and over in his head, contemplating their innocent implications.

Expectation. Conformity. Duplicity. They were all complicating factors in the world he had been born to. Do not step out of line. Obey the rules. Learn etiquette. Obey thy father and mother. Be clean and neat. Be always friendly towards guests. Smile even those you hate. Compliment the ugly. Flirt with the stupid. Be everything thou art expected to be, even if it means being anything but the person thou art.

But what if he simply… refused?

There was some small amount of vindictive pleasure in that thought. How furious his father would be when his wayward third son returned even more rebellious and independent than when he had departed! How horrified would be the King’s Court to see a son of Fëanáro in his truest form, dirty and dusty from the outdoors, speaking the cruel and truthful opinions of his mind regardless of what offense it might bring! Part of him reveled in the thought of the discord he might cause in that perfect, false world that he so despised.

And the rest of him wondered helplessly—hopefully and desperately—if taking his own path would bring him the happiness that he desired. If being exactly who he was without denial and without embarrassment, could really be the answer he was searching for.

Instead of outright rejecting Oromë’s suggestion, Tyelkormo placed it aside thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he replied, “there might be some merit in thy words, my Lord.”

Sharp eyes scrutinized him carefully, and Tyelkormo almost squirmed beneath their piercing green, but then a smirk curved the vala’s lips. Immediately, the heaviness of their conversation dwindled, and the light-hearted feeling of joy sparkling through the air returned. Once more, Tyelkormo took note of the sound of soft, lovely voices in his ears as the womenfolk surveyed the new litter of puppies.

“Say, how about a closer look? There is no shame in taking pleasure in life’s simple joys!”

There was no time—and, indeed, no desire—to protest being dragged forward into the hoard of maiar. They parted easily before Oromë’s breadth and height, their eager voices chanting to the newcomers in excitement that never seemed to diminish though they must have seen thousands of litters of puppies before. Slender hands grasped and pulled them along until they were right before the hound and her six puppies.

Once more, Tyelkormo was swept up in his helpless smiling. It was hard to be morose in the presence of these creatures. There was a certain sort of tenderness as well, a feeling that was utterly foreign to the sharp-witted and ill-tempered elf, but one which had often enough manifested itself before wobbly little fawns or clumsy, newborn foals or nests full of tiny, helpless little birds. Half of it was protectiveness, but the other part, he thought, might be pure awe and instinctive adoration.

Even the cooing of the female maiar could not make him embarrassed at that moment. Especially when Oromë did not hide his own joy at the event. There was nothing weak or emasculating about the vala when he picked up a puppy in his giant hand and held it with such gentleness and care, stroking its tiny body with two fingers.

The green-eyed vala passed the tiny life into Tyelkormo’s hands, and the elf held it as though it were a delicate glass bauble that might break at the tiniest squeeze. The little creature snuffled and squeaked, blindly burrowing into the layered lattice of his long, pale fingers. Though he would never admit it to anyone later, the elf felt his heart melting.

“This one will be called Huan,” Oromë told him suddenly. “He will be thine. When thou dost depart here, he will go with thee faithfully.”

It was a fine gift. And the elf felt his smile turn wistful and sad. So simple a thought it was, to give him a piece of the place that he was leaving behind to carry with him wherever he went. A friend with whom he need not have a complicated relationship full of lies and deceits and betrayals and hurtful words. A comfort when he was away from his second home and surrounded by the darkness of his first.

A fine gift indeed.

“My thanks, my Lord.”

And that smile seemed more knowing than Tyelkormo had thought possible. “No thanks are required, pitya. Be happy, and I shall be content.”

_Be happy…_

Was it really as simple as that?

Tyelkormo steeled his heart and pursed his lips, looking down at the tiny life cradled within the cup of his palms. For all that he wished he could stay here forever, he could no longer put off his return back to the real world. Back to both the potential for incredible sorrow and displeasure—back to the realm of lies and expectations and masks and fiery eyes—but also the only possibility for the happiness that his heart desired. The bliss that he would not find here.

“When this pup is old enough to leave his mother’s side, I will depart from this place,” he decided, looking up into the vala’s eyes. “I would go with thy blessing, my Lord, if thou wouldst give it.”

“Thou wilt have it, pitya.”

And that was that. Step one complete. Simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> pitya = little (one)  
> valar = great holy beings (pl)  
> vala = great holy being (s)  
> maiar = lesser holy beings (pl)


	407. Intricate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Glorfindel's love for Erestor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 1, 2016.
> 
> So. Romance. I wouldn't quite call it fluffy, though perhaps a bit on the sweet side at times. A bit of angst. A bit of hurt/comfort. Mostly just poetic prose though, let's be honest here.
> 
> Warnings: Hints at war and the Kinslayings. PTSD/nightmares. Emotive singing. Sex (semi-explicit).
> 
> Just a couple notes on colloquialisms:  
> Tilion's rays = moonlight  
> Lórien’s embrace = sleep

If someone had asked what Glorfindel found so entrancing about Erestor, he could have named a thousand things.

He could have talked about seeing sleek raven hair shining beneath the starlight for the first time, captivating his imagination. He could have talked about the pallor of china-toned skin, soft as a petal upon his fingers. He could have talked about lips that bloomed in surprise, tantalizing and teasing with their shape and hue. He could have talked about how little white teeth nibbled upon the swell of the lower with concentration or frustration, so adorable and magnetic. He could have talked about the furrow of a brow, dark and sleek, in the midst of a glower that sent others skittering off but had him feeling warm with fondness. He could have talked about eyes of the darkest shade of gray, like the twilight sky sprinkled with the first stars of night, which reflected the infinity of the heavens endlessly… endlessly…

But really, those things were only the physical manifestations that captured his eye whenever the object of his fascination was near. He could have written _sonnets_ about the different shades of those eyes: how they widened and paled to the gray of a cold spring morning with pleasant surprise whenever he called that beloved name, or how they narrowed with feigned annoyance and deepened to the shade of mountain vales in the distance whenever he interrupted the silence of the library’s sanctuary, or how they glistened with a hint of tears and the dreary gloom of the week-long downpour when they looked upon the distant horizon.

He could have spoken of how he loved the way Erestor looked in the rain, with the slightly wistful blue invading the deep gray of that gaze. He loved the way robes clung to that powerful, willowy body in heavy drapes. He loved how his scribe would scowl and gripe as graceful hands swiped at the sheen of droplets upon bare skin. He loved how lips would pout ever so slightly when he called their owner beautiful despite the appearance of a drowned raven. And how his bicep would faintly sting with the firm but playful smack of surprisingly callused palms.

He loved how those pale cheeks would alight with soft color when he put his lips against their softness. And he loved how they deepened to scarlet when he whispered into delicately pointed ears. And he loved how lips followed suit when he took them in the embrace of his own as they both stood, cold and wet and stricken with each other beneath the raindrops falling down.

More even than he loved his lover clad in the raiment of rainstorms did he adore the intelligence that permeated that razor-sharp mind. That ensnared those dark eyes and turned them into mottled pools of light dappling a dark clearing of sorrow. For how could he not notice the way his lover glowed when discussing a new topic of interest, pointing in excitement at some new line of text or poem or song? How could he not adore the rare appearance of a smile, like a ray of sunshine that penetrated the lingering gloom of unspoken days, casting its warmth upon his worshipful face?

Even though he did not consider himself a scholar, there was still something so very lovely about seeing those intelligent eyes flicking to and fro hungrily, a single finger raised to stroke again and again across parted lips in thoughtful habit or lowered to the desk and tapping aimlessly upon the wood. The way that dark beauty seemed to stake his claim within the stacks and stacks of scrolls and parchments, scowling at any who drew too close to his self-proclaimed territory, left the golden warrior wryly grinning and softly chortling in response. And the soft glare he would receive in turn only served to spark feelings of affection in his breast, for he could see that no malice lingered in the blackened depths of the eyes that looked up straight into his own and pierced holes right through his thoughts like elven spears through thin sheets of paper.

And, of course, there were a million words to be said—forever left unspoken but for his deepest memories—about the way Erestor held a blade. Shorter than average though he might have been, and more slender than the towering, heavy-armor donning warriors typically idolized amongst Turgon’s folk, but there was no denying that the raven could hold his own.

There was no denying the slash of his sword in the sunlight, almost too fast to follow with even the sharpest elven eyes. Feet moved in a delicate dance of balance and deadly precision, tried and tested with experience in battle better left undiscussed, flying through the air towards unsuspecting victims thinking their win easy for the short stature of their opponent. There would be flurries of movement, of swift and bruising strikes to accompany the ringing cries of sparring blades, and the tornado of dark braids left in the wake of fury. There would be the exhilarated laughter, the smile of half-conceived bloodlust mixed with the pure joy of movement. Playful and deadly. Wicked but childishly pure. Too beautiful for words to properly explain.

Of course, passion or chill, Erestor was still always in Glorfindel’s thoughts. The cold-eyed and distant scholar, head held aloft and proud as any preening prince of the ancient days in Tirion, stood tall and straight and confident when still. He stood like a son of an ancient house, like one assured of his place in the world, outfitted in heavy velveteen robes with fine silver embroidery upon their hems and cuffs. Like one who was not afraid to make everyone else part before his coming like waves breaking upon the driving point of his bow.

Frigid, even, Glorfindel adored him. The scholar—the public face—always lingered just out of reach of his fingertips. Skin that beneath his touch seemed so soft and warm would then turn colder than the bitter winds of the North. And the golden warrior would sigh and gaze from afar, admiration caught in the condensation of each expelled breath catching upon the long, whimsical strands of black hair.

His favorite part, though, was the soft inner part. The molten heat. Ice-encrusted might have been Erestor, but his heart was of emotion. His humor was wickedly barbed with mockery and sarcasm, matching perfectly the superior twitch of his smirking mouth. Yet his voice was made of moonlight upon water, a lower and crooning tenor with the purest of tones and the saddest taste upon the tongue. Like salt and tears. That voice was seldom heard, echoing through the gardens in the night when all were asleep and heard the sound only drifting through their dreams. And yet, Glorfindel would lay awake upon his bed, staring at the silhouette of his lover upon the balcony, half-shaded by the frills of lace upon the sheer curtains, but caught fully as a shadow parting the silver sea of Tilion’s rays upon white stone.

That voice… that voice…

That voice that made him see the twined light of the Two Trees as though they appeared as shades before his very eyes. That voice which took him prancing across the evergreen fields and through the rose-gardens of Tirion and down to the beaches beyond Alqualondë where the sand was made of pearl. That voice which kindled such nostalgia, the flavor of fresh apples and air dancing with cherry blossoms, sweet upon his tongue.

That voice which spoke just as easily of fire and horror and screams in the night. That voice filled with the impassioned flames of vengeful hatred and uncontrolled rage set like a wildfire upon the timber of the mind. That voice which glimpsed despair and madness creeping in, knives raised to strike in murderous intent beneath the cover of darkness. That voice which _screamed_ with each stab, each splatter of innocent blood upon white skin and staining dark clothes and tainting a gentle soul with a prickly, protective exterior.

That voice which cried out in the night and which sobbed into Glorfindel’s shoulder with questions better left unanswered. That voice which said more with the pitch upon which it wavered and the tremble and quiver that broke its glory than ever could all the unnumbered words that might depart those tempting lips.

That voice which could bring him to tears as he wrapped that shaking body in the protective cage of his arms. That voice which tore at the soft, vulnerable belly of his compassion. And then it would carry him away into the night, whispering in his thoughts until he found the cradle of Lórien’s embrace. Cool and welcoming and full of _home._

But there was more than sorrow and memory. There was flame and the present moment. There was the fading of tears beneath awakened, scorching heat. So easily that voice could _burn_. Could set his flesh alight. Could strike a flint to his spirit.

A sad smile, grateful for silent understanding and comfort could turn to a sultry smirk of invitation and daring. Pulling the golden warrior into the net of lust. The curve of slender hips dipping gently inwards and arching out in widened shoulders. Lithe and wiry muscles flexing beneath his clasping hands and heated, desperate breaths huffed out against his searching lips. The saddest eyes of twilight gray turning to obsidian black with desire as all that soft white skin and sleek dark hair writhed against their silken sheets until sweat and spend slicked between their exhausted bodies.

The quiet aftermath. The infinite gentleness of fingers stroking across a heavily rising chest, tracing over the pounding throb of his heart as it slowed. The hazy look of bliss and contentment was glorious in the dim light, and his star-struck eyes could not have looked away from the swollen redness of lips, watching until they disappeared upon his skin, tracing across the flex of a shoulder and over the tendons of his throat to the gallop of his calming pulse.

He loved when they laid curled together, after nightmares and comfort or after wild and untamed ecstasy, their legs tangled up together in a jumble of moonlight-white and sun-kissed cream, their hair too tangled together to separate the straight locks of black from the waving curls of gold. He loved staring straight into those dark eyes then, seeing the mirror image of his blue gaze staring back like sapphire stars set in the night sky of his lover’s soul.

“Art thou happy here?” he would ask then, hardly daring to touch upon a rosy cheek but hardly capable of staying away. “Erestor?”

“I am,” the elf answered, the embers of his faded spark drizzled with the glimmer of grief and with the tiny sparkle of genuine happiness. “Really, truly, I am, Glorfindel.”

“I am glad.”

_Gladder than I have ever been._

For he loved every miniscule little slice of his beloved. Every thread of hair and every long eyelash and every quirky expression and every type of smile or frown and every hue of colored cheeks and every sound that departed flower-lips. Every inch of skin from head-to-toe and every flex of muscle in war or passion and every straight-spined stance of pride and every elegant steps as the dancing of feet upon the airs and every secret brush of fingertips against fingertips to accompany every secret and knowing glance.

He loved even the secrets which yet escaped his knowledge. Even those dark things that lurked in the beyond, traveling like smoke between his fingers. Yet undiscovered and unexplored.

And if he could continue to untangle his lover’s intricate design for the next hundred thousand ages of the world, he would be content with that fate. Even after countless years when all the world had changed beyond recognition and their first meeting beneath the stars lingered as a hazy daydream upon the fringe of an infinite cycle of glimpses of dark eyes peeking from beneath dark lashes, he did not doubt that he would still discover new beauties—inside and out—over which to marvel. New gems hidden deep in the earthen bosom of this fiery spirit he dared to call his own.

Such was the nature, he supposed, of loving another. All parts of another. With all the devotion and strength and passion a heart had to spare.

As he loved the thousand complex facets of Erestor. May there yet be a thousand more.


	408. Saccharine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrohir decides that he cannot remain in Imladris after the War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 2, 2016.
> 
> Well, I'm behind yet another day. My life sort of ate my time yesterday.
> 
> Anyway, this is part of the Cleansed Arc. Takes place prior to Scowl. Part of it is after Cleansed and part of it is during Dare. All of it, of course, happens before Winter, Color, and Stumble.
> 
> Warnings: Lots and lots of resentment/hatred (both towards the self and others). Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Marriage and fluffy couple stuff from outside POV.

They were in the gardens again.

It might have been a romantic image to anyone else, the sight of the dark-haired maiden cradling her lover’s head in her lap as they lay curled together in the grass. They were surrounded by the last flowers of summer, glowing softly in the dim light of the twilight setting. Most would have even called the scene beautiful, full of loving care and devotion, as the couple smiled at one another and her fingers slowly laced their way into his dark locks.

The sound of their voices was faint—too faint from this distance to hear their words—but they looked happy. _He_ looked happy. So perfectly, horribly _happy_. The shadows that had rested within the deep gray of his eyes for centuries now were conspicuously absent, washed away beneath something bright resting just beyond the liquid pools of his irises, shining straight through them like sunlight through colored glass.

And, from a distance, his twin watched sullenly, feeling anything but happy or content.

He watched her delicate hand stroke across his brother’s brow, soothing away the lines of stress and anger that had become so familiar as to seem a permanent design. Without those lines, Elladan did not even look like the same person—the same brother with whom Elrohir had mourned and suffered and hunted and sworn an oath of vengeance. The transformation was stunning and disturbing.

Then their voices rang out in soft laughter, an echo of airy bells and rolling tenor cutting across the night-sounds. Something she had said turned his brother’s gentle, barely-there smile into a full-out grin. A grin he had not seen on that face since before the death of their mother.

Since before their sin.

And the sound was sweet. So sweet it made him _sick._ So sweet that bile rose on the back of his tongue.

So sweet that he snarled under his breath and turned away in fury, unable to watch them make lover’s eyes and flirt with one another anymore. He stomped off instead into the labyrinth of balconies and waterfalls above the gardens, searching for a place so loud with the sound of tumbling water that it could wash away that taste from his mouth.

He settled beside a fall and stared into the white foam as it crashed into the pools below. Its roar filled all of his senses, and the mist of its death rested cool and pure upon his tongue, banishing the taste.

The saccharine taste of his brother’s betrayal.

\---

They were in the gardens again.

Elrohir had not spied on them together for some time now, though he knew that they still met here even during the coolest parts of winter, each bundled up in extra cloaks and boots to keep their feet warm. He hated imagining them together then, how they might huddle closer than was strictly appropriate “for warmth”. How Elladan’s arm would wrap around _her_ waist and pull her against his body until they were molded together. How she would lay her head against his shoulder, the white puffs of her breath washing up against his throat in soft, foaming waves.

How they would hold hands, him taking hers between his own and rubbing to “keep their blood flowing”. How they would look into each other’s eyes, the orbs shining brightly with the garish reflection of the sun upon the pale snow. How their breaths would entwine right before a kiss, starkly visible and grotesque in the winter air.

He did not want to see.

But now winter had passed into the earliest days of cool spring. The time had come for the Grey Company to leave these lands and travel south to either death or victory. To either the doom of the Dark Lord or the doom of all Middle-earth.

Today, there was no laughter between the couple. Today, they were so serious, their bodies so desperately reaching for one another that his stomach turned.

Today, Elladan asked her to marry him if he should return alive.

And Elrohir found that his whole spirit sang in vindictive pleasure when she hesitated. When that sparkle that he so despised in his brother’s eyes dimmed and waned with hurt. Well-deserved hurt for his betrayal of brotherhood. Well-deserved hurt for daring to forget about his penitence. Well-deserved hurt for reneging upon the sacred oath taken, blood from their slit palms mixing between their clasped fingers.

It was terrible and wonderful all at once, to feel something so wicked and cruel. Elrohir did not need to watch anymore, taking pleasure instead in the wholesome, full feeling in his belly. The nauseating sickness that had been gnawing in his depths for so long now was soothed somewhat, and hope was kindled.

With the loss of _her_ love, Elladan would come crawling back. And then things would be as they should have been without _her_ interference.

Except…

Except, the next day, as he watched his morose twin preparing for their departure, _she_ appeared as a comet of black racing down the hallowed white steps towards the Company. Elrohir felt a growl rise in his throat as he saw her shimmy past Erestor and even bump into his father’s elbow as she slipped past at a sprint. And how _dare_ she grasp onto his brother, so intimately embracing him before all these eyes! And how _dare_ she breathe her words of comfort against his brother’s ear, bringing back that light that Elrohir wanted to _squash!_

And how dare everyone else look upon them—upon the joy in their faces as she spoke her words of acceptance and stole his brother away forever—with tears of wistful joy and the dreaded prelude of sorrow in their eyes. For _what woe, Elladan rides off to war from whence he may never return! How wonderful to see their love! How terrible might be their grief!_

Or how beautiful might be their bliss should victory be upon the Free Peoples.

Elrohir looked towards Elladan, mounted upon his horse just a few feet away, but his twin had eyes only for _her_. And the jealousy in his breast was an ugly green beast. The resentment roiled and churned like a living thing striving to be set free until he bit his lip bloody and clenched his fists in the mane of his steed, resisting the twitching urge to reach for his sword and point it at _her_ throat. Or at _his._

They departed. And the taste was back stronger and harsher than ever.

This time, Elrohir had no deafening waterfalls to wash it away.

\---

They were married at the beginning of summer in the month of Nórui, in the gardens. 

Unlike Arwen, whose wedding was going to be an extravagant affair in the fall—an event fit for a bride who was becoming a queen—this joining was very simple. Not many elves remained yet in Rivendell, but those who were staying behind gathered, and some came from Lothlórien, too, in order to celebrate the coming of rebirth and new life. 

Elrohir, on the other hand, attended only reluctantly. He would rather have been out hunting the remaining dark creatures of Dol Guldur which had fled into the mountain passes in search of sanctuary. He would rather not have to be here, where it was sunny and warm, where cheer was breaking through the solid wall of mourning and the dreaded foreknowledge of departure and farewell that lingered over so many inhabitants.

_“This occasion will bring light to hearts which have of late been weary and sad,”_ his father had said, eyeing him in that incisive way which often made Elrohir want to squirm with discomfort. _“You should be there, ion-nín.”_

That faint chastisement and plea would not have been enough to force his attendance. Elrohir had thousands of years to become immune to his father’s manipulations. But the look of his grandmother’s eyes when she beheld him—the look of reproach in their depths, and the words she spoke—left him too wrecked and too guilt-stricken to do anything _but _attend.__

___“Is this resentful division between you and your brother really what your mother would have wanted, sellion?”_ _ _

__So he came into the gardens. And the sweetness of the air was a horrifying thing._ _

__He watched them smiling at each other, so consumed in one another that they had no glances to spare for anyone else. Her uncle gave her away, and vows were spoken between the couple in voices choked with sentimentality. Her dress was white, embroidered with pale green, and she forwent gems in favor of flowers braided in the dark waves of her hair. To Elrohir, she looked like a ghost of spring, but Elladan looked upon her as though she were Elbereth in the flesh. Or perhaps Baneth, the Ever-Young, the tender of flowers and bringer of new life._ _

___How accurate_ , Elrohir couldn’t help but think bitterly, _for a women who sucked the sorrow and guilt out of his spirit like lips suck venom from a poisoned wound.__ _

__He stayed only until the ceremony was done and the revelry began. Wine and song in the Hall of Fire were nothing unusual, but the dreary shadow that had lingered over the vale for so long was lifted for this day. The minstrels did not hum and croon their tragic compositions of death and suffering, nor did they sing wistfully of the far shores or the powerful days of old. Instead, they enriched the merry hall with lively tunes full of words of love and cheer._ _

__Altogether, the whole affair was sickeningly _saccharine._ Just like the couple it celebrated._ _

__Elrohir procured himself a goblet of heady red wine and fled. Back to the waterfall high up above the gardens now sitting empty but for the colorful array of flowers swaying in the night. Back to the stars in their black sky, the same stars beneath which he had sworn his vengeance. Back to his own grief and guilt and resentment, those stains which he could not seem to scrub from his mind._ _

__The black pit of hate opened up before him, and he did not appreciate the glowing star of his brother’s love intruding upon its darkness. Then and there, his ears blocked from the distant sounds of merrymaking and joy, he made up his mind._ _

__When his father departed this place, so, too, would he. But he would not be heading for the supposed eternal bliss of Valinor across the sea. He would not go to Gondor to see his sister’s bliss when she and Aragorn were finally united in love. He would not even go to Lothlórien, though he might pass through to witness the fading of the golden mellyrn as the power of Galadriel’s ring failed and the wheel of time once more began turning and bore away the beauty of the woods._ _

__He would ride north to weed out the last evil of southern Eryn Lasgalen, or perhaps back into the Hithaeglir to hunt orcs and goblins in the depths of the mountains, or perhaps east into the unknown wilds to what ends he knew not._ _

__Anything was better than here._ _

__Anything was better than this._ _

__Anything to forget the painful sight of happiness in his brother’s eyes._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> ion-nín = my son  
> sellion = daughter-son  
> Baneth = Beauty (translation of Vána in Sindarin)  
> mellyrn = mallorn trees (pl)  
> Eryn Lasgalen = Mirkwood (renamed)  
> Hithaeglir = Misty Mountains


	409. Vibrancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros knew early on that Celegorm would be a wild child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 3, 2016.
> 
> Since I've been doing so much young!Celegorm characterization and because my sister requested an elfling story, here's some adorable little!Celegorm and big brother!Maedhros. Fluff with a small dose of angst and lots of stubbornness. Inspired partially by one of greenapplefreak's comics on dA.
> 
> Warnings: Kids being kids. Some depressing-ness. Mostly just brotherly stuff, though.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

“Please do not jump out of any more trees, Turko. Especially if no one is standing underneath to catch thee.”

The young elfling pouted, glaring defiantly up at his older brother despite the fact that, about three minutes ago, said elfling had been bawling his eyes after procuring a lovely sprained wrist courtesy of jumping from about five meters up in an oak tree wearing only a pair of self-fashioned “wings” strapped to his arms. Maitimo did not know whether or not he should be amused or horrified by this development.

He settled for exasperated and resigned.

At the time, of course, he had been frightened half to death thinking Turkafinwë had broken something important—like his neck, for example. The last thing any older brother wanted to see was his younger kid brother plummeting out of the sky, screaming and flailing helplessly in midair. The memory of the resounding thud as the elfling hit the grass-carpeted ground still made Maitimo wince and shudder.

But really, in retrospect, he should not have been very surprised by the whole incident. He should have known that Turkafinwë would be a more difficult, rambunctious child than had been Kanafinwë, who had been as mellow as a small child could be.

While the second-born son had been full of a desire to voraciously devour knowledge, consuming the written world with a speed that was both impressive and rather frightening, Turkafinwë was far more interested in being outside _doing_ things. Kanafinwë had liked _learning_ , but had been perfectly satisfied with staying indoors, listening to his parents and older brother with dedicated focus. Turkafinwë, on the other hand, could not hold still for even a moment so full of energy was he. Heavens forbid he should be required to sit through lessons inside and pay attention to some subject or another he cared nothing for when he could be outside building forts or climbing trees or—apparently—jumping out of them and scaring his brother senseless!

Now, after the shock and the pain had passed, Turkafinwë seemed fully recovered from his ordeal, albeit with a wrapped wrist for his troubles, and ready to go off on another adventure no doubt just as dangerous and foolhardy as the last. Maitimo had a feeling that, once the third-born outgrew his childhood and broached into the realm of rebellious adolescent, there would be no more controlling such a wild and free-spirited personality.

As it was, Turkafinwë seemed anything but happy with being forbidden from jumping out of trees. “I just want to fly,” the elfling told him petulantly. “Birds do it all the time.”

Having just finished up the bandaging by tucking in the end of the fabric, Maitimo then sighed and carded his fingers through his baby brother’s pale hair. “Thou art an _elf_ , Turko, not a bird. Elves are not made to fly, and certainly not using old tree limbs with feathers glued on their branches as wings.”

Whether or not Turkafinwë believed those words to be law was hard to say. His skinny little arms were now crossed before his tiny chest, his head thrown back so that he could attempt to peer down his nose as his older brother with that same depreciating expression their father loved to wear. Of course, some of the effect was lost due to Maitimo’s towering height and the elfling’s chubby cheeks puffing out with the exaggerated frown. The older brother was hard-pressed not to chuckle at the sight, correctly guessing that the humorous image in his mind of little Turkafinwë and adult Fëanáro standing side-by-side with that same expression, staring each other down with eyes narrowed in concentrated disdain, would probably not be appreciated.

“Elves _should_ be made to fly,” Turkafinwë told him. “I will find a way to do it! Just wait and see!”

_Ah, Hanno, thou art more and more like Atarelwa each day._

Already, the boy was back on his feet, no worse for wear after his terrifying fall. In fact, Maitimo had no doubts that Turkafinwë held no residual fear of falling at all and would, indeed, attempt the same stunt again in the future despite his older brother’s warnings. It was something that Maitimo had never had to deal with when Kanafinwë was young, for the pain and fright alone would have been enough of a deterrent for the second-born, and chastisement would have sealed the deal, so to speak. Pain and fear meant nothing to Turkafinwë. And neither did scolding.

“Just please let someone know before thou dost try to test another invention, Hanno. We do not want thee to get hurt.”

Turkafinwë gave him _that look_. That look that said “why on earth would I do something like that?” mixed with “I do not need anyone’s help!” and a final topping of “do not be ridiculous, I know what I am doing, so do not tell me what to do”.

“Maybe,” was all the boy said aloud. And then he was off again like a rabbit, bolting across the grass on nimble legs.

Truthfully, the young elf was the very definition of vibrancy in its best and worst forms. The third son of Fëanáro had inherited more of the Spirit of Fire than the first two sons combined, and it showed through blindingly bright and white hot. There was just so much energy and so much drive, like a little clockwork machine that never ceased to keep churning out new and more creative ways to get into trouble. Those very qualities were things Maitimo had always associated directly with his father, for Fëanáro, too, had tireless drive and limitless potential. If there was something that Fëanáro wanted, he would find a way to get it. If there was something Fëanáro wished to accomplish, he would find a way to make it happen.

No one told Fëanáro “no”. No one told him “that is impossible”. No one dared say “give up”. The Crown Prince would not have listened to such words anyway. If anything, he would have given the speaker _that look_ —the very look now resting upon little Turkafinwë’s face—and made a snide or mocking comment about spinelessness or inanity.

They were both so full of life it was exhausting to witness. Luckily, Turkafinwë had not quite grown into his personality yet. Maitimo shuddered at the thought of an older Turkafinwë, one who could not be forcibly confined to the house and made to attend lessons.

 _The very moment he figures out that no one can stop him, he will take off into the woods and never set foot in the house again_ , Maitimo thought morosely as his little brother bounded off into the distance, disappearing into the sea of trees behind the estate. _There is so much of Atar in him that it is frightening._

Still, such liveliness was not a bad quality. No at all. While it certainly led to some _interesting_ episodes of troublemaking, Maitimo was also glad that his youngest brother—currently, for he had another sibling on the way and doubted he would be getting a sister—had a chance to break free of the prison that had so thoroughly captured the first two sons. So much responsibility and pressure rested upon Maitimo—the heir—and Kanafinwë—the spare—that both chafed terribly beneath their thorough, exhaustive education and the pressure to succeed and reach both academic and social perfection. The required obedience to their father’s will had beaten any insubordinate or boisterous behavior out of their personalities early on—if such characteristics had ever existed in the first place.

Part of Maitimo was pleased to think that Turkafinwë might break the mold. That the battle of wills between Fëanáro and his recalcitrant third son might reach a standstill of stubbornness and independence. That, maybe, Turkafinwë would have the strength of will and the bravery to fight for what he wanted in the face of adversity where his older brothers had bent and surrendered to their fates with barely a fight.

Part of Maitimo wanted to see his father’s face when it finally happened. For it would be such a sweet clashing. And victory in Turkafinwë’s favor would be a cherished memory.

 _Do not lose that vibrancy_ , he would have said to his brother then, if the elfling had still been standing before him. _Thou art going to need it someday soon._

And he had no doubt that Turkafinwë would not have understood his words at such a young age, for those thoughts were now consumed only with childish fancies and not yet muddled with the painful truth of reality. But, all the same, the little elfling would have crossed his arms, cocked an eyebrow, and loudly told his older brother “not to tell him what to do”.

The thought made Maitimo smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Hanno = Brother  
> Atar = Father  
> Atarelwa = our [inclusive] father (Atar + -lwa) N: I chose to use -lwa instead of -lva because it was only later that Quenya "w" began to take on a "v" sound. I suppose the transition could already have been in progress at this point in history, but I also have a bit of a head-canon where the royal family may speak with slightly more "archaic" language than is generally used in casual colloquial settings. Either way, the choice was intentional.


	410. Marvel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idril knew there was something special about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 4, 2016.
> 
> So, this is a pairing I've never really played around with before. But I've reread _Of Tuor and his Coming to Gondolin_ and the verb marvel (in various states of conjugation) showed up quite a few times. Thus, this. Something nice and fluffy. Not my usual fare.
> 
> Warnings: Romance (sort of?). Not a lot else, other than allusions to everyone's dark pasts.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Turgon = Turukáno

There was something different about this man. This _Man._

It could not simply have been charm, nor girlish blindness to fault, for Itarillë was by no means a young girl easily star-struck by a pretty face or a sly, flattering tongue. Though she had not come fully into her womanhood until after the Darkening—indeed, until after reaching the far shores—and thus was considered to be rather young by the count of her own folk, she had never been short of suitors vying for her hand. Indeed, a number of elven lords, great in power and stature amongst the Noldorin people and often much older and wiser than she, had sought the hand of the daughter of Turukáno. All of them had been handsome specimens of elvendom, and her father had never given any objection to their matches.

Simply put, he had given her the choice to accept or deny their suit at her own discretion. And, while many of them would have made perfectly acceptable husbands—indeed, some of them were not only exceptionally skilled warriors or craftsmen, but also exceptionally kind-hearted or honorable individuals with beautiful personalities—none of them had kindled love in her breast. Friendship, perhaps. But not love.

And Itarillë would settle for nothing less than love. Nothing less than the deep devotion her parents had been blessed with in the golden years of Valinórë.

When she had first set eyes upon Tuor son of Huor, she had known he was something special. Indeed, _anyone_ who looked upon this man—this man who appeared more as one of the ancient elven folk than he did a mere mortal of twenty-three years—would marvel at the strange and wondrous power that seemed to radiate out from his being. Clad as he was, adorned with the silvered armor and helm set with the feathers of swans, carrying at his side the sword which her father had left behind in Vinyamar for the chosen messenger of Ulmo, this man looked almost as though he were bathed in otherworldly light. The midday sun streaming through the windows flashed upon the white wing emblazoned across his chest, turning it pure white and speaking more clearly than any words might just who and what he was. But still, his words were from the lips of the Lord of Waters, and they carried gravitas that none could hope to deny.

Though he was grim of face and aged beyond his mortal years, this man was undeniably the white star come out of the sea, sent on a mission by Ulmo himself, and he was indeed something _special._ Something greater than a mere man. Something greater even than a mere _elf._ Something pure and hopeful which, in the heart of hearts of Itarillë Elenwiel, kindled the flames that had been slowly dying beneath the weight of her cold despair in these days of falling darkness.

Even that, though, was nothing but a superficial sort of fascination. Like so many others, she had looked upon him with wide, curious eyes, finding him both an impressive man and a handsome one as well. But a number of her other suitors had been honorable men who had risked their lives in battle many times, who were beautiful in face and form. The day would never come when Itarillë lost her heart with such rash ease and whimsy.

After her first sight of Tuor Ulmondil—and, indeed, her eyes had been fixed upon him, unable to depart the gleam of his gaze in the shades of the southern seas throughout the whole time he spoke his words of warning and of doom before her father’s throne—she had expected not to see him much again. He would be busy with other duties, catering to the necessities of his new station within their white walls, and he would not seek her out. When Huor and Húrin had been the guests of her father’s halls, she had had no reason to draw close to either of them, and so, too, would she have no reason to approach the son of Huor. Or so she told herself.

But neither of them had been Tuor. He was something special. And she could not stay away.

Often did she see him in the company of her father and the other great Lords of Ondolindë, almost as tall in stature as the King and broad in the shoulder as Ecthelion of the Fountain. The man’s hair was golden beneath the sunlight, as lovely as the curls upon the head of Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, but his face was a rugged and somber thing that looked older and more distinguished than the face of any elven visage. His voice was not the musical tenor or baritone of one of the fair folk, but a deep and rumbling bass, heavy as the beating of thunder through the mountain passes during the most violent summer storm.

Yet, when he looked upon her, she was struck by his eyes. They were such a lovely blue, and they did not carry the weight of thousands of years in their depths despite all the darkness and horror that had ravaged his short life. There was something so young about them, almost boyish when they rested upon her frame. And his crooked smile was such a lovely thing, calling to her with more strength than any minstrel’s sonnet or craftsman’s jewel.

But it was more even than that, she thought. She rarely had reason to speak with him herself, but she did not care. She invented reasons to be near, and, when she drew close, she could see the faint rise in color of his weathered cheeks and the widening of his beautiful eyes.

_“My lady,”_ he would greet with a bow, his once-booming voice now soft-spoken and tinted with nerves. _“How might I be of service to thee?”_

_“May the Princess of Ondolindë not request the presence of an honored guest in her household simply for the joy of his company?”_ she would reply, conjuring upon her lips the sweetest of her smiles even as she tucked a strand of golden hair behind the elegant point of her ear. _“Or, perhaps, thou hast no time to speak with me, my Lord?”_

_“Of course I have time for thee! I shall always have time for thee!”_ His voice would always come out just a hair too eager. Like a young boy chasing after his first puppy love. So very unlike the suitors Itarillë had always known who had left her heart cold and heavy with age.

Her smile seemed to make him sway and swoon upon his very feet. And his gaze would never once leave her lips, fixated. Filled with the same marvel that she felt for the youth of his eyes and the aging of his face and the strange innocence of his adoration. To him, she was not a mere beautiful plaything or a way into the King’s favor, for he had already all the favor he could desire. And she was not an object of his lust, a mere woman whose face and body were made to fulfil his fantasies, for she saw no leer upon his face nor sensual desire alight in his gaze.

Around Tuor she felt… like a person. Like she might be herself and he might see her for what she was rather than for who he thought she should be. Not a princess and not a prize and not a pretty bauble. Just… Itarillë.

She felt like, perhaps, he might love her for being Itarillë. Just Itarillë.

Perhaps they did not know one another well—not yet—but she knew there was time. As the long winter finally bled into a chill and late spring, her feet no longer felt the frost upon the cobblestones of the Hidden City’s streets, and she felt the burn of the very first stirrings of what might have been love. Or, maybe, it was the warmth of his hand taking her own and his breath washing across her skin as he laid a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. Or, perhaps, it was simply the way he smiled that made her belly fill with the wings of the first butterflies to taste the budding flowers in the gardens of Ondolindë.

Whatever the reason, Itarillë could no more turn away from the sight of his beautiful, uneven smile and the sound of his loud, rolling laughter than she could grasp Anar in the sky and reverse her course to set in the east and rise in the west. Even if she could have resisted, the Princess of Ondolindë did not want to draw away from this strange call in her heart. For it seemed to her that there was no evil in this soft and gentle prelude to love, and that there was no wrongness in the new feelings born from the sound of his voice and the glimmer of sunlight in the pools of his eyes.

Whatever end it might lead her to, Itarillë would let herself marvel at his strangeness: the final unraveling of a spring bloom after the Fell Winter, opening into its full prime with blackened and frostbitten edges upon its golden petals.

Maybe she would allow herself to finally fall in love. And maybe, one day, he might give her the unending and unconditional love she sought in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Elenwiel = Daughter of Elenwë  
> Ulmondil = Friend of Ulmo  
> Ondolindë = Gondolin (lit. The Rock of the Music of Water)


	411. Proud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finwë does not approve at all of his eldest son's actions following his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 5, 2016.
> 
> Basically Finwë's perspective on the actions that take place in Blood, Waste, Remorseful, and related "Fëanor goes crazy" pieces. Some of the things Finwë does have always struck me as being rather biased towards his oldest, and I thought it would be nice for him to realize that he's been a bit blind.
> 
> Warnings: Death/blood imagery (a bit). Murder. Betrayal of kin. Filicide.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Curufinwë = Fëanáro  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Amras = Telufinwë

Ever had Finwë been proud of his firstborn—his eldest son and precious child.

Fëanáro had been a beautiful boy, dark-haired and silver-eyed like his sire but more with the features of his mother. Perhaps less sculpted and softer at the edges, but also sterner. A harsher set of the jaw and a more dangerous cant to the eyes. Yet, the child—both unsmiling and wild, a gale of wind that forever slipped through Finwë’s splayed fingers and took its own path—had grown handsome and charming as he touched adulthood.

Charismatic did not even begin to describe the phenomenon that was Curufinwë Fëanáro.

Wildfire was apt. Yet, so, too, was temptation. And fitting, undeniably, was genius. The Crown Prince was a natural at nearly everything he deigned try, his hands so innately tuned to precision and his mind structured in that chaotic manner of organization that precipitated both an eclectic imagination and an astonishing understanding of reality. Any art would come alive beneath those hands, as though creation happened upon the very page on which the Prince’s pen or brush was set. Any words would be heard as though from the tongues of an ainu as they parted those lips, singing with effortless power and sway. Just as easily as Fëanáro could bring to life a flower upon a canvas or sculpt a breathtaking work at the forge, his voice could incite joy or sorrow so potent they were physically painful to experience.

As a result, the young elf had grown into a Crown Prince any King would be proud to call his heir. Intelligent, discerning, charming and undeniably unique. In a way, Fëanáro was the perfect work of art in of himself—and Finwë sometimes had trouble believing that it was from his loins that the seed of this magnificent creature had been planted.

However, he was not completely blind to his son’s flaws either.

He was well aware of many of his son’s worst qualities, the flaws and cracks that ran rampant through the marble foundation of this masterpiece. The temperamental nature like a summer tempest roaring across the ocean and screaming up onto shore. The flash-fire temper like lightning, its many fatal tongues lashing across the land and leaving destruction in their wake. The ability to hold a grudge endlessly and ruthlessly, and the corresponding inability to forgive and forget.

Some might have tried to curb these behaviors. Indeed, perhaps Finwë had once tried his hand at teaching his child forgiveness and inner serenity. Perhaps he had just been too weak-willed and enamored to follow through and punish his beloved child when those ugly qualities shone through. Perhaps that was the reason his genius son grew up to be the handsome, cunning and cruel silver-tongue that had dominated Court politics.

Even in his last days, Finwë knew he had been weak to his own bias. Maybe, if he had been strong enough to see through the veil of his own perception then, things might have been different. So very different.

Looking back, he felt slightly sick with heartache and with disgust at his time spent in Formenos. Watching his eldest hold a sword to the throat of his second son had been enough to make him realize just how far out of control Fëanáro’s “worst qualities” had spiraled. What kind of boy had he raised who would take a blade to the throat of his own family? What kind of impression had he given that Fëanáro—his favored child, much to his own shame—believed that he would even _dream_ of replacing him like some sort of worn-out bauble or tool?

Until that moment, Finwë had been blind to the true depth of those faults he had always seen but denied in his mind.

After that moment, he was willfully blind in truth.

Going to Formenos in exile, protesting the right of the Valar to punish his beloved son for threatening _murder_ upon close kin, had been a terrible idea. His blatant refusal to see the problem for what it truly was—his blatant refusal to admit imperfection in his perfect child, to feel shame rather than pride in his greatest creation—was, in retrospect, embarrassing. Foolish and selfish and cruel towards his other children.

But, even then, he could still ignore the tarnish. Then, he could still cling to the ideal image of Fëanáro—of that beautiful and wonderful creature grown from the loveable babe he had held so tenderly in his arms. The babe that had suckled on his fingers and played with his braids and giggled at the glimmer of light in the jeweled rings upon his hands. He could still ignore the jealousy that turned to hate and the bitterness that turned to cruelty and the dreams that turned into obsession.

He could have ignored it all for eternity were it not for the oath sworn upon the steps painted in his own blood. The oath of vengeance.

_“I will avenge thee,”_ his son had so often cried at the heavens, knowing his father would hear. _“I will right this wrong, no matter what path I must take. No matter what enemy I must overcome or what foe dares stand in my way! I swear it!”_

And the Teleri were first.

And Finwë sobbed desolately, alone in the darkness of the Halls of the Waiting, for every drop of blood spilled in his name. For every new fëa who appeared, lost and frightened, in the grayness of death. For every woman whose husband or father or brother would never be coming home to her embrace. For every ship that was stained, the white feathers turned crimson with the blood of their masters, and raped for the purpose of seeking revenge. Revenge Finwë did not even _want._ Revenge he would _never_ have asked for.

_I want thee to stay in Valinórë! I want thee to forget the Silmarilli! I want thee to forget my blood upon thy steps! I just want thee to be family—for my daughters and my sons to grow closer together in the face of tragedy instead of turning against one another in fear and distrust…_

But Fëanáro never heard. Would he have listened if he had?

And then there was the betrayal of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë. And their children—Finwë’s grandchildren, so beloved and cherished.

He could not fathom how Fëanáro had fallen to such depths as to throw away his half-brothers like useless, broken toys. Was the bond of blood and brotherhood meaningless? Was Nolofinwë’s willingness to mend their fences nothing? Was the idea of the suffering and dying of people—people who had sworn themselves to the service of the Crown Prince in exile—not enough to sway the heart of his eldest son?

But nothing would turn Fëanáro from his thirst for blood. With such ease did the firstborn son scorn the third for fleeing back to the Valar and abandon the second for dead upon the dark and cold shores of Araman. And Finwë could but stand before the unfolding tapestries in the darkened Halls and scream himself raw, begging and pleading for his son to _please, please hear his words and help his brothers and nieces and nephews who suffered!_

Third was Telufinwë.

Seven sons had been sired by Fëanáro—seven grandchildren that Finwë wished he could have known better. While he spent much time around the grandchildren of the two sons that he had sired with Indis, he had spent little time with any of Fëanáro’s sons beyond Nelyafinwë. The twins—an unhappy accident on the tail end of his son’s withering and emaciated marriage to Nerdanel—had only been upon his knees twice. Once as newborns and once when they were too young to remember. Otherwise, he had seen them from afar—both redheaded like their mother and eldest brother—but he had never spoken to either of them as a grandfather ought to his grandsons.

He would never have guessed that it was the youngest of the brood who had the most stalwart heart. He would never have expected young Telufinwë to stand up to his father—to say all the things that Finwë had been so very longing to say to his beloved son—when even Nelyafinwë had balked at protesting the deplorable and sinful actions committed in the name of revenge.

Finally—finally—Finwë had expected Fëanáro’s bloodlust to be curbed. Perhaps the words of his youngest child would sway him from his vindictive streak and make him see _reason_. Perhaps the forgiving and wholesome nature of his child’s righteous and swollen heart would convince him to turn back and give help to the exiles even now watching in despair as the lights flickered far off across the water and did not return.

But it was not to be.

It killed part of Finwë to see Fëanáro turn away from the younger elf’s passionate words. And it shattered what was left of his heart to see Telufinwë board a ship, intending to go back whether to ferry across more souls or to protest his father’s actions, only for Fëanáro to ruthlessly order the ships burned.

With full awareness that Telufinwë was aboard one.

The screams did nothing to inspire remorse in his eldest son, for they yielded but a flash of regret in silver eyes cutting across the fallen darkness. Red and gold lit the night, flames licking from boat to boat across the water. On the far shore, the people of Nolofinwë wept in terror, and their hearts sank in betrayal.

On the shores of the Hither Lands, six brothers stood frozen, their eyes wide and glistening with shock as they heard their brother’s death throes abruptly cut away, as though his vocal chords had given out from the agony. They did not know—perhaps would never know—that Telufinwë had leapt into the water and died as his head went under the cold waves. That his last sight alive before his spirit ripped away from its failing mortal cage was the ripple of the water’s surface glowing a fell red, a layer of phantom blood spilled across its surface.

Finwë took the child into his arms as the lost soul appeared, gasping and crying and screaming all at once. And the spirit shivered against him in primal terror and the shock of betrayal.

_“Sorry!”_ Telufinwë sobbed against his shoulder, tucking close and tangling the lights of their unhoused spirits together as he sought protection from the memory of flames and the knowledge of failure. _“Please, I am so sorry! I tried!”_

_“Hush, pitya… Hush…”_ For the first time, he carded his hand through russet curls, trying his best to comfort his grandson. _“Be not sorry for thy failure to save thy cousins from a dark fate. Thou didst try, and that is enough. I am proud of thee, pitya. So proud.”_

And he turned away from the tapestries then, concentrating on the child weeping in his arms. For he could no longer bear to look upon Fëanáro. Not with pride or anything else.

His horror was violent, the sickness twisting in his belly and burning away the idealized image of his eldest that had always overshadowed the fatal flaws and the black shadows lingering behind the white light of fiery eyes. How had it come to this? How could the thirst for revenge—revenge in Finwë’s very name!—have driven Fëanáro so far as to be willing to not only betray allies of their house—the people of Nelyafinwë’s wife to whom they were allied through marriage and friendship—but also to throw away the willing support of Nolofinwë out of blind paranoia and to murder pure-hearted Telufinwë for daring to disobediently and defiantly interfere with carefully laid, wicked plans?

_How had it come to this?_

Finwë did not leave the side of his grandson, the poor creature whose fëa was marked with the twisting burns curling up his calves and across his torso and crawling up his neck, russet curls half-burned away and smelling of phantom smoke. He stayed through all the crying and through the wild madness of agony in wide eyes and through the pleas for forgiveness.

He stayed and wished that Fëanáro had been more like Telufinwë. He wished his son was someone he could still be proud of. He wished things were different.

But it was not to be.

When Fëanáro foolishly charged ahead of his forces and was mortally wounded, Finwë hardened his heart against his instinctive panic. When Fëanáro, in his last moments and with his last breaths, ordered his sons to uphold his oath, Finwë lowered his head and burned with shame. When Fëanáro turned to ash and departed his body, Finwë sensed the coming of the white-hot fire that was his eldest son, a burning wind sweeping down across the wide ocean and over the jagged peaks of the Pelóri, and shuddered in disgust as it licked against his own spirit.

He cradled Telufinwë close when his son manifested, looking just as beautiful and terrible unhoused as he was in his mortal cage. And Finwë stared into those eyes. Those wild eyes filled with terrible love and fey blood lust.

“Atar,” Fëanáro greeted, sparing no glance for the child he had killed. As if the boy was not trembling at the sight of his face and the sound of his voice. As if he did not care at all that it was by the orders from his lips that the child had died an excruciating death, half burned alive and then drowned in the icy waves below. As though he had not committed filicide simply because his son had disagreed with his reprehensible actions.

And Finwë turned his back without a word. So he could not hear the justifications. So he could not see the smiles. So he could not get caught up in the memories.

So he need not look upon this monster that had somehow been created from his loins.

How could he ever be proud of such terrible deeds? How could he ever forgive himself for the blood spilled in his name?

How could he have been so blind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> ainu = holy being (s)  
> fëa = spirit/soul (s)  
> Silmarilli = Silmarils (pl)  
> pitya = little (one)


	412. Coruscate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thoughts of two powerful ainur when they first behold the Silmarils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 6, 2016.
> 
> This is sort of a second part to Ecstasy, as well as related to a variety of Melkor-centric pieces from ages ago. Basically, this was inspired both by Melkor's obvious lust for the Silmarils and their weird and random hallowing at Varda's hand conveniently causing them to burn the flesh of murderers for the whole rest of the Quenta Silmarillion. I might do a couple of other perspectives later, but these were the first two that came to mind.
> 
> Warnings: Some religious context. Possibly sexual undertones. Racism of sorts. Mention of slavery and world domination.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro = Curufinwë

Of all the creations of mortal hands, Varda had never seen any so fair.

They numbered three, and their light was such that no equal to its beauty had touched yet the face of Eä. No mere mixing of golden and silver light shone from sparkling facets, but an array of many-colored beams and rainbows and flashes of pure white in a tessellation unlike to that even which stars could conceive. Varda watched them coruscate with their own internal luminescence, and she knew not what to compare such glory to except the far distant snowflakes of nebulae and bursts of supernovae that radiated wild designs in patches throughout the sea of empty blackness.

But these creations were more even than that. They were more even than the silver or yellow or red or blue of a single star’s pinprick in the firmament of darkness. They were more even than the twined light of the Two Trees at its peak or the light of the zenith of either, full of blinding radiance such as to alight all of Valinórë.

They were pieces of the Two Trees, the Eldar whispered amongst themselves as they beheld those three gems emblazoned upon the brow of Curufinwë Fëanáro, but that was not even the full truth. They made the prince’s pale skin glow and they burned the red of his cloak in a thousand entwined shades and they gleamed from the gold of his circlet and upon his chest such that the metal seemed to melt and churn even in solid form. To the Eldar, such a miracle could only be compared with the Two Trees, for what greater thing did the Eldar know but for the two lights that brightened their world from eternal darkness?

Yet, Varda had seen beyond the edges of the world. She had been a trilling soprano voice—a great violin’s cold harmonics ringing out into the vastness of the Ainulindalë, set beyond even the corruption of Melkor’s theme—in the glory of the Great Music. She had beheld that which birthed all of existence in her mind’s eye, and of it she Sang.

And it was this: this light of creation. Of something _more._

As had the Valar before him, Curufinwë Fëanáro had learned how to reach out and create matter and reality by tapping into the source of all energy. And, like the Valar before him, he had spent part of his spirit in the making, so that his eyes gleamed a little duller but reflected a thousand times brighter the light that shone from that which he created with his hands and his Voice. All at once, this elf was lesser than he had been but greater than any mortal creature could ever hope to be, touched by something from beyond this world.

He had created these three things, and they were beautiful. And Varda was not shy in her admiration.

“Come closer, Prince Fëanáro,” she ordered in her soft voice. “Let me see that which thou hast wrought in secret by the ways only the Ainur should tread.”

Unabashed and unafraid, the Prince climbed the steps to the thrones of the King and Queen of Arda, his head held aloft. Closer and closer came the stones set upon his crown, and their light twined with the raiment of the vala whose demesne was ever light, refracting through her body as though she were made from a million faceted crystals rather than flesh and blood.

Reaching out, she traced the centermost stone with the tip of a finger. The air about the stones was hot with the energy of the light released, yet the surface was cool to the touch, no warmer than was the surface of a young spring coming down from the mountains. And it felt pure—as pure as any of the light which Varda had Sung into the world to combat the great encroachment of defilement and shadow taken root in the foundations of the world. For all that their creator stood arrogantly, and his displeasure at her closeness to the objects of his avarice was obvious, the three stones themselves were untainted by sin or wickedness.

“This is the Light of Creation,” she whispered, and she knew that the elven prince understood her worlds despite their being spoken in the tongue native only to the Ainur. “But thou dost know this, Curufinwë Fëanáro.”

He stared into her eyes. “Aye, I know.”

“No evil should ever touch them,” she proclaimed. “No evil could ever hope to withstand their purity. Hallowed shall they be, and they will burn away the flesh and spirit of any who would dare lay finger upon them that is tainted with wickedness or sin. Thus it shall be.”

And the Crown Prince sneered at her, his lips lifted up over the white rows of his teeth turned to pearls in the holy light. Suddenly, he stepped out of her reach, and her fingertips slipped from the surface of the center stone, lost to a sea of radiating warmth and shimmering light. The coolness of the material cage was gone, and the Queen of the Stars blinked the eyes of her physical form.

“They are a wondrous thing,” she told the elf. “Thou shouldst be proud of thy skill.”

“And thou shouldst not tamper with that which does not belong to thee,” the Crown Prince replied. Beside her, Manwë shifted in discomfort, upset by the disrespect of the tone of that mighty voice, but Varda stilled his protest with a hand upon his arm. Had the Silmarilli been her own creation into which she had poured part of her very essence, she would not have desired another to lay hands upon them in enchantment either, most especially without her permission. To do so was intimate, like a lover’s touch upon the soul. While the Ainur might understand and accept such caresses from their own siblings—for had they not all shared and entwined their works in order to create the Great Music and, thus, the Realm of Eä?—she could understand how a mortal creature might not comprehend or desire such sentiments

“Thou mayest go,” she decreed. “But go with caution.”

And the Crown Prince frowned at her, his silvered eyes troubled and distrustful. Already, they tarnished the ethereal beauty of the lights upon his brow. And Varda was unsettled. She looked away.

Her gaze moved across the hall. And, in the shadows, it rested upon a figure half-cloaked in the shade of giant pillars, curtained from the naked light of these three beautiful creations that bathed all the palace in holiness. Still, she could make out the face so similar and so different in make to that of her spouse, with the same set of the eyes and the same bend to the lips. But it was not a tranquil visage as was the one she held so dearly in her heart, and it was framed in dark locks rather than swirling silver. The very sight of that being watching them chilled her spirit even as it rested beneath the rays of the Silmarilli. She remembered the ancient days before the making of the world, and the look of lust was a familiar and horrifying memory come to life.

As he watched, Melkor was smiling. And the infinitely complex light that danced about in many colors reflected out of his eyes. But the only color that shone back at her was red.

Red.

Yet, the flash of red was quick, disappearing at once into darkness. So fast she could not be certain it had ever been there at all.

Melkor turned away then. And Varda sat upon her throne, her joy and awe turned to disquiet. The divine light was still warm upon her skin and its loveliness a comfort to her sight. And yet… she felt as though something had inexplicably changed. As if the very course of the world had suddenly been altered.

Because of three glowing white gems, the very direction of fate had been bent.

\---

Reformation was not part of Melkor’s ultimate scheme.

Three ages of imprisonment had done nothing to negate the nauseating fury and bitterness that had ever defined this dark bastion of power. Paste on a smile. Say some flowery words. Play at remorse. But, no matter how beautiful he appeared in the flesh, Melkor had not changed much—if at all—in spirit.

He would do what he had to do to get where he wanted to go. And, if that meant bowing and scraping at his brother’s sandals for a few millennia, he would lower his pride to play that ridiculous game. After all, to a being who would live for eternity, what was such a short period of time? As long as he stayed beneath the thumb of Manwë and his posse of naïve and idealistic followers, Melkor had time to think and to plan. He had time to contemplate his next move and set the wheel of time spinning in his favor again.

As it was, that very morning he had arisen without any real motivation to speed along his plans of escape from these bright lands and his prescribed “community service”. Waiting three ages had, at the very least, taught him a small modicum of patience.

All that patience was wiped out in a single, bloody blow. It took but a look. He gazed for a mere moment upon the gems—three white gems more amazing and miraculous than any material creation born from mortal or immortal hands before or since—that rested in a row upon the circlet of the Crown Prince Curufinwë Fëanáro, and all the world seemed to topple about his head, replaced with an overwhelming tidal wave of _lust_ and _hatred._

Melkor was not unfamiliar with this arrogant worm of a creature. Beautiful, charismatic and undeniably talented—for one of the Eruhíni, at any rate—Fëanáro had ever been a thorn in Melkor’s side. They had hated each other from the very moment they had laid eyes upon one another, as if each could sense himself within the other’s breast and felt the disdain swelling at the thought of a _lesser copy._

Now, the Dark Lord laid eyes upon the Silmarilli in their golden prison atop the head of his hated foe, and his breath was caught as if by invisible hands. Stolen away. For, before his very eyes, was the Light of Creation. The Flame Imperishable.

For as long as he had existed, he had dreamed of that light. Longed to grasp it within his fingers. Wished fervently to take its energy into his being and _Make Be._

And it was this—this _conceited little mortal_ —this _pale reflection of power_ —which had managed to capture that very light which _should have been Melkor’s_. It was Curufinwë Fëanáro who had been blessed with that which Ilúvatar had denied even to his most powerful of Ainur. It was to a mere _elf_ that a piece of the Flame Imperishable had been imparted, when even the Two Trees, greatest creations of some of the greatest beings to ever exist, could not boast to contain even a droplet of undiluted Light directly from the _source._

It was maddening! Infuriating! _Unbelievably disgusting!_

Standing in the shadows of the hall, Melkor watched in disbelief as the elf paraded himself about with those three glorious gems upon his brow. And he wanted nothing more than to rip that crown from the head of that unworthy shard of flame and take for his own what _should have been his!_

Melkor had never coveted any material thing as he coveted the Silmarilli.

And, suddenly, his plan to wait and carefully work his way into the favor of the Valar fell short. Suddenly, all those thousands and thousands of years seemed too long a time to be parted from that which he desired most. Suddenly, even a day seemed too long a time to allow this blasphemous farce to continue—to allow such beauty as that which lit now the halls of Valmar with the divine light, that which had never shone unhindered upon any region of Eä since its conception, to remain in the hands of such an unworthy creature.

How had Fëanáro accomplished this feat? How had he obtained that thing which Melkor had ever desired? Why—why had Eru _allowed this atrocity?_

In his breast, the Dark Lord felt a sharp twinge of pain, like a needle-prick filled with agony that spread through his blood slowly in excruciating waves. That he, the most powerful of the Ainur, should be mocked so—could the Father have been any crueler in his mockery of long-dead hopes and dreams? Could Eru have struck a harsher blow than to openly display such a prize before the eyes of one who had been denied its perfection from the very start of existence?

Envy grew as green flame, washing outwards in a slimy wave to contaminate all of Melkor’s being, to drown his thoughts in its gooey muck and counter the cruel pain. From it, a greater hatred than he perhaps felt even for Manwë was birthed.

He stared at the scene before him, as Curufinwë Fëanáro approached the throne of the King and Queen of Arda, as Varda Elentári blessed those gems. Her words were a warning and a promise, he could sense, and yet he cared not whether he would be burned by the holiness of that light which he coveted and loved above all else.

He watched as Fëanáro sneered defiantly at the two most powerful beings—barring himself—in existence, and a new scheme began to unfold in the mind of the Dark Lord. One which would end in the subjugation of that fiery creature who so dangerously flaunted the favor of Eru. One which would yield that prince chained at his feet, his willing and envious slave, and the Silmarilli upon his brow. One which would end with the whole world spread out before his gaze, emptied of the contamination of the Valar so that he might use these shards of the Flame Imperishable to shape and change reality at his own whims and fancies.

Would it not be a beautiful future, indeed, to have that power which had ever been denied to him suddenly at his fingertips? And the destiny that his Father had tried to deny him in his infancy would finally be fulfilled!

Melkor would have the Silmarilli. He would have Varda Elentári as his queen and Curufinwë Fëanáro as his slave. He would have his dark throne and his brother would be deposed forever.

He would have the Light of Creation in the palm of his hand.

And, in doing so, he would have his _revenge._

With greed, then, did he look upon the sight of Varda as her fingers touched upon the centermost stone set in Fëanáro’s crown, her body shimmering like stardust beneath the cosmic light and her silvery whiteness turned to a myriad of hues and shades of color scattered like the fall of a million tiny crystals from the heavens. He looked upon Fëanáro’s alighted face in all its snarling glory, teeth bared and eyes shattered by the holy light vibrating in their depths, and he could not help but think of how lovely and horrible this creature was at the height of his presumption. 

All in one place was gathered all the things the Dark Lord wanted most.

And he would have them. _He would have them._

From across the hall, the eyes of Varda met his own, filled with wildflower meadows of refracted light. And Melkor felt satisfaction bloom in his breast. For he could see her fear in that treacherous swirl of color, in the reflection of three radiant lights coruscating in her pale irises as the brightest and boldest of stars.

And it was a beautiful sight. A beautiful sight indeed.

He could not help but unleash his excited grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Eldar = high-elves (pl)  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> vala = great holy being (s)  
> Eä = physical universe (lit. Be!)  
> Silmarilli = Silmarils (pl)  
> Eruhíni = Children of Eru (pl)  
> Elentári = Queen of the Stars


	413. Enormous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilession makes an awkward situation playful, trying to inspire some recovery in his morose younger cousin, Celebrimbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 7, 2016.
> 
> Basically a continuation of Legend from the POV of the two elves involved. I just wanted some light cousinly bonding while perpetuating the "legend", so to speak. Poor Ilession has no idea what he's started.
> 
> Warnings: Elves picking on clueless humans. Slight sadism (more like malicious pranking/humor). Allusions to dark pasts of characters.

“Do you understand what it is that they say?”

All around them whispered abounded, a hissing and buzzing nuisance. The sharpness of elven ears caught many hushed conversations shielded by cautious hands to accompany the flash of many dark eyes in the late afternoon sunlight, all glinting as they rested upon the pair of newcomers and quickly looked away. In each face could be seen hints of nervousness and awe. Some even looked _fearful_ , as though expecting the pair of travelers to leap from their horses and fall upon the nearest human, tearing with fangs and claws.

It was quite the change from the last village through whence they had passed. There, they had been all but ignored except by a curious child or two. Vendors had not paused in the midst of negotiating trade nor everyday folk in the midst of their daily routines. All about them, life had continued on as if the two dark, cloaked figures on horseback were not an anomaly even worth a second glance.

Celebrimbor shuddered. He could feel the hundreds of eyes upon him, and, though he knew they could not see his face through the deep shadows of his hood, it was still off-putting and discomfiting. It was as though the elves were a pair of rare insects or flowers being _inspected_ by the locals.

What they had done to warrant such observation, he had not the slightest idea.

“It is difficult to make out,” Ilession replied in a hushed voice, speaking in the lilting Sindarin tongue to avoid eavesdroppers. “I know the language of the Haradrim only passingly—enough to give basic orders—and I fear what I _do_ know is a dialect different to that which is spoken colloquially here.”

 _Lovely._ Well, it could certainly have been worse. They could have been stranded without any ability to communicate _at all_. After all, Celebrimbor spoke not a single word of the Haradrim tongue. Any man of Harad who had had business in Barad-dûr—and that number was limited to the highly educated: powerful sorcerers and conjurers or the occasional chieftain or religious figure—knew to speak the Black Speech in the residence of the Dark Lord. Sauron would allow no other language to be used in his keep, not even by the orcish filth.

Celebrimbor shuddered.

Not even by his lover.

“Well, can you make out _anything?”_ he asked sullenly, resisting the powerful urge to reach for his concealed sword and flash the blade through the desert sun. That might attract attention—and, undoubtedly, not the positive sort—but it certainly would send a message of warning quite well enough!

At his side, Ilession seemed completely calm if passingly puzzled by the situation, and not at all unsettled or even worried about the possibility of being attacked by rabid humans. “They speak of dark—dark? Or perhaps black?—riders. Presumably us two. Beyond that, it is difficult to make out much other than that we are apparently—ah!—apparently servants of the God of War of the black lands to the north.”

Celebrimbor felt his mouth go dry. It was not the casual mention of the Dark Lord which had him frazzled, though any mention of Annatar— _Sauron_ , he reminded himself, _Sauron_ —left him feeling rather downcast and uncomfortable these days. Rather, it was the fact that these people associated a pair of wanderers _at all_ with the Dark Lord. Surely they did not assume all strangers passing through were servants of evil! So what had given them cause to believe that these two simple travelers were under the thrall of Sauron? Surely, these people could not have any idea _who they were_ , for they had remained cloaked all the time except—

Except at the river. Celebrimbor sighed, recalling the reflection of moonlight upon water in dark eyes. There had been a boy at the river.

“The child,” he commented softly.

“Indeed,” his cousin agreed. “In all likelihood, though, we were not recognized by our own names or faces. None but the highest echelon of servant or slave ever laid eyes upon you during your stay in the Dark Lord’s chambers, and I was rarely seen without my face and body covered. Most did not even know that I was an elf and not a Black Númenorean. I should think that it was my tattoo that gave us away.”

The shoulder tattoo, Celebrimbor remembered. The one that made him shudder every time Ilession turned around. That giant eye staring and staring and staring, unblinking and lifeless yet somehow seeming too real to be a mere painting of black ink upon flesh. That mark was undeniable, and it would be recognized all over the southern lands even amongst the rural folk and small villages.

“Many of their own people served the Dark L—Sauron during his second rise. Should not two mere servants—Black Númenoreans at best—be of little news or importance?”

Certainly, it wouldn’t have warranted this staring. Certainly, it wouldn’t have caused such a flurry of excitement and panic. Certainly, it would not have put shivers of terror in every body upon which the elf laid his gaze nor placed silent awe into every set of lips gaping open as if in the greatest shock.

For a time, Ilession did not answer. Not until Celebrimbor turned his gaze away from the still villagers to gaze in the direction of his companion did the other finally speak.

And his words left Celebrimbor stunned into silence.

“I believe… I believe they think us to be Nazgûl.”

\---

Though he could see not even the viridian of Celebrimbor’s eyes, Ilession could sense the shocked horror radiating from his cousin. Indeed, having met with and dealt with the Nazgûl on many occasions—even butting heads from time to time with the Witch-king himself!—the former general of Sauron’s hoards was offended that anyone might even _guess_ him to be a ring-wraith. The Nazgûl were powerful beings, yes, but they were _slaves_ , and Ilession was slave to no one and no thing—not even Sauron.

“Nazgûl?” Celebrimbor parroted, perhaps a tad bit louder than he should have.

At the word—indeed, a word that even these southern people recognized by balked to say—there was a wave of terror, almost a perfume upon the very air for its thickness and strength. Women were tugging their small children away and men were fingering the knives at their waists or in their boots. All eyes were upon the pair, waiting…

“Should we not disillusion them?” the green-eyed elf asked in a hushed tone, his voice caught somewhere between surprise and disgust. “After all, we are hardly—”

“Nay!” As much as Ilession would have liked to tear apart whomever thought to label him a ring-wraith, he also found the situation rather amusing after the initial shock. And convenient. He would not have been surprised if these people had not even _myths_ about the elven folk, let alone would _recognize_ an elf if they saw one, so the boy probably had seen the strange paleness and height, the mark of the Dark Lord, and the otherworldly _not-human_ look about the pair, and the child had assumed they were the only mythical beings well-known in these parts for serving Sauron.

Suddenly, the “dark rider” nonsense was looking a lot clearer.

“Better that they think we are Black Riders—invincible and deadly—than that they realize we are naught but simple travelers on our own in an unfamiliar land. This ridiculous misunderstanding might prove to be useful.”

“Useful…” He could hear, rather than see, Celebrimbor’s scoff.

“Maybe even entertaining,” Ilession added, grinning behind the cloaking shadows, his thoughts traveling away from more sinister plots and towards a bit of malicious pranking instead. From the corner of his eye, he could see several nearby men flinch back from the sibilant sound of the half-stifled laughter caught between his teeth.

“You just want to scare the locals,” his cousin muttered, though the disapproval in that voice was half-hearted at best. “We should not perpetuate a misconception. We should _not_. It will only cause problems later.”

“Whatever you say,” he teased in return, eyes turning from the empty blackness of his companion’s hood back towards the tense, dark-eyed villagers poised and waiting for the “Black Riders” to make some sort of aggressive move. He had this wonderful idea to put a bit of hilarity into this situation. Perhaps it was a tad bit sadistic, but Ilession felt a grin curving upwards at the corners of his lips even as he spurred his horse forth and settled his gaze upon a nearby vender. A man selling some sort of exotic fruit which the elf had never seen before but which looked quite divine after living off lizards and lembas for a month.

“M-m-my Lord?” the man squeaked. “How m-might I be of s-s-service?”

In a deliberate move, Ilession took his hand away from the reins of his mount, and the man’s breath caught, his wide eyes followed the movement as if expecting that hand to leap out and grab at his throat. Of course, all the elf did was point at the fruit.

“Two,” he growled out in his heavily accented rendition of archaic Haradrim. Hopefully at least numbers were consistent throughout most of the region.

Indeed, thought the man jumped at the sound of his voice and looked about ready to keel over in fright at the nearness of such a wondrous and dangerous creature, he did seem to understand the command. Two of those succulent fruits were grabbed, one in each of the man’s large, weathered hands, and offered upwards whilst the man simultaneously attempted to bow and nearly fell flat on his face in the sand. “T-two, my L-lord!”

The poor thing was trembling so hard that it Ilession wondered briefly if, just by sitting here and staring, the man’s knees would eventually give out altogether and sent him sprawling. Lucky for the human, Ilession’s cruel streak was not such that he could not control the somewhat-ingrained urge to tease and prod at the cracks in the psyche until it faltered and shattered. Sauron would have stood here and waited until the poor man pissed himself and then sat down in his own filth out of terror, and then he would have had the man publicly shamed and whipped for daring to inconvenience the Dark Lord.

Ilession was not such a cruel being as that, but he would freely admit to finding the reverence mixed with the terror to be a strange and funny combination. Instead of waiting to see what the human might do, the elf reached out and took the proffered fruit, exchanging them for two small silver coins—probably much more than they were worth. But he had no real care for monetary value, and he left the vendor behind, the man now gaping down at the silver pieces in his palm with a shocked look. Indeed, the man probably needed to sell five times as many fruits to the villagers in order to make a comparable amount. The elf tapped his mount into a leisurely walk and then examined the fruit resting in his right hand, its flesh a lovely shade of orange and unblemished.

“Silver-fist,” he called softly, his tongue falling seamlessly into the Black Speech, “Catch!”

To a human, the throw was probably nothing but a blur of orange gleam through the air, too fast to really see and certainly too fast to catch with such rudimentary reflexes. Warrior reflexes, however, allowed Celebrimbor to have his hand out in a fraction of a breath, gracefully snatching the fruit out of the air without so much as bruising its skin or the softness beneath.

“Incorrigible,” his cousin commented with a snort of laughter, switching back to Sindarin. “Black Speech should not be used so frivolously.”

“Have a little fun,” Ilession replied even as he tucked his own snack away for after they left the village. It would hardly do to ruin their mysterious “Black Rider” image by peeling and consuming food in the public’s eye. “How about a vanishing act? That would certainly lend some credence to our ‘Nazgûlish’ image. What say you?”

“Wait, Iles—”

“Right, let us go then!”

The older cousin spurred his mount forward, listening with half an ear to the cursing of Celebrimbor, whose horse had taken off without warning in pursuit. It took all but fifteen or so seconds to reach the edge of the tiny village, during which time Ilession managed to contain his laughter as the population scattered, flying backwards out of his path like fleeing bunnies seeking their burrows at the passage of a wolf. Just barely had the elves cleared the edge of the small piece of civilization before he began incanting in the Black Speech again, calling down a chill wind to whip the sand up at their heels and blind all else to their path up over the distant hill.

Just barely over the howling did he hear the panicked noises of the villagers left in their wake scrambling for cover as the sky—previously cloudless and crystalline blue—went dark as a whirlwind carried sand up into the air like a storm of red and pale gold. It covered the passage of the two riders, both now openly laughing in exhilaration, as they crested over a hill and down into the shallow ravine below.

By the time the wind dissipated from its screaming rage and the sun came back out from behind her veil of dust and sand, he village was no longer within sight, blocked by the local geography, and Ilession was breathlessly chuckling as he pulled out his fruity prize and a knife. In the far distance, the sounds of shouting could be heard, a flurry of activity overtaking the people they had left in their wake at the vanishing of the two riders into the midst of the desert as does a ghost or a mirage. Of course, had anyone bothered to run out and peek over the hill, they would have seen the pair of elves, hoods blown back from their faces, snickering and chortling like a pair of children. Not very dignified or, indeed, very “Nazgûlish” at all.

Carefully, Ilession began to peel at the skin of his fruit, watching as the bright orange layer began to come off in spirals. Celebrimbor pulled up right beside him, still hiccupping out soft laughter as a hand raked back the loose and tangled mane or his dark hair, and the older cousin could not help but stare at the face of the younger.

He didn’t think he’d heard Celebrimbor laugh so wildly and freely since—well, since before the second rise of Sauron. And he didn’t think he’d seen Celebrimbor smile so genuinely, without a sardonic or wistful twist—like the young and beautiful creature he remembered from the green days of bliss in the noontide of Valinor—since before Annatar. Maybe not even since before the Darkening.

It was certainly a lovely change from the disconsolate creature he had followed out of Gondor and into the sands of Harad.

“We should not have done that.” But the scolding was tainted by the afterglow of amusement in green eyes and the flash of white teeth in the sun from between grinning lips. “Really, I think the Dark Lord rubbed off on you, cousin. Taking such pleasure in scaring the poor local people! For shame!”

“Hypocrite,” Ilession countered with a snort, pulling a chunk of the juicy flesh of his fruit out and plopping it into his mouth.

 _Tangy_ , he thought. _And sweet._

This whole ridiculous situation may have been an enormous misunderstanding, but out of it had come an enormous step forward, as well. It was worth fiddling with some sorcery and scaring the daylights out of a few humans to see his cousin smile again.

“How fast do you think the rumors will spread?” he asked rather than commenting on the visions of days long passed into memory. “Maybe we should use the same trick to mysteriously appear in the next village. Create a new myth about how the Black Riders can vanish into thin air and reappear wherever they choose at will.”

And Celebrimbor gave him one of those looks, on the outside disapproving but full of mischief in the eyes. “You are terrible, cousin. The worst!”

“So, that is a yes, correct?”

He plopped another piece of fruit into his mouth and enjoyed the ringing of light-hearted laughter out over the sand. _Sweet, indeed._


	414. Independent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor vs. Celegorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 8, 2016.
> 
> Yet another part of the young!Celegorm series. This takes place after Simple and likely before Rules and plays sort of as a companion to Vibrancy, countering Maedhros' POV with Fëanor's perception of Celegorm's growth into his rebellious and rule-breaking nature.
> 
> Warnings: Family issues. The slightest mention of implied sex. Mostly just Fëanor and Celegorm being their usual selves.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë = Moryo

Turkafinwë had been gone for months.

Nerdanel, of course, was worrying herself sick at the thought that something might happen to her son. Nelyafinwë was high-strung and anxious constantly as well, ever concerned with the wellbeing of his siblings. The general upset had little Morifinwë in a constant state between whining and crying. Even Kanafinwë, normally quite happy to linger in the realm of his own hobbies and doings, ignoring all else happening about him, was abnormally upset and absent-minded as of late. The whole house was lingering in a strange gray shadow, hidden under a hushed veil—a disquiet that had them all tiptoeing about one another like flighty mice.

And then there was Fëanáro. Irritated, mercurial, hot-tempered Fëanáro.

It was not that he was precisely _worried_ about the boy. He had no doubt that Turkafinwë would be fine, for his third son had reached the age of maturity and was physically considered an adult capable of making his own choices. Rather, more so than anything else, Fëanáro was… annoyed. Angry, even.

It had been a very, _very_ long time since anyone had denied Fëanáro anything, be it a material or immaterial thing, that he desired. If he wanted a trinket or a tool or a piece of artwork, it was a simple task to buy what he wanted. If he wanted obedience or reverence from the sea of fools in the upper classes, that was easily achieved, too, by but a few strongly-worded castigations and public humiliations. No one went against his wishes. Not his father. Not his wife. Not even his eldest son.

And then there was Turkafinwë. Eclectic, wild, _independent_ Turkafinwë.

Their relationship was that of two hurricanes meeting over the sea, each battling to remain set in its course as it curled into and struck at the opposing force of nature in defiance. Like his father before him, young Turkafinwë was spirited to a fault, swift to fury and long to forgive. Pale-haired though he was, he had the face of his father—and his grandmother Míriel—more so than the traditional Noldorin features inherited by some of his siblings, and he had apparently inherited the obstinate personality to match. Telling Turkafinwë to do anything—anything from eating vegetables he disliked to ordering him inside during a rainstorm to demanding his presence for lessons in the forge—was met with staunch and unyielding resistance. As though the boy were hot-wired for rebellion, absolutely incapable of bending to the wishes of anyone or anything but himself. Even his equally obstinate and temperamental father. _Especially_ his father.

It was _maddening_. Not that Turkafinwë had run off—for Fëanáro was certain his son would be back—but that he had had the gall to disobey his father in the first place, fleeing into the night without saying anything or telling anyone to whence he went. Like a phantom, the silver-haired little fiend had vanished as a fell breath of wind from the north, and neither hide nor hair of him had been seen since. Not _anywhere_ —in Tirion or Alqualondë or Valimar or anywhere else elves frequented.

And, though it was perhaps a bit irrational, Fëanáro was furious that the boy had slipped right through his fingers with ease. He was furious that he could not _make_ his third son do as he desired and behave as a prince’s son ought to behave. Nelyafinwë was an obedient heir, and Kanafinwë was at least soft-spoken and acquiescent, but Turkafinwë…

_Aiya, Turkafinwë…_

Frustrating. Puzzling. Mind-boggling. Impossible to understand. Impossible to predict. So confusing that Fëanáro wanted to beat his head against a brick wall because he simply _could not figure out how to make his son cooperate, Eru damn it all!_

 _He must get that from his mother._ The thought brought a derisive snort of amusement—sarcastic and bitter, harsh laughter—to the prince’s throat.

Truly, Fëanáro was looking toward the day of his third son’s return with bated breath and a heart full of dread. Either Turkafinwë would have learned his lesson and would have been shocked and traumatized enough by living on his own without the resources and privileges of the royal family to finally fall into line and accept his father’s dominant presence, or…

Or Turkafinwë would be completely and wildly out of control.

Honestly, Fëanáro was not really sure which he preferred. But he was not holding his breath and hoping for the best.

\---

Of course, that day _did_ finally come, just as Fëanáro had expected.

And it had ended just as poorly as he had imagined it might.

As though nothing at all had happened—as though he had not been missing and unreachable for _months_ , worrying his mother and brothers half to death—Turkafinwë came waltzing up to the house covered in a thin layer of travel dust, his boots muddy, his hair braided like a commoner and a bow strapped across the back of his broad shoulders. He even had a dog—a big, somewhat shaggy hunting hound—following at his heels. Altogether, unkempt and roguish though the younger elf might have been, his body had filled out, finally losing fully the gangly physique of a young adult and gaining musculature that any smith would have been proud to possess.

Of course, Nerdanel didn’t care that he was filthy and in desperate need of a bath, nor did she immediately explode into angry overtures of scolding the boy for driving her senile with worry. Instead, she bounded down the steps and fell upon her third son in a flurry of ginger hair and excitement, pulling the surprised young elf into a back-breaking hug to express the sheer weight of her relief. Slowly from where he watched upon the steps of his home, Fëanáro felt anger bloom in his belly, spreading upwards in a hot wave and peaking in sharp stabs of red haze when Turkafinwë’s mouth bent into an amused smirk. Not a single ounce of repentance in that expression. _Not a droplet._

In fact, Turkafinwë looked altogether pleased with himself and his extended vacation to Eru only knew where. Fëanáro had never been a great proponent of taking a child over his knee—it had been a fairly rare occurrence, and Turkafinwë was far too old for such a thing now anyway—but it was tempting. _Very tempting._

Instead, the prince took a steadying breath and waited for his wife to finish inspecting every inch of their son. As if it wasn’t already obvious that he was none the worse for wear.

And, as if he had heard the derisive thoughts running through his father’s head, Turkafinwë glanced upwards. The eyes of father and son locked. Silver against silver. Fire against fire. Scorn against scorn. None of the other children would have dared to meet Fëanáro’s gaze head-on for so long, especially not when he was clearly _displeased_ with their actions. But Turkafinwë was none of them.

Turkafinwë was Turkafinwë. And Fëanáro knew that they could have stood centuries like this, still as stone, each waiting for the other to speak first and break the thick wall of silence reining in their festering, scalding tempers. Someone had to crack—to yield to the will of the other—and neither one of them was interested in backing down.

It was, in fact, Nerdanel who decided the winner. For Fëanáro’s wife affixed him with a _look_ —that look that never spelled good things for his chances at making it into his wife’s bedchambers that night—and he knew what she wanted. Namely, for him to at least _pretend_ that he had been overwrought with worry at the thought of his _poor, helpless, ignorant baby boy_ lost and alone somewhere out in the wilderness, and that he was _terribly relieved_ to see that Turkafinwë made it back in one piece no worse for wear.

Both father and son would know that that would be a lie. Love his son though he might, Fëanáro knew that Turkafinwë was not a child in need of his help or his worry or his approval. Father and son were two grown alpha males being forced to share territory each against his own instincts.

With resignation, Fëanáro let out a long breath. “Yondonya,” he greeted nonchalantly.

And _by the Valar_ did he want to smack that smug little grin right off his son’s face! It was hardly an appropriate thought for a father, and Fëanáro had no intention of ever striking any one of his children—even one as infuriating as Turkafinwë—with the actual intent to harm, but he still felt his fists curl and his limbs grow jittery. Little tremors fluttered through his muscles, no doubt spurred on by the rush of adrenaline and the anger leaving the back of his throat taut and aching.

“Atar,” his son greeted. “Worry not that I shall darken thy doorstep for long. I came to visit Amillë, but I intend to stay in the forest for the most part, for I have little interest in holing myself up indoors.”

In response, Fëanáro pursed his lips until they bled white. “It is hardly appropriate for a prince to be sleeping in a tree like some sort of vagabond.”

The smile he received in turn—something toothy, caught halfway between vicious glee and mischievous sadism—left the Crown Prince standing stiffly, his blood coursing hot and molten through his veins. Apoplectic, grinding his teeth against the oncoming wave of fury at being so blatantly, disrespectfully _mocked_ by his own son, Fëanáro managed just barely to paste a bland look upon his face if only to play at disinterest in his progeny’s obvious rebellion.

“I do not particularly care for what is and is not appropriate,” Turkafinwë told him in response, his voice cold and sharp as a blade but filled with the insidious whispers of humor in its depths. “I shall do as I please.”

_And thou canst do nothing to stop me._

The pair stared at one another, once more struggling in a power game between two spirits that clashed and warred as though they were physical entities, violently battling for rights to the same space. Yet, Fëanáro once more pulled in his rage and his frustration, knowing a battle he would not win when he—at last, after all these long years—encountered one. Continuing to try and crush the insurgence of his third son beneath the weight of his own desires would get him nothing but a silent house filled with a disapproving wife, an upset heir, and a volatile wildfire of a child who would disregard his words and decrees at every turn regardless of what he did or said.

And Turkafinwë knew this. It was not exactly a surrender, for Fëanáro silently would make no promises to cease in his attempts to mold his child as he saw fit, but it was most definitely a yield. The third son broke eye contact, making an approach to the house and taking the steps two at a time until he stood even with his sire. They were the same height and breadth now, standing on equal ground physically and mentally, not the father who had watched his conflicted, frazzled, gangly whelp of a son run away from his problems all those months ago.

“I think I shall slip in to greet Nelyo and Káno before I am on my way,” Turkafinwë said to his father. “Maybe Moryo, too. That brat could use a little teasing. Maybe then he might grow a backbone.”

And then the silver-haired fiend vanished into the house. Without even wiping his boots before he splattered mud all over the marble floor and the woven rugs. And the massive hound followed right in behind him, trailing pale hair all the way.

Fëanáro felt his whole body deflate. He did not even bother to attempt to remain a steadfast and towering pillar of strength before the eyes of his wife, who ascended the steps of their home and made her way to his side, leaning in against his body like she was made to fit there. Her comforting warmth, at least, helped soothe the temper, like soft hands stroking away its growling snarls until they dissolved into quiet purrs at her touch.

“He has grown up,” she said at last, her voice strained. “He no longer needs us, neither our support nor our authority. Maybe it is for the best that thou dost let him be.”

“Thou art wise,” he told her, though he was loath to admit aloud that this war was a lost cause, one he wouldn’t win without irreparable damage to himself, his son and, likely, his marriage. “For now, perhaps it is for the best that he does as he pleases. It is clear he will not listen to me in any case.”

His wife’s breaths came soft, and they brushed over his skin like moth wings across his inner fire. She pressed a kiss against his cheek, and his temper cooled to a mere simmer.

“He reminds me of thee, Fëanáro,” she told him then. “Frighteningly ingenious. Quick to laugh at the anger and disapproval of others. Fiercely independent.”

The prince hummed in the back of his throat, turning to look down at his wife’s upturned face, staring into the green eyes that often enough captured and held him prisoner. “Oddly enough, he reminds me rather a lot of _thee_ as well, vessenya. So very willful and stubborn and unwilling to yield. It is so terribly _frustrating.”_

But his words only made her chortle, one her delicate sculptor’s hands curling into the fabric of his tunic sleeve as the other came to rest upon his curled fist. Carefully, she teased the cage of his fingers until they unraveled, his hand resting palm up so that she could thread their fingers together.

“Thou didst figure me out eventually,” she teased. And her smirk so _alike to his_. “Give it some time, vennonya.”

“Somehow, Nerdanel, I doubt I shall ever figure Turkafinwë out.”

 _Somehow, I doubt I shall ever really get the chance to try. He has already left us behind. He has already left_ me _behind._

“Let us go inside,” Nerdanel suggested rather than perpetuating the argument. “Perhaps Maitimo will be so delighted to have his brother back for the day that we shall have fresh-baked pastries in the house once more. I will admit to missing his apple tarts rather sorely.”

And Fëanáro let himself be dragged back into his own house without fuss, internally shaking his head in horrified wonder. _Yet another thing I shall never understand… Baking… Why did Nelyafinwë have to like baking?_

But maybe that was just another one of those mysteries better left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Aiya = Oh (exclamatory)  
> Eru = God (lit. He who is Alone)  
> Valar = great holy beings (pl)  
> yondonya = my son  
> Atar = Father  
> Amillë = Mother  
> vessenya = my wife  
> vennonya = my husband


	415. Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm and Lúthien tiptoeing around sensitive subjects as they reconnect in the Halls of the Waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 9, 2016.
> 
> Lúthien approaches Celegorm in the Halls of the Waiting. This is related to several other pieces, most notably Shield and Open. Basically slow-burn not-quite-romance.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of murder, insanity, suicide, war, other general unpleasantness in the FA. Nothing terribly explicit, though. Just there. And depression.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë

The first time she approached him in the dim grayness of the Halls of the Waiting, he outright refused to look upon her face.

Instead, she heard his voice as if through a veil, for he faced away from her and stared at the solid gray stone of the wall with blank eyes. “Why art thou here?” he asked her, his voice quiet but jagged, like the scratch of claws upon rock. Unpleasant and hostile.

“I… wanted to inquire after thy health,” she admitted. “I can see I am unwanted.”

“Thou art,” he told her, still looking away. “Leave.”

And she left.

\---

But not for long. The next day, she came along and found him staring blankly at a tapestry. Upon its wildly writhing and glimmering strands of black and green and red, she could see familiar shapes. One redheaded and one dark-haired. Each held in their arms a small child with raven hair.

She did not need to say anything. He knew she was there. Once again, he did not look at her, but his voice this time was softer. Distant, as though lost in deep thought.

“These elflings, they are the sons of thy son’s daughter. Thy kin.”

“ _Our_ kin,” she corrected immediately.

His eyes flashed towards her, a little shimmer of starlight amidst a sea of storms and heartbreak. But his head did not turn, and he pretended nothing had happened. That he had not looked. That he did not _want_ to look.

“Are they really?” he asked, and the words had a rhetorical tang. Wry and depreciating.

Still, she chose to answer. “They are.”

“Indeed.”

He said nothing else. After a few more minutes of being ignored—of watching the image of her great-grandsons cradled close to the chests and hearts of a pair of doomed murderers, their unknowing great-granduncles—she moved away down the hall. Clearly, he did not desire company, and she dared not push.

\---

Still, she made her visits regular. Once a day, even if it was only to inquire after his health in a bare-boned exchange of pleasantries. The answer never really changed, of course, for he looked as shattered and lost in depression as ever. But still, she came and went.

“Why dost thou do this to us?” he asked her once. “Why art thou here?”

This time he looked at her, and his stare _hurt_. Lúthien remembered the feeling of loss that had stricken her heart when she thought Beren to be beyond her reach forever, how she had been filled with such despair and such terror. And she felt sick, because his eyes looked just the same as had hers in those dark days when her hope was spent and her arms sought comfort from anyone who would offer it. Even one she did not love.

He had that look about him. Desperate and lonely. Seeking comfort in her words. 

But he was too wary to reach out and ask. Too cynical to expect that he might find the solace he sought in her arms. His eyes spoke of longing, but his face was a dark shadow. Instead of opening himself up to her sight, he would try to drive her away.

And Lúthien had not the heart to say that she came to speak to him out of pity. That she did it out of guilt and sorrow rather than any sort of real affection or love. That she wanted to fix him because she was afraid that it had been her poor choices which had broken him in the first place, nothing more and nothing less.

But to say those things would have been cruel. To say anything would have been cruel.

Still, she spoke. “Is there something wrong with checking on an old friend?”

“If we were friends… no.”

And his eyes were disappointed, but not surprised nor accusatory. If anything, they were resigned to the proffered fate.

Lúthien’s throat felt tight. “We _are_ friends.”

“Do not lie.”

_It hurts too much._

And they were both silent after that.

\---

“I am sorry about Huan.”

It was a tender subject, one that Lúthien was hesitant to broach. But she would rather apologize for stealing Celegorm’s canine companion than for stealing his heart and crushing it beneath her boot-heel. At least she _could_ apologize for this.

“Huan made his own choices.” But there was no denying that his voice was slightly bitter. Slightly sad. Slightly betrayed. As though he had lost something not like a mere pet but more like a long-time friend. As though she had _stolen_ from him something more precious than she could understand.

Maybe she _did not_ understand. But she could try.

“Was he with thee long?” she asked, sitting herself beside the hunter upon the bench where he’d made himself comfortable. “I did not think hounds lived for very long, even ones from the Undying Lands.”

Again, his eyes flashed oddly, a spark that lit up the darkness for a moment or two and then vanished like a candle’s flame flickering out in the night. “Huan was given to me by the vala Oromë—Tauron, Lord of Forests in the Sindarin tongue—when I was very young and very foolish. I stayed in his House for a time as a guest, and he presented Huan as a companion to remain by my side when I departed.”

Even as he spoke, his voice seemed to grow a little lighter. The harsh tones, jagged and razor-sharp, seemed to dull to something gentle and fond and wistful. It was very clear that he had liked the House of Oromë very much.

“Dost thou miss it—Oromë and his House, I mean?”

And his sigh was long. The hints of fondness remained, but tainted with a sudden sorrow. “I do. I doubt I shall ever return there, though.”

And, impulsively, she said: “I think thou wilt. Someday.”

Curiously, his eyes flickered towards hers. Just barely, the corner of his lips twitched into something that could have been construed as a smile, or at the very least not a frown. Lúthien found that she liked this face better, for it lost the angles that she associated with fury and the sharpness that reminded her of his ruthless laughter. Instead, his brow relaxed, eyes open wide so that she could see all the flecks of mithril dancing in the faint gray light.

Part of him, in that moment, looked rather innocent and hopeful. Rather more lovely than the wild and fey monster she recalled often in her nightmares.

“Dost thou think so?” he asked.

“I think so,” she answered.

And the silence between them was companionable.

\---

She continued to ask about small things. Innocuous things. What kinds of things he liked or hobbies he enjoyed. Safe things. 

He liked to tell her about the Woods of Oromë—about the smell of the ancient trees and their benevolent murmurs, so different from the dark-hearted and wicked flora of the Hither Lands. Often, he mentioned animals, and it seemed to her that they were greater friends to him than ever had been another elven creature, for there was great pleasure in his voice when he spoke of woodland fauna and the sound of birdsong in the grayness of the early morning just before dawn. Like a man speaking of old, half-forgotten friends who brought forth nostalgic feelings of remembrance and better days.

Sometimes, she wondered how a being who took such pleasure in such simple things could have become so shattered. So horrible and wicked.

Especially when he mentioned watching birds feed their hatchlings. Or fawns in the thicket that came right up and would eat out of an offered palm. Or tiny bunnies with their twitching noses that liked to make off with the flowers in the Gardens of Vána.

“Thou dost never speak of home,” she said. “With thy family.”

And his face darkened. Her heart stuttered.

“I do not really want to speak about it.”

And she did not push. Not then.

\---

News traveled fast, even in the Halls of the Waiting. Another spirit had joined their ranks this day, one so infamous that the whispers abounded in frantic swirls of voices, leaping from one spirit to the next with the vitality of a raging wildfire. Excited and untamed. Before long, _everyone_ knew.

Maedhros Fëanorion was among the dead. By his own hand. Or jump, that was.

And Lúthien found Celegorm in front of the tapestries again. This one she glanced at once and then felt her stomach twist. It was hard to look at an image depicting a man dying by flame, his body burned to charcoal from the scalding heat, for it must have been a spectacularly painful way to die. Yet, Celegorm was looking, and he did not seem overly disturbed by the graphic image, neither smiling nor frowning. Not the insane and horrible monster she dreaded nor the sad and exhausted creature that she pitied. Instead, he just seemed very cold. Very cut off. Hiding behind a shield of indifference.

“Art thou going to greet thy brother?” she asked.

And he shook his head. “I doubt Nelyafinwë wishes to speak to me any more than I wish to speak to him.”

It was said with such ice, like an outsider removed entirely from the situation looking in upon a painting of someone else’s life. As though Celegorm were not even part of the story, and there was no reason he would desire to speak with his oldest brother. As though it would hurt too much to admit that he desperately _wanted_ to speak with his oldest brother, but was too ashamed to dare approach in search of long-forgotten comfort.

Though Lúthien could not honestly say that she loved him, she wondered then if she felt more than pity for this broken thing standing before her. Because this was the first time that she had longed to take him in her arms and rest his head on her shoulder, to hold him tightly and sing softly into his ears until the tension sagged out of his shoulders and the deep lines in his brow disappeared into rest, just like she had done so many times before when she had a living husband and a growing son.

She dared not, though. Instead, she said: “Seeking comfort and forgiveness is allowed.”

_It is, in fact, the purpose of staying in the Halls of the Waiting. To find the rest that death did not grant us so that we might go on living and not merely breathing._

But Celegorm was an expert at merely breathing. She wondered if he had ever truly been _living_ at all, or if he had always been fighting and surviving. She wondered if he had happy memories of days before tragedy and before war as she had: memories of her mother teaching her to sing and her father’s ringing laughter when she pounced into his lap and the simple joy of her feet flying across the grass to the sound of Daeron’s heavenly tenor vibrating in the air. She wondered if this sad specter of a once-fiery being remembered a time when his brothers were merry or when his wild spirit was blissfully free or when his father was loving rather than mad and bloodthirsty. If any of those daydreams had ever existed at all. If he had ever been carefree enough to smile openly and cry openly and laugh openly rather than locking it all away to avoid pain and vulnerability.

She wondered if he would ever experience such happiness again. The thought of him staying here forever, locked away in these drab and gray Halls, was a horrible travesty. Like locking up a nightingale in a cage until its voice died and its will to live faded away.

He could be more. He could have more. If only he would heal.

“If there is anything I could do to help thee, please, tell me,” she found herself saying. “I would like to help.”

And he looked at her as though he had never quite seen her before. Not the adoring face of a love-struck admirer that she once recalled, nor the wrathful visage of hatred that stalked her through the darkest corners of her mind. He looked at her and his eyes were surprised, a faint glimmer of hope shining through the glassy and chilly exterior, formerly shoved down beneath the armor of disillusionment but now struggling to escape.

“Why wouldst thou wish to help me?” he asked her. “Thou dost not even _like_ me.”

“If I did not at least _like thee_ , why would I still be here?”

She met his gaze head-on, challenging and daring. And there she saw the first hints of raw emotion slipping out from beneath the hardened, adamantine outer shell. Not little phantoms of fondness or mere flashes of light in the darkness, but outright fissures through whence she could see hidden things. Finally, cracks began to form in the shield that rested between them, allowing the barest hint of his true thoughts to seep through like little pinpricks of stars peeking through heavy clouds. Little flowers of desire unfurling, showcasing exactly how much he wanted to allow her to give him the comfort he needed but denied himself in his shame. How much he wanted to take the risk again. How much he wanted to give himself over to trust one more time.

Part of her prayed he would say “no” and turn her away in scorn. The traitorous part of her cried out for him to say “yes”. To draw them inevitably closer.

Instead of either affirmation or denial, he glanced away in shyness, as though he could not bear to allow her to see the fault-lines in the landscape of his eerie façade. “Why art thou here? Really?” he asked her again.

And, this time, she could honesty say: “Because I want to be.”

Not _“Because I feel sorry for thee.”_ Not _“Because I feel guilty.”_ Not _“To pay for my sins.”_

Not _“Because I love thee.”_

But she was sincere. Because some part of her wanted to meet the young Celegorm who had walked beneath the trees in the Woods of Oromë. Because some part of her wanted to see his smile again and hear laughter untainted by madness and know if it was beautiful and pure. Because some part of her really did consider him a friend.

And she saw the moment he gave up the fight. The moment that the glisten in his eyes went from frozen to liquid heat. The moment his shoulders slumped and his breath was kicked from his lungs in a soft exclamation of surrender. The moment he decided, for once, not to fight back against the world with every ounce of his being.

He let her take his hand and lead him away from the awful tapestry covered in fire and death and damnation. Away from his perceived doom.

It was no declaration of love. Just companionship and understanding. Just being there and listening. Just not being alone.

It was a start. The first bloom of spring unfurling after a long Fell Winter.

And it was enough. For now, it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorion = Son of Fëanor


	416. Unique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin has an identity crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 10, 2016.
> 
> So, I have a couple of notes to make. First, this is basically my explanation as to why all the other brothers prefer their mother-name (and their mother-names are translated into Sindarin in the Quenta Silmarillion), but Curufin uses his father-name.
> 
> Second, a note on naming: I am of the general opinion that mother-names are not often given at birth. An amilessë apakenyë (mother-name of foresight) might be given right after birth, as that's when these bouts of prescience take place. An amilessë terkenyë, on the other hand, could be given years after birth. So could a father-name, as was the case with Maeglin receiving a name from his father when he was twelve. Now, the Fëanorions have straightforward father-names which Fëanor could easily have picked out when they were babies. Third Finwë. Strong-voiced Finwë. Strong (of body) Finwë. On the other hand, their mother-names must have been given later. So, in my AU, Curufin has been waiting until he's very nearly a full-fledged adult to get his mother-name. So when he finally gets it, he's... rather put out.
> 
> Third note: the twins are left out on purpose. They haven't been born yet. Thus, this is not _quite_ compliant with Cookies (in my personal opinion), but I think I prefer that the twins are a happy (or unhappy?) accident on the tail-end of Fëanor and Nerdanel's marriage.
> 
> Warnings: Disfunctional family stuff. Hints at sociopathy. Violence against inanimate objects. Introspection.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Curufin = Curufinwë = Atarinkë  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë  
> Celegorm = Turkafinwë  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro = Curufinwë

Atarinkë. After all this time, his mother had named him Atarinkë.

Out of all the things she could have chosen. _Little Father._

And Curufinwë could not deny that—though on the outside he played at pride in his new name—in his heart of hearts he was disappointed. Even a little betrayed.

Granted, the mother-names of his brothers were nothing spectacular. Well-shaped for Nelyafinwë, who looked like a perfect mixture of both his parents and was undeniably handsome in his own right. Gold-cleaver for Kanafinwë, who had waited even past adulthood for his mother-name but had received acknowledgement of his impossibly superior skill in taming the golden tones of the harp. Hasty-riser for Turkafinwë, who undoubtedly was swift to anger and whose spirit was as wild and perilous as the overgrown, ancient forests of Valinórë. Red-face for Morifinwë—an embarrassing name, but at least something individual, for it very well described his bashful and easily flustered nature, accented by the commonplace flush of his pale cheeks to deep red in shyness or in fury.

No, those names were nothing spectacular. Nothing prophetic or even particularly noteworthy. But they were their own names.

And then there was Curufinwë. Who received the name Atarinkë. Who was, apparently, just like his father. So like to his father that he could not even get his own name!

It should have been an honor to be compared with such an awe-inspiring figure. After all, it was undeniable that Curufinwë Fëanáro was the most talented and ingenious craftsman yet to—and possibly _ever_ to—grace the mortal race. Intelligent to a frightening degree, running circles around the most creative minds with ease, and talented at nearly every craft he picked up without even trying, there was no denying that the man was a prodigy. These were all qualities that people now would associate with young Curufinwë, who had inherited a significant amount of his father’s intellectual potential, cunning imagination, and natural talent in almost all forms of art and craft. In that sense, he had outstripped every one of his siblings by far simply by capturing more of their father’s essence in his personality and abilities. Indeed, he had come the closest yet to matching their sire toe-to-toe.

And not only in intellectual capacity either.

For Curufinwë had also inherited his father’s ruthlessness and sharp wit. While the fifth son was far from _heartless_ , he certainly was not what anyone could call _compassionate_ either. In general, he was very ill-tempered and snarky, with very black, sarcastic humor and little tolerance for idiots even at his relatively young age. A flash-fire temper, impulsiveness in spades, and rather frightening levels of charm—still blossoming into full-blown charisma but already present enough to make young ladies swoon and fawn over his smile—were all present and growing worse by the day.

Young Curufinwë would not have had a problem with any of these qualities. They were, in fact, the qualities that made him intrinsically _him_ , and therefore even the worst of his flaws were still an integral part of his make-up that he could not and would not deny. He would have been happy with his general apathy laced with an unhealthy dose of charm and far too much intelligence to be considered safe.

Except, those qualities did not define young Curufinwë.

Those qualities all belonged, first and foremost, to his _father._

No one ever commented on his looks and his smirks and his natural charm without adding the hated moniker “Just like his father!” to the end of each statement. No one commented on his progression in metallurgy and jewel-craft and blacksmithing without commenting also on how his talent _must have been inherited from his father_ , as though ever accomplishment he boasted could be attributed solely to the influence of his sire. Even his _face_ did not belong to him, for young Curufinwë knew that he was the very spitting image of Fëanáro, almost as if his mother had done her best to sculpt an exact replica of her husband out of the newly-budding life in her womb. Not that she could have done so on purpose, but still…

It did not change the fact that, when Curufinwë looked into any mirror, he felt his fists curl until his knuckles bled white and shuddered in pain. His long, straight nose and sharp, aristocratic cheekbones were common on the faces of all his brothers, and the small cleft in the chin as well, but none of them looked so perfectly _exact_ in their imitation of Fëanáro. The same hair and the same brows and the same eyes and the same mouth and the same shape to the face—seeing his father’s face looking back at him every time he gazed at his reflection, smirking cruelly, left the young elf shrinking back as if struck. More than anything, he wanted to take his fist to the silver surface, to pound upon the soft metal until it was dented and warped beyond repair. Until it would show him _something else_.

But he had retained hope that his mother, at the very least, would see something _not_ of his father within his spirit or his form or his mannerisms. Something that belonged to _only Curufinwë_ and not also to _Fëanáro._

He had waited for years—longer than all of his siblings except Kanafinwë—holding back his temper and his bitterness, waiting for his amilessë terkenyë, expecting to at least finally have something of his own.

_And then this…_

_Little Father._

That very night, he looked at his reflection again. His small hand-mirror—for he had removed from his quarters all the larger sheets of polished silver, not wanting to look at them every day—sat innocuously on his dresser, and he usually used it only for braiding hair when sight of the dark locks was necessary. Now he lifted it up with dread, and it felt as though it weighed more than the whole of the ocean in his hands. Still, he brought it forth, hoping to see something other than what he knew would be staring back…

But it was still his father.

And young Curufinwë had never felt such _rage_. He had never felt so disgustingly _generic._ As though he were barely a person in his own right. As though he were just a second coming of _Fëanáro._

This time he did not hold himself back. Snarling out a curse, he smashed the perfectly smooth surface on the edge of his dresser. Once. Twice. Three times. Until there was a large dent in the wood, and a small discoloration where he had taken away the layer of finishing and left bare flesh beneath. And he cared not, for he had accomplished his purpose. The surface of the mirror was heavily dented as well, and the handle was oddly bent.

Now, the image that stared back at him was distorted so badly that it did not even resemble an elf, let alone like the handsome, overshadowing visage of Fëanáro. But, for all its ugly imperfection, Curufinwë still liked it more than the truth.

He looked at it and thought of his brothers. Of Nelyafinwë who liked baking more than shaping metal, and whose heart was soft and tender rather than hardened and ruthless. Of Kanafinwë, who loved more than anything to sing and who preferred the simple life of a musician to the complicated existence of a prince. Of wild and reckless Turkafinwë, who spent most of his time outdoors and scorned all attempts to bring him back into “civilization”. Even of Morifinwë, whose personality was almost the complete opposite of their father’s, and whose jealousy of the fifth son was a blatant and insidious beast in verdant eyes.

They were all warped images of their sire smashed together with shards of their mother. They all had pieces and parts of Fëanáro that shone through—some more so than others—but in the end they all were their own person as well. Different. Special. Unique.

Curufinwë wanted to be more than a doppelganger. More than a copy.

He wanted to unique.

And he would find a way. Somehow, he would find a way.

He stared at his warped reflection. And his toothy grin made the image all the more grotesque. All the more beautiful.

_I will find a way to escape. I will not resign myself to life as an afterimage of someone greater._

_I will find a way to set the name Curufinwë apart from Fëanáro._

_I swear it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> amilessë terkenyë = mother-name of insight


	417. Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron dislikes Eönwë. Passionately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always thought of Manwë and Melkor as being two sides of the same coin. Not quite opposites in a direct sense, but more like two very similar people who chose two very different directions in life. On the other hand, I can't help but think of Eönwë and Sauron as a truer representation of opposites. Of course, this is all a headcanon, for Eönwë is an almost completely undeveloped character (except for the sparing of the Fëanorions at the end of the Silmarillion), but I've heard him described as "the Archangel" several times. More so than Manwë in my headcanon and AU. This is the result.
> 
> Warnings: A bit of narcissism. Resentment. Hints at war/fighting, but nothing explicit on screen. Fall from grace mentioned as well. Hatred.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Morgoth = Melkor

Mairon had never been a creature prone to jealousy.

To the contrary, in the early days he was an extremely talented and respected smith amongst his peers, and high in Aulë’s favor and esteem. Few could boast equal skill to the powerful maia in any craft, especially those of the forge and the fire, for Mairon was intrinsically and naturally talented at nearly everything he tried with his own two hands. It was in his very make-up—the essence of his being which had been birthed from his Song—and, as a result, he was also very proud. Perhaps even a bit haughty and a bit superior in attitude.

That was not to say he was outright arrogant, for that implied falsity in his superiority, and there was no denying that he was easily among the best of Aulë’s maiar, if not the best in all aspects. Nor was he particularly conceited, for he deserved to take some pride in his accomplishments and to glow beneath compliments to his cleverness and dexterity of craft. For the most part, Mairon was happy to be left alone with his work and did not feel the need to force those of lesser talent to acknowledge his greatness in order to somehow boost his ego, for to do so would have required a need to be acknowledged in the first place, and Mairon did not need any lesser being to flatter him and tell him he was great in order to feel satisfaction with his prowess.

As such, he should have been quite pleased with his lot in existence. Happy even. There was always some new project to work on. Always some new skill to enhance and perfect. Always something with which to engage his ever-racing mind and slow its swift-turning cogs.

He should have been content.

But he was not as content as he would have had others think. And that was the problem.

It was a sore spot for the powerful maia, to know and accept that he experienced discontent. But what other word was there for the annoyance that bloomed in his breast as the new projects became something repetitive and contractual in their genericity? What else could he call that sinking feeling, a sour curdling in his middle, whenever he solved a puzzle and found that it had done little to satisfy the constant, ravenous hunger for more?

What else could he call the resentment that bloomed like a violent, carnivorous flower unfurling beneath his flesh, gnawing at his insides as he was told what he could and could not do. How to shape this or that. How to make such and such new thing. Every time an idea was discarded because it was not _harmonious_ —because it did not fit into the ideal image of the world that the Valar wished to design—he could not help but feel it writhing beneath his ribcage, its fangs scraping at his bones in an attempt to escape from its living prison.

These feelings were inappropriate. They were chaotic and uncontrolled. For the time being they were caged, but still they seeped out of his flesh like a rotting odor. A nasty comment here. A tense silence there. A moment where eyes connected and there was no denying the disdain transferred invisibly upon crimson threads through the very air.

Mairon, who seemed at first glance to be the perfect maiar, was a farce. And, above all else, the fact that he could not force himself into the perfect image of what he _should have been_ was the foundation for dark thoughts that he _should not have had._

He was not perfect. And that was the first problem.

\---

The second problem was that there _was_ someone who was “perfect”. Or as close to perfect as any existing being could ever hope to be.

That second problem was the foundation for a hatred that would span the ages.

At first, of course, it was not _hatred_. Back then, in the dawning years of the Spring of Arda, Mairon had not _hated_. He had, perhaps, disliked or resented. Never a particularly patient creature, he disdained lack of intelligence and sneered at stupidity in any form, even faultless ignorance. Still, not many had something that Mairon could not gain for himself either through sheer stubbornness or by shaping with his own two hands.

And then there was Eönwë.

The lovely maia—the chief herald of Manwë and therefore the highest in rank and power of all of the maiar who had descended in order to serve the Valar and devote their lives to the shaping of the world—had always rubbed Mairon the wrong way. At first, it had seemed rather ridiculous, and he could not understand what it was that made him dislike such a perfectly _likeable_ person. Eönwë was not lacking for intelligence. Indeed, his tactical genius was quite noteworthy. And, while he was not particularly talented in any form of crafting, there was no denying that he could best almost any warrior in combat. Even some of the Valar would have been hard-pressed to defend themselves against the stalwart warrior excepting their more powerful connection with the world. In a battle of sheer spiritual strength, a vala would win, but in a battle of pure strategy and level-headed warrior-ship, Eönwë had most trounced.

Even that was not enough to make Mairon _jealous_ , for the talented craftsman knew that he, too, possessed strategic intelligence on par with his “brother”, and he did not lack for skill in wielding the multitude of weapons that he forged beneath his own two hands either!

At first, Mairon could not pinpoint what it was that made him want to tear out Eönwë’s perfect dark curls and put a vivid red handprint on a handsome, shapely cheek. That itch that caused his palms to grow hot and his fingers to coil into tight, trembling fists. That tension that pulled his jaw taut and ground together his teeth until his whole face ached with the strain. That stiffness of the muscles that followed on the tail-end of fury, taunting with the urge to throw something heavy at the perfect maia’s beautiful face.

No logical reason presented itself immediately. The irrational reactions had, at first, seemed entirely unfounded. And all the more frustrating for it! There were few things Mairon hated more than being unable to understand, especially being unable to understand his own self.

But then Mairon had figured out his own flaw. His own _weakness_. And he realized what had bothered him about Eönwë all along.

It was the tranquility.

Mairon was a being of fire. Of heat and passion and destruction and creation. Of chaos brought into order by the force of his own nature and dominant will. He was not peaceful or quiet. He was not calm and collected. He was not content with his lot and his emotions were never like _his_. Like the still surface of clear water—undeniably there but never wild or violent. Always soft and gentle.

Eönwë had something that Mairon wanted. He had that look in his deep blue eyes, that serene stillness that spoke of deep personal satisfaction. His body was never tense in readiness or in negativity, but relaxed in its fullness, welcoming in body language and open in friendliness. Even the way he moved and the way he fought were as something out of a dream, gliding through space with such undeniable ease and efficiency and _beauty_ that an artist such as Mairon could not help but be taken in and blown away.

There was no untamed wildness. It seemed as though all that impossible Power—more than Mairon could boast, though not by much—was not gnawing at the bit or yanking at its chains like a monster fighting to break free and turn fey with dissonance. Eönwë held nothing back that Mairon could sense; the maia of Aulë saw no bitterness in those eyes like he noted in many others. No jealousy as with some of the lesser craftsman in envy of the skills of others. No greed or desire, as with those interested in material wealth or possessions. No uncontrolled and possessive lust to accompany love alight in endless eyes. Just a being perfectly in tune with the deep, steady beat of the Song of the Realm of Eä.

It was perfection. The perfect maia. The perfect ainu. Maybe lesser in Power than Manwë, but Eönwë would never have called down the horror and violence of a hurricane upon the coast in a flurry of rage. Nor would he have brought forth tsunamis of unimaginable height to swallow whole the land in a tide of sickening destruction. Nor would he open fissures in the crust of the planet and let spew forth the death of sublimated rock, deadly gas, and searing heat that killed all things green and growing and poisoned the water from which beasts drank.

Powerful though many of the Valar might be, they were anything but perfect. Just like Mairon was not perfect. Just like he could not be content with his projects and his knowledge. Just like he could not help but want to change the world into the image of his mind’s eye rather than appreciating the beauty it already contained.

That tranquility of spirit was something that could not be taken. It could not be stolen or made in the forge. It could not be bought for any amount of material wealth or favor.

It was something that Mairon simply did not possess. It was the very thing that he wanted most if only to make his damning, festering flaws _go away._

And Eönwë did not even need to _try._

Eventually, Mairon came to tell himself that he did not _want_ such a useless, unimportant quality. That Eönwë’s lack of defiance and will to dominate was a sign of weakness and spinelessness. That, in some way, the most powerful of the maiar was little more than a dog of Manwë, collared and leashed by his own free will and design. That the maia’s fate was pathetic and disgusting and unenviable. Eventually, Mairon scorned all that Eönwë was, and he had taken pride instead in becoming the uncontrollable force of nature with survived to rock the foundations of the world with its might.

But some part of him could never quite forget the calm waters of those blue eyes, a gentle contrast to the sharp, iridescent glow of Mairon’s gold-laced gaze. He remembered the steady breaths of acceptance in the face of insult, unmoved to either humiliation or rage. He recalled the endless patience and harmony that ruled over the oncoming onslaught of entropy trying desperately to overrun the universe.

He could never quite forget how that kind-hearted smile could make him feel so _inadequate._

Not even for the Dark Lord Melkor had Mairon felt jealousy. And yet, without even trying, Eönwë could bring back the very feelings that Mairon hated most.

And the maia could not be certain whether he hated Eönwë alone or if he hated what the maia symbolized: his own failure and weakness, the flaws in his self which brought fury into his molten blood. Upon seeing again that familiar face with its gorgeous blue eyes and its compassionate forgiveness in the face of incomprehensible wickedness, undeserving of pity or mercy, Mairon still felt that old jealousy rise like a wall of fire in his breast.

And, along with it, a new hatred. One more potent than he felt for any being save perhaps only the Dark Lord Melkor.

The Lieutenant of Angband, long since removed of his need to fulfill harmony or consonance, who had long since accepted and _embraced_ his darker nature, took one look at Eönwë’s tranquil face carved of pale marble and Eru’s favor.

And his heart was burned to cinders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> maiar = lesser holy beings (pl)  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> vala = greater holy being (s)  
> ainu = holy being (angel) (s)


	418. Leadership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingolfin knows he's about to die. Now he has a difficult choice to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virtually the entirety of this story happens in the space of a handful of paragraphs of Flat. Thus, it is also related to Up and Pretend as well as a couple of other miscellaneous pieces. Fingolfin's death scene. The saddest, most ironic part of this is that Fëanor was already dead and Maedhros already captured leaving Maglor in charge. But Fingolfin didn't know. Might have changed things.
> 
> Warnings: Death scene. Mild descriptions of gore and blood (mention of entrails). Mentions of starvation, freezing to death, falling into the grinding ice, etc. Dick move by Fingolfin. Politics.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro = Curufinwë  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno

Even after the Darkening and the Exile, Nolofinwë had not given much thought to the possibility of his own death.

He did not have the luxury of time to contemplate his own doom.

The days of the former prince were consumed with making sure his people—all those suddenly under his protection and his alone—survived the next hour. Where was the time to wonder if he might be the next to fall through the ice when he was focused only on rooting out the safest path through the treacherous ice fields, when he was doing his best to minimize their casualties to Helcaraxë’s wrath? Where was the time to think about freezing to death in the night, shivering until his nerves went warm and his mind went hazy, when all he could think about was finding the next game, some protein to fill hungry bellies and some furs to line snow-encrusted caves for warmth?

The days of Nolofinwë were filled with planning and executing. So many eyes looked to him for support and comfort and assurance that he could not afford to falter. He could not break no matter how much he bent beneath the strain. He could not show weakness no matter how much he worried or how much failing hurt.

No matter how many dead they pulled from the snow, frozen to death in their sleep, or how many bodies they never recovered, lost to the frigid black waters and the jagged knives of ice beneath their feet, he had to keep going. He had to make the right decisions. The best decisions. The lives of ever elf under his care depended on it.

He had no time for worrying about himself.

To some extent, such taxing leadership was a blessing. The bitterness of betrayal that consumed so many eyes with darkness was, in his mind, hidden beyond a veil of more important thoughts. The longing for his wife’s arms to hold him close and the scent of her skin to fill his senses and the whisper of his voice to echo in his ears, they were muted beneath more imminent concerns. The bone-chilling terror at the thought of losing one of his children—the sickness in his belly when he thought of Elenwë and guiltily was thankful that it was not Turukáno who had fallen to a cold and cruel death—was pushed aside and buried deep beneath the worry of a ruler for his people. And if those things made him cold, he would rather be cold than burn to ashes. If those things made him heartless, he would rather be heartless than be lost in his emotions and left to die.

So many lives depended on his choices.

But, in the end, he had still been a father first and foremost. Still trapped by the same foolish need to place the wellbeing of his family above the wellbeing of his people. _A terrible prince._

Why else would he have risked his life to save Arakáno knowing very well that it could lead to his own death? Why else had he thrown himself in harm’s way, knowing that he was taking a mortal wound, to save his reckless and wild youngest child?

Until he lay bleeding and in agony, entrails torn and trying to slip from the slit in his belly, he had given no thought to what would happen to his people. All he could think about was saving his child, the father temporarily rising above the ocean’s weight of responsibility resting upon his shoulders to perform a miracle. Now, that part of him treaded water, desperate to keep its head above the vicious, foaming waves of duty.

Now, he felt the agony of hands trying to hold his flesh together—trying to force his organs back into the beg of his broken flesh—and he looked up into Arakáno’s stricken, blood-smeared face. Helplessly, he wondered what would become of his people. Of his children.

“Cease,” he hissed between his teeth, trying not to be rattled by the sheer pain of even speaking—of even breathing—as he pushed away the trembling and fluid-slicked hands of his child from where they had been buried in his own gore. “It is no use now, Arakáno, yonya. Cease.”

There was no denying that he was upon death’s doorstep. They had no healers who could hope to _begin_ to heal such a grievous wound, and Nolofinwë immediately wrote himself off for dead. Even as he had that thought, he could feel the strange warmth in his toes and the odd emptiness and dizziness of lost blood clouding his eyes and buzzing in his ears. Through the fading like in his gaze, he could see Arakáno shaking his head frantically, wide-eyed and shaking from head to toe, but the clumsy hands did not return. Nolofinwë felt his body falling apart and knew he had minutes. If even that.

Now his relief that Arakáno was going to _live_ was doused. His last moments would be spent thinking of how his people—and his sons—were going to survive the coming war without his guidance.

Naturally, the role of leader should pass on to Findekáno. And yet, even as he had this thought, he could see the blurry form of his eldest son appear over Arakáno’s shoulder. Could see into eyes just a shade darker than his own—Anairë’s beautiful eyes—and there was terror looking back at him. And desperation. A plea to _please, please live, I am not ready for thee to die!_

And he could not oblige.

Nolofinwë had been hard on his firstborn. Findekáno was a valiant creature with a big, soft heart. He cared deeply and with the whole of his being. But he had never been well-adapted to the role of prince or of heir. It was not just the lack of organization or the weakness for drink and fun which prevented him from maturing into the heir Nolofinwë had wanted, but also the lack of ruthlessness and self-assurance required to make difficult choices and deal with the consequences. It did not take a genius to realize that Findekáno was terrified of the responsibility—of having so many lives relying on his inexperienced choices—and only a fool would not have been frightened. At least Findekáno was not that.

Yet, that did not change the fact that Nolofinwë knew he was sending his children off to face Curufinwë Fëanáro. And his half-brother—fey and wild with bloodlust, and obviously charismatic enough to ensnare the senses and drive sensible people to madness, but also as treacherous as a poisonous berry with enticing cherry-red skin and juicy, sweet flesh—would eat his son alive. Against such fire, Findekáno would be smote like paper beneath a candle’s tongue. 

And where would that lead the people of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë but into the very grasp of the remorseless, vengeful monster who had left them all to die on a whim. Pawns to be sacrificed for the sake of revenge. Meaningless trifles upon the chessboard of Fëanáro to be thrown away without hesitation.

The thought made his heart throb in primal fear. He wondered if he would be sending Findekáno off to fail. If he would be sending his people off to die.

Nolofinwë’s gaze switched from his firstborn to his last.

Arakáno was not much different than Findekáno. Stronger-willed, perhaps, and more alike to his father than any of Nolofinwë’s sons. Young yet, but fearless. Confident to the point of stupidity. Reckless, but he had just learned the consequences of action without thought. Having the blood of his father upon his hands—and its weight upon his mind—would diminish that affectation. Perhaps, if Arakáno took his name…

_How could I even think such things?_

The nauseating thought of passing his crown to his youngest instead was like a kick to his already mutilated gut. Nolofinwë wanted to be sick.

He hated that he wanted to spare Findekáno to the detriment of Arakáno. Even for a moment.

Yet, objectively, it would be for the best if the transition could be made such that no one would suspect it was Nolofinwë—not his son, Arakáno—who had died. They were the same height, nearly exactly, and their faces were so similar that those who knew them not well could not tell them apart. Put his circlet in that dark hair with the same braids, place his sword in those hands, and Arakáno could pass for him without even trying. No one would suspect the young elf of deception even if he was more emotional than usually acceptable or typical for indifferent Nolofinwë, for a father would have mourned his son’s untimely death the same—perhaps more even so—than a son would mourn his father’s.

And his sons and people would have the benefit of his reputation from beyond the grave. Fëanáro would think twice before crossing Nolofinwë. For all that his half-brother had betrayed him in the dead of night, Fëanáro had not betrayed him to his face and had, instead, crept away in the dark like a coward without even pausing to gloat or smirk. And that spoke of hidden fear and lent respect to Nolofinwë’s own power and skill in the political realm.

It was a terrible thing to think. How could he even _contemplate_ doing such a horrible thing to his youngest son? How could the thought of it bring him at once both sharp pangs of dread and equally the flutter of hope into his faltering heart?

But then, was that not the curse of leadership? In his final moments, he had to think of what was best for his people rather than what was best for one individual. Even if that individual was his own child.

Sometimes, being the leader was not about choosing the option which was _right_. Sometimes, it was about choosing the best of two options that were _wrong._

Risk giving the crown to Findekáno, knowing that Fëanáro would see weakness and would likely pick off what he perceived as a spineless and vulnerable co-ruler in a matter of years—if not mere months—or give the crown to Arakáno under the guise of his own weighty prowess and hope that his youngest could learn fast enough and remain strong enough not to break under the responsibility and the loss of identity. Two choices.

Choices… Choices…

And, deep down, he already knew what he would decide. What he _must_ decide.

_I am a terrible father._

Fading fast now, Nolofinwë mustered from some deep place in himself just enough strength to drag his blood-stained sword across the filthy grime of death coating the rocky ground. The hilt was still clean of blackened blood, damp only with sweat, but he still pressed its unmarred paleness into his son’s crimson palm, watching as the red of his own blood and gore spread across its metallic surface and sank into the dark leather to permanently stain. Even as an accursed symbol of his own wretched, cruel choices, Ringil glowed as though its whiteness were forged of the essence of stars.

“Atar,” Arakáno whispered, voice hitched upon a sob.

“Take it,” he gasped, trying and failing to ignore the surge of blood that flooded his airway from a pierced lung. He did not have time for the hacking coughs breaking his speech, choking the words from his throat. “Our people… still need… a leader…”

And he hated the lost look in those eyes. He hated how they begged for help and for assurance. He hated the contorted agony of those features. More than anything he wished there was a way to sooth the pain. To take it away.

But there was nothing he could do now. His strength was spent.

“I do not understand!” Desperation and confusion swirled in waves of silver and blue. But it was all swiftly blurring and turning dark. “Atar…?”

“Take it!” He could no longer see anything. Not Arakáno. Not Findekáno. His toes had gone numb, and the cold, prickling feeling of oncoming death was moving upwards so swiftly. Between heavy, labored breaths, he continued. “The people… cannot afford… to lose… their leader… now…”

And he knew the moment Arakáno understood, because the broken cry pierced through his hazy thoughts like a blade. Only vaguely did he feel the stickiness of blood upon his cheeks to accompany the roughness of calluses and the warmth of living flesh. Hands holding him and shaking him. Like an afterthought, he could hear the echo of his son’s voice calling for him through the oncoming night. Fading.

“Stay awake, Atar! Thou canst not…”

And all he could think to say was his son’s name. As if that might help. As if that might give the boy comfort.

As if it might be heard as an apology for choosing leadership above fatherhood.

 _I love thee,_ he wanted to say. _And I am so sorry. So sorry…_

But Arakáno was already gone. He could no longer hear that voice in his ears. He could no longer feel warmth upon his cheeks. He was already cold and dead.

 _Never forgive me,_ he wanted to say. _Never forgive me._

He did not even know if he had made the right choice. But it was too late to take it back. He was already gone.

The fate of his legacy was in the hands of Arakáno now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> yonya = my son (shortened yondonya - yondo + nya)  
> Atar = Father


	419. Metamorphosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reborn Maeglin comes to live with Turgon and Elenwë.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closely related to Loveless, Passion and the Cleansed Arc (Cleansed, Life, Dare, etc.). I suppose I just wanted to emphasize why my reborn!Maeglin is so un-Maeglin-like in some ways. People don't stay in a static state all their lives, after all. They can change. And they can change back, too. I also think that a huge theme of the Silmarillion in general--stated almost point-blank in the Ainulindalë--is that disharmony makes the world more beautiful, not less. Sometimes, it just requires a little patience and a lot of recovery time.
> 
> Warnings: Depression and, likely, PTSD. Scarring. Mentions of torture and rape. The Fall of Gondolin is brought up, so death and treachery.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Maeglin = Lómiel  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Mandos = Námo

Maeglin had been reborn a female.

Originally, Turukáno had mistaken her for his sister, Írissë. The two women shared the same petite frame and the same willowy form and the same heart-shaped face. The same dark hair and the same long eyelashes and the same deep cranberry flush to their lips. But Írissë had eyes the same shade as Turukáno’s—the same as their father’s, the palest of blues like the snow beneath the silver touch of Telperion or the dark and forbidding wastes of Helcaraxë—and the reborn female had dark eyes with an exotic, almond shape.

_His_ eyes. The color of dark iron. Of meteorites. Just a shade lighter than pure black.

Turukáno could barely look at the girl at first.

Yet, it had fallen upon his shoulders to watch over her. Findekáno and Arakáno had never known her in her previous incarnation nor she them, and Írissë had yet to be reborn. Turukáno was sooner throw her to a pack of ravenous wolves than hand her back over to her mad father even if Eöl _had_ been released from the Halls…

Which left, of course, him and his wife.

_“We can take her in, Turno.”_ Elenwë’s entreaty repeated cyclically in his mind. The look of pity in her eyes was heartbreaking. _“She has nowhere else to go.”_

Tempting though it was to turn Maeglin away, Turukáno had cared for his nephew. And, tempting though it might be to lay the entirety of Gondolin’s demise as a hefty weight upon the slender shoulders of this wilted and gray creature, he knew that it was not _only_ the fault of Maeglin that so many had perished within the city’s walls on that horrible day.

So he let her stay. And he kept an eye on her.

And he began to notice things.

When Maeglin had first come into his kingdom a lifetime ago, the boy had been anxious and quiet at first, just like this girl. A perfectly normal reaction to being suddenly orphaned and left in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. The first few months after Írissë’s murder and her husband’s execution had been trying for the young nephew of the king, and the boy—not even fully into adulthood at the time—had clung to the skirts of his cousin Itarillë for support, all gangly limbs and sharp, reticent stares.

Not that Maeglin had ever grown _louder_. His nephew had remained taciturn, speaking only when he felt he had something important to contribute. But the natural inclinations of his Noldorin blood had shone through within a few months of his arrival: the ingrained stubbornness of will that reminded Turukáno so painfully of his sister, the fearlessness and roguish smirk that reminded him just so of Arakáno, and even a certain amount of stately comportment that shockingly brought to the king’s mind images of his own younger self. Maeglin had settled into his role as prince the same way a fish settles into swimming, as though he were born to be a Lord amongst lesser folk.

Of course, there had been the arrogance and pride. Muted, but present. Some scorn and disdain had been prevalent as well. And Turukáno had always thought that the sneering expression of his nephew reminded him of the look on his uncle Fëanáro’s face during a disagreement. As if he could not believe he was being troubled by someone of such _lesser intelligence_ in such a manner, or that anyone would dare to argue with him when he was so obviously _correct._

Still, Turukáno had never sensed _evil_ in his nephew. Nothing that would have indicated ill will towards his people. He might not have been particularly affectionate with Írissë’s child, but he had never thought himself unkind either. Thus, he had never understood what had driven the young elf to betray his only family to the Dark Lord.

And he had never understood how he had not _seen it coming._

Surely, there should have been some _sign!_ Some wicked glint in dark eyes. Some nasty smile upon bloodless lips. Something. _Something!_

It was not until he met his nephew-turned-niece and began to really _look_ at her—really _observe_ her suddenly demure and standoffish behavior—that he realized there _had_ been a change. There _had_ been signs. But he had been looking in all the wrong places.

There were things in this new Maeglin—this girl, Lómiel—which had not been present in his nephew but which seemed so damningly familiar.

Things like the way she lowered her eyes whenever he passed her by. His hazy mind recalled Maeglin doing just the same in those last months, as though the boy could not bear to meet his gaze and reflexively glanced away. How had he never noticed and thought it strange that Maeglin—a quiet but strong-willed spirit who used to meet his eyes without hesitation or nervousness often when they exchanged advice—was suddenly unable to look him in the eye like a truthful man? Yet, in retrospect, even then, there had been the shame.

_Maeglin had been ashamed of his betrayal._

And this new Maeglin— _Lómiel_ —did not like to be touched. Not that the youthful Maeglin had been a large proponent of embraces. But the boy certainly had not shied away from Itarillë’s hugs or the grasping of forearms in greeting between warriors or the weight of Turukáno’s hand squeezing his shoulder in comfort. This girl, though, was stiff as a board whenever Elenwë tried to give her warm, motherly hugs. And she would not allow Turukáno to even stand at her back, let alone touch any part of her person no matter how innocuously the gesture was meant.

He had not wanted to think about what that meant. But, after seeing her flinch so many times at a hasty movement of a hand and shy away from anyone holding a knife, it was hard to deny that something was wrong.

_Torture_ , he thought to himself. _Maybe rape._

He had never asked when happened to Maeglin in the hands of the Lieutenant of Angband. He had assumed that the young elf had given up Gondolin willingly in exchange for his cousin. _But what if he had not? What if he had resisted? What if he had_ broke?

He recalled even in those last days that Maeglin would flinch away from raised hands. It was almost imperceptible—“A reflex from training” Maeglin had explained it away—but it had been there. The stiffening of the spine whenever someone stood directly at his back. The narrow-eyed, suspicious glances and the fidgeting of hands whenever another moved too close. The small shrug of shoulders to remove the weight of Turukáno’s squeezing hand, written off with a small “Ah, I did not realize it was only thee, uncle!”

Neither of them ever bared any skin, either.

Maeglin had, once, long ago, not been shy about going bare-chested in the stifling heat of the forge. The boy had inherited—by natural talent or by a labor of learning—the abilities and secrets of his father’s craft, and he had put them to good use as a Lord of Gondolin. But, in those last months, his nephew wore only heavy, black trappings even in the midst of the summer sunshine or the scorching heat of the forge. He never even rolled up his sleeves…

_“She has scarring,”_ his wife had told him, and Turukáno had felt sick then. For, only the scars that left a great impact on the _spirit_ stayed behind after rebirth. _“They carved words into her skin. All the way down her spine.”_

Turukáno had never seen them. He did not want to know how badly Maeglin had been tortured before he had given up the secret location of Gondolin. He did not want to have to wonder how well anyone else—even he, himself—might have fared if they had been tormented just the same. He did not want to have to wonder if he, too, would have broken. He did not want to have to wonder if he would have broken for less.

And he couldn’t help but wonder how he could have overlooked so much. How could he not have been suspicious? How could he not have _seen?_

Already, before the Fall and before the death and before the endless game of blaming, Maeglin had been irrevocably changed. Morphed. His arrogance distorted into the echo of terror and his tall, firm stance bent beneath the cruel hand of shame. No one had even _noticed._

But he noticed now. In the years after Maeglin had been reborn as sweet, quiet Lómiel, he had come to see that she was almost a completely different person than his nephew had been. And not only because she was now a woman instead of a man.

Her fiery temper was doused. Her insolence washed away. Her eyes were dark and sad. She did not ever argue with his words nor offer advice. She obeyed his orders without question. She would not speak unless spoken to. She showed no signs at all of arrogance or pride. She moved out of his way when he walked by.

She flinched from touch. She jumped at loud noises. She feared heights. Her hands trembled when she ate. She wore gloves. Her dresses buttoned all the way up her neck.

She would not so much as look at a forge. And she flinched away from the sight of open flames. Most of her time was spent in the gardens. In silence. Watching the flowers or listening to the rustle of the trees.

He could not remember the look of fire in her eyes. He could not recall the sound of passion in her voice.

Turukáno had always thought that metamorphosis was supposed to take something dull and turn it into something glorious. Like caterpillars into butterflies or winter into spring. But, if anything, the transformation of Maeglin had taken a hot-tempered and wildly beautiful being, crushed him down into rubble and broken glass, and pasted the pieces haphazardly back together into a sad, broken waif of a woman. Her spark of life was simply gone. Turukáno could not help but wonder why Námo had ever sent her back into the realm of the living when she appeared to be so _dead._

Maybe he simply did not understand what she had become. Maybe there was something more beautiful about this creature than first appeared to the naked eye. Maybe she was yet to complete her blossoming into something more. Maybe she would find a way to heal her spirit and regain some of her fire.

Maybe, one day, she _would_ be glorious. More glorious than the young, envious, prideful, and traitorous Maeglin had ever been.

But that day was not today.

Today, Turukáno only saw the remains of his shattered nephew. Pieces missing. Spirit broken. And he could not find it in his heart to hate Lómiel for the sins of another lifetime.


	420. Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron takes his first victim's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character transition. Basically, this moves us from ashamed and resentful Mairon trying to conform to what he believes he _should_ be to the birth of Sauron. Related, obviously, to all the Sauron pieces, but it reminds me a lot of the Grace Arc and of the recent piece Tranquility.
> 
> Warnings: On-screen murder by stabbing/torture. Lots of blood, but it's actually pretty light on the guts and actual gory description (if that helps?). Some religious-ish themes.
> 
> Written to the song "It's a Sin" by Hidden Citizens.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Sauron = Mairon  
> Eru = Father

There is always a turning point. A pivotal moment that changes everything.

For Mairon, it should not have been as shocking and blindsiding as it was.

It was not that he had not had dark thoughts, for he had indeed thought of breaking away from the ideology of the Valar. It was not that he had never contemplated things considered _inappropriate_ by his brethren, for he was loathe to find their pale replica of perfection to be beautiful. It was not that he did not _know_ that he felt the hunger for freedom and chaos, for it gnawed in the pit of his belly endlessly and mercilessly.

Still, he had been pure. His body cloaked in the pale, primordial sheet of innocence. Perhaps a touch tarnished by greed and by resentment, but his hands had been clean. His spirit had still been in his Father’s keeping, and his mind had still struggled to conform into the angelic being he should have been.

Such an odd thing, that innocence. A hallowed and heavenly relic.

For so long, he stood two steps back from the edge of a precipice, his glowing eyes staring down into a bottomless abyss of sin, and he had clung to that relic with both hands. Desperate. In denial. Praying for some form of salvation. Feeling shame for his failure as it slipped from between his fingers like fine sand to be swept away upon the wind.

As he stood over the squirming body of his first would-be victim—another of Aulë’s maiar, one who had caught him sneaking away into the dusk of the lands beyond Almaren where he was forbidden to go—Mairon wondered at its price. What, he wondered, was his innocence worth?

_What was it really worth?_

Was it worth the ridicule and punishment that would follow his misdeeds? Was it worth the humbling and repentance he would have to face? Was it worth the long path of purgatory on the way to redemption?

Maybe.

But was it worth denying his true self? Was it worth throwing away his dreams? Was it worth tossing aside his desires? Was it worth losing an intrinsic piece of his spirit?

Was it worth conformity? Was it worth a gilded prison? Was it worth spending all of the ages of the world looking out of his bars, wondering to what greatness he might have ascended had he only dared to reach out and grasp? Was it worth weeping bitterly at the loss, knowing that he had never even tried, and that all he longed for was then beyond his reach for eternity?

Was it worth the pretending? Smiling every day without meaning. Laughing every day hollowly. Working each day without passion.

Looking upon perfection and pretending that it could not have been _better._

Looking upon his reflection and _knowing_ that _he_ could have been _more._

In the end, what was it really worth, this fragile and tender thing called innocence?

In his chest, Mairon felt something simmering and burning and twisting and turning, fighting and clawing its way up as though it sought to burst forth from his mouth in a vitriolic cloud of black ash and toxic fumes. From his belt, he pulled out an ornate dagger, crafted from dark metal fallen from the sky and shaped with the smith’s own two hands into an image of terror. Weapons had no use in Almaren now, but he still carried it with him always.

And now, he was contemplating using it as the instrument of murder.

His victim could see the glint of the blade beneath the golden hue of Mairon’s gaze. Wide eyes, teary and panicked, were looking up into his face, pleading silently for his wavering mercy and appealing to the humanity struggling to escape its bonds in the dark corners of his thoughts. In their reflection, he saw his own image. The beautiful flaxen hair, the color of fields of wheat, and blue eyes ringed in flame, like the sky bent through the facets of diamonds and curled within a net of diabolic, earthen blood. A demon looking out of the face of an angel, its lust and hatred staring unblinkingly through the last, flimsy veil of hesitation.

There would be no going back from this moment. Mairon knew this.

If he turned away, he would remain amongst the Valar forever. Hallowed and beautiful. And hopelessly, devastatingly ruined.

_They would destroy thee. And remake a pale imitation Mairon to fit their imitation perfection and their imitation harmony. There would be nothing left at all of thee._

And, if he continued on, he would never return. He would join the Fallen.

_Beyond reach. Free._

Liberated.

And he felt the bubbles of rage and the sharp stab of longing rising above even the last barrier of resistance. His hand upon the knife shook, his fingers clutched so tight he feared the metal might warp from the heat and the pressure of his emotions. All the explosive fury of power he kept buried rose up and up and _up_ in a relentless tide, a bile in the back of his throat and the sting of tears in his narrowed eyes and the rush of blood underneath his skin, until it overcame even the rational thoughts.

 _Forgive me, Father_ , was all he could think. And then even that was gone.

Without any diffidence left to spend, he struck, carving into his captive with glee. And the screams were _glorious._

The stabbing was all rage driven by pain. For every dream rejected. For every damning word. For every stifled thought. For every piece of himself he carved out and laid bare before unworthy and heartless eyes to be judged and found wanting. For every payment they owed, he would draw blood and make them feel the agony.

And he was laughing. And crying. And the squelch of rent flesh was loud and disgusting in his ears. And the copper-scent of spilled blood was nauseatingly strong in his nose. Its heady taste was upon his palate as it splattered against his parted lips. Its sticky touch laid upon his mortal flesh as it speckled flawless alabaster. Its heaviness rested in his blond curls, congealed and wet and tangled. All over his clothes in dark blotches and all over his hands like wicked, scarlet designs, burning so bright into his ravenous eyes.

Beneath the flurry of his heat and his unholy bliss, his victim was writhing and sobbing and begging for an end. But Mairon had waited too long for this moment. He made it last. He reveled in every second. In every whimper. In every drop of blood. In the last spark of life leaving stricken eyes as they looked up into his own.

And yet, it was over so fast.

The form beneath his was limp and pale, wide eyes glazed and empty. Naked, but sliced open and covered in the marks of his tender, loving care. The artwork of his rage and his terror and his revelation now lay before him as undeniable evidence of his fall from grace.

And Mairon did not feel guilt or regret.

_I would rather live a life of sin and remain whole_ , he thought, _than pay the currency of regret for all the ages of the universe and break apart._

_My innocence was not worth that._

And he walked away from the last glimmers of light willingly. He never thought to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> maiar = lesser holy beings (pl)


	421. Avarice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two contradictory perspectives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, the shit leading up to BotFA from both Thorin and Bilbo's POVs. Heavy on the movie!verse, but still compliant with book!verse as well. I couldn't resist. Related, of course, to Grow and to Spiral amongst a number of other pieces.
> 
> Warnings: Insanity. Obsessive/possessive behavior. Objectification. Unrequited (sort of) love. Thievery (obviously) and betrayal.

Gold.

Gold beyond measure. Beyond sorrow. Beyond memory. Beyond pain.

The sight was entrancing and devilishly beautiful, like a glimmering ocean of wealth that through his hands passed like waves and flowed down into a chiming and lustrous rain. It seemed as though there was more gold than he could ever remember. More than he could ever have dreamed. 

And it was all his. _All his._

And, as its centerpiece—its crowning jewel—there was Bilbo Baggins.

\---

Avarice.

It wasn’t something that Bilbo could really understand. Certainly, he was rather well-off for a mere Hobbit. His house was nice and well-furnished. His hearth was always lit and he always had food to put on the table. It was because of his family’s wealth that he led such a comfortable existence back in the Shire.

Even so, Bilbo cared little for gold in of itself. He rather loved books and old maps. Tokens and relics of knowledge and adventure. He loved his garden. The prize-winning, heavy tomatoes and the vibrant colors of blooming flowers popping out from a sea of green. He even loved the quiet of bachelordom, though it sometimes grew heavy and stifling. For all that he was stricken with wanderlust, there was nothing Bilbo valued above his priceless home.

Except, perhaps, Thorin Oakenshield.

\---

Everything about Bilbo Baggins was striking. Not just the lovely golden curls atop his head and the matching golden curls blanketing each oddly large and adorable foot. Not just the golden glimmer resting somewhere intangibly between the spring greenery about his pupil and the outer earthen brown of his iris. Not just the rosy-flush to sun-kissed cheeks caught in the hue of golden light that washed away his winter-pallor and the last fading memory of sickness.

No, Bilbo Baggins was not like the others.

The others with their greedy, insidious eyes. In their gazes, he could see their lust for what rightfully was his. He could see their resentment, their burgeoning betrayal sweeping down upon him like the hurricane of a dragon’s wings. They wanted his gold, and it showed in the glimmer of their eyes and the stoic acquiescence of their faces. They were waiting… waiting…

They were watching, like vultures. They were guilty by mere thought of turning their back of their King, seeking to claim his precious gold.

But Bilbo Baggins was not like them.

Bilbo Baggins was pure.

\---

If anyone had told him he would be (almost, probably, most certainly) in love with the pig-headed curmudgeon of a dwarf when this whole adventure business had begun, Bilbo would have laughed. And laughed and laughed until he was sick. Because Thorin Oakenshield had been a cad and, while he might be a legendary warrior and awe-inspiring to look upon with a voice that made Bilbo’s bones melt and a face that made the poor Hobbit’s heart flutter, he had treated Bilbo horribly right from the start.

Of course, things had changed. So much had changed.

And the King that Bilbo had come to know… He would have died for that man. Without hesitation. Without regret.

For all that Thorin was rough around the edges, sometimes struggling to find the right words and absolutely abysmal at expressing his emotions, he was noble and honorable (not to mention quite startlingly good looking despite the little trails of silver laced through his hair), and his love and devotion for his people and his family drove him more so than did the promise of reimbursement or greed. After all, it was for his home that he sought the Lonely Mountain. For the safety, wellbeing and comfort of his people and his family.

That was something Bilbo Baggins, armchair connoisseur and lover of books and familiar comforts of home, could respect.

But that Thorin Oakenshield was not the one who stood before him now.

\---

An acorn.

The thought was striking. Even amongst all this gold. Even after traveling all this way. Even after almost dying time and again. Even after _facing down a fire-breathing dragon…_

Bilbo kept an acorn above even a golden coin or sparkling ruby.

 _“I picked it up in Beorn’s garden,”_ he had said. 

Such a tiny, insignificant thing. _“You’ve carried it all this way.”_

_“I’m going to plant in in my garden. In Bag End.”_

_It seems a poor price for such valor as you have shown_ , Thorin had thought at the time. _You deserve so much better_ , he had thought, _so much more in return for your bravery and your loyalty._ And, for a moment, he forgot about the mountains of gold in his lair and was entranced by Bilbo’s earnest stare.

 _“One day it’ll grow,”_ Bilbo had said, _“And every time I look at it, I’ll remember. I’ll remember everything that happened. The good. The bad. And how lucky I am that I made it home.”_

That was the difference. The thing that set Bilbo Baggins apart.

Yes, his hair was spun of gold and his smile might as well have been shaped from the precious metal as well. But really, it was Bilbo’s _heart_ that was the greatest treasure. For the tiny Halfling did not desire to take a fourteen’s share of Thorin’s birthright in payment. He didn’t ask for payment at all! In the mind of this strange, foreign, lovely creature, giving Thorin back the home that he had lost was payment enough.

Never had Thorin ever met such a creature. And he wanted Bilbo. Not really in the way of a lover. Maybe not even in the way of a friend.

Somehow, Bilbo was _his_. Part of his hoard as much as every coin of gold and glistering gem resting in the depths of his Mountain. Untouchable and perfect.

True.

\---

_“The Arkenstone. One of them has taken it.”_

The Thorin Oakenshield that Bilbo had come to know (to love) would never have _dreamed_ of accusing any member of his family or any one of his dear companions of treachery. Of stealing his birthright. He would never have placed their loyalty in doubt.

_“One of them is false.”_

The Thorin Oakenshield that Bilbo had come to know (to love) would not have become so fixated upon a lifeless, glowing rock that he could not think rationally. He would never have gone back on his word and forsaken his honor, turning Bard away and refusing to give a small sum of gold so that the lake-people did not freeze or starve in the oncoming winter’s fury. He would _never_ have declared war over such a paltry sum, unneeded wealth that would lie forever in this mountain, unspent and useless where it could have saved lives.

The Thorin Oakenshield that Bilbo had come to know (to love) was not this monstrous creature hissing and snarling before him with a serpent’s tongue.

_“This gold… the gold is ours. And ours alone. While I live, I will not part with a single coin. Not one piece of it!”_

This soulless fiend. This _dragon._ This being enmeshed in accursed avarice.

And yet, Bilbo could love him no less.

\---

And no one would be allowed to touch what was his. No one would be allowed to harm what belonged to him. _No one._

He watched Bilbo Baggins don his gift—the magnificent mithril shirt of an elfling prince—and gazed with awe and wonder at the being sculpted of pure gold wrapped in a mail of shimmering white-silver moonlight. Something otherworldly and transcendent. Something of countless, innumerable worth. Something as priceless as the Arkenstone.

_All his._

_“I look absurd!”_ little Bilbo Baggins exclaimed, fingering the ornate hem of the shirt, plucking at the inlaid pearl and diamond. _“I’m not a warrior! I’m a Hobbit!”_

 _Silly creature_ , Thorin had thought. _You look like living sunlight embraced by the moon. Like living, molten gold coated in untarnished silver._

 _You look beautiful_ , he wanted to say.

 _I trust you more than anyone_ , he wanted to say.

 _I want you to stay_ , he wanted to say.

 _You are mine_ , he wanted to say.

But he said none of those things. Instead, he spoke of betrayal. Of the Arkenstone. Of promises made and broken. Of gold.

And the incomprehension of Bilbo’s eyes was a balm upon his soul. Because only a being untouched by the pounding, throbbing, monstrous lust (beating the drums of war in his mind, demanding his cooperation, insisting upon his hoarding, refusing to have mercy, desiring everything for itself, uncontrollably ravenously devouring everything in its path down to every last gracious thought or whisper of hesitation until everything was buried beneath a sea of need) for gold could ever seem so lost and confused by the thought that someone might betray their own King for the sake of a little more gold.

Only such a being could be trusted.

\---

But, for all that he loved the dwarf, he did not trust Thorin. Not now. Not after the King had broken his word.

It hurt to be the traitor that would ultimately break Thorin’s last bonds of trust. The guilt raked its nails across the poor Hobbit’s heart more viciously than could ever have the spears aligned upon the massive paws of Smaug the Terrible. Knowing that, in the end, it would be _him_ upon whom Thorin looked with revulsion and hatred broke something inside of him that would never quite come back together again.

But he loved Thorin too much to let this monster destroy what little good was left. He loved Thorin too much to allow the kingdom that his beloved dwarf had fought with such fury to be burned down and torn apart for the sake of a few gold coins and starlight gems.

He loved Thorin too much to fully abandon the gold-sickened creature that had replaced the Thorin Oakenshield he had come to know (to love).

Come dawn, his betrayal would be revealed. The trust Thorin had placed in him would be shattered. And Bilbo did not think what lay between them could ever be repaired.

So much for possessing a heart of gold.

So much for believing in the possibility of sweet fever-dreams come true.

Reality was cold and cruel. And its eyes were made of scalding, golden light.


	422. Project

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oropher can't seem to deal with what happened to Thranduil during the Second Kinslaying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically accompanying all of the Catatonic Arc, and especially is close to Born and Shame. I don't think I've written anything for these arcs for ages, actually...
> 
> Warnings: Child abuse (loosely, more like neglect). Disfunctional family. Thoughts of infanticide. Mentions rape rather blatantly. Nothing actually graphic or gory, but some heavy content.
> 
> For anyone not in the know: Valthoron is the OMC son of Thranduil and Amrod. If you haven't read their arc, this story won't make a lot of sense...

It was hard, at times, to see Valthoron for _who_ he was rather than _what_ he was.

From the very moment of birth, it was clear that the child had inherited features from his scum of a Kinslaying sire. Not the least of which was the vibrant hair, already sprouting from atop the crown of the boy’s head. Watery blue orbs remained that milky, indistinguishable color that could have turned in many directions, and Oropher remembered wondering what he would do if the blue darkened to gray rather than paling to the shade of Thranduil’s eyes.

But then, the boy had been an _infant_. Helpless, hungry for attention, and very, very fragile. He would not deny that the thought of abandoning the babe for dead had slipped through his mind a time or two—if the orcs did not hunt down the source of the wailing, some predator would come along and pick the child off—but he always held back. Though Thranduil was bedridden and withdrawn, his son knew that the child existed, and there would have been difficult questions. Oropher did not want to have to tell his son that he had abandoned an infant to die in the forest simply because the child had been born with red hair.

So he cared for the child. And, for a time, he managed to convince himself that the baby was innocent. After all, newborns were frail and pure creatures who knew no evil, even ones who were conceived by evil acts.

It grew harder as the boy grew older. Quickly—quicker than any of Oropher’s children—little Valthoron discovered crawling. And then walking. There was an unearthly glow in big blue eyes— _Thank Elbereth, they were blue!_ —that brought unease into the old elf’s heart, for it was light unlike to the stars. Something wild and hot and fierce and white.

Curiosity was the toddler’s only real sin. Valthoron wanted to touch everything and chew on everything and pull on everything and play with everything. Most parents found this, while exasperating, to be an endearing quality. Oropher remembered this about his sons in their infancy, though they had walked a little later and, perhaps, had not been quite so uncontrollable and inquisitive. He remembered that he found the exploration upon shaky legs to be a beautiful thing, especially the wonderment that suffused wide eyes whenever they beheld something new and strange. Seeing just how amazed a child was with each new discovery was a privilege to behold, and it warmed the heart.

He could conjure none of that endearment for his only grandchild. None of that warmth.

In fact, he found it the exact opposite of endearing.

Constantly messy. Lots of tantrums. Valthoron’s clumsy fingers crushed the softness of blooming flowers and had killed more moths and butterflies than he could count. The birds and beasts were lucky that they were so quick or many of them, too, would have suffered mortal injury at the young and inexperienced hands which did not know their own strength.

 _This is how children are_ , he told himself. _All children._

Yet, part of him—the part that forever bubbled with sickening vats of poisoned, boiling rage—could not help but wonder if this tendency towards destruction was a _golodh_ trait. If this was the first sign of that redheaded bastard appearing in the behavior of his ill-begotten hell-spawn.

_That is not fair. Not at all._

And yet, part of him did not care for fairness. Part of him could only remember the sight of his son’s wrecked and ruined body. Of his son’s blank, dull, dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. Of thinking—in that moment in which his heart had seemed torn from his very chest—that the last of his children was slaughtered. And then the months afterwards, living with the knowledge that Thranduil was going to die because none before had survived such violation and defilement, and that nothing he did or said would change that fate.

If his son had died after giving birth as the healers had predicted, Oropher knew not what he would have done. But he doubted that Valthoron would have made it through his first full year.

The child aged, of course. And, somehow, Thranduil bonded with the boy. Somehow, Thranduil was able to look upon a face which looked more and more like _that scum_ each day and did not grow to hate. There was some flinching— _and every flinch made Oropher’s heart scream with the echoes of agony_ —and some crying— _and every tear fell upon his spirit and burned with the weight of his failure to protect_ —but Thranduil seemed to genuinely love the little redheaded demon-child as though the babe had not been conceived through the act of rape. As though the child were not…

 _Not at fault. Because he is not. Thou_ knowest _that he is not._

But it was so easy to forget. It was so easy to look upon the face of a now-youthful, adolescent Valthoron and see _him_ and _only him_. To see the stubborn set of Valthoron’s jaw and think of the notorious, unyielding iron wills of the _Golodhrim_. To see the blazing brightness of blue eyes and think of how the _Golodhrim_ eyes glowed with the corrupted light of the mystical Trees. To see the unusual height of the boy and the foreign sharpness of his features and think of the demonic faces of the _Golodhrim_ , the Kinslayers who had sacked Menegroth, tearing through the ranks of warriors and civilians alike as fire consuming parchment and wood.

It was so easy to project the sins of the father upon the child. So much easier than looking inward. So much easier than forgiving one’s own failure to protect.

Oropher ignored the attempts of Thranduil to draw grandfather and grandson closer. Oropher was not interested in _getting to know_ the golodh spawn, and Valthoron knew very well that he was not well-liked by his grandsire. The two danced around one another, Valthoron pulling further and further away as he grew older and older and looked less and less like a proper _send_ and more and more like _one of them._

Until it came to a head.

Granted, Oropher had been rather deep into his cups that night. Unwisely so. Thranduil had not been present to restrain his temper, and Valthoron had been so very close and so very vulnerable.

_“What didst thou say to him?”_

Thranduil’s demands had been filled with horror and betrayal, and the look in the lovely turquoise pools of his eyes had brought Oropher to wincing from the sting of shame. He did not want to admit to his own child what he had said aloud in public. What privacy he had shattered. What spirits he might have destroyed with his callous words.

_“I only told him the truth.”_

_“The truth of his conception?”_ Thranduil had been rattled at the revelation, but the first sparks of rage had appeared as well in the tension of his jaw and the downward slope of his dark brows. Oropher had been stricken by how often he had seen that exact expression on Valthoron’s face, and by the thought that the boy actually had inherited something from Thranduil after all. _“What_ exactly _didst thou say to him, Adar? Tell me!”_

So he did.

And Thranduil’s rage had been as scorching and damning as that of any golodh.

And Thranduil’s tears followed, trickling down his cheeks in shimmering waves even whilst he was screaming and raging in the midst of his own fury, pacing like a caged beast back and forth before his father in violent, swift motions. Oropher sat still and watched the waves of agony beating down upon his child.

 _This is the fault of that fell child!_ He wanted so desperately to force the weight of this guilt upon Valthoron. If only the boy had looked like Thranduil. If only the boy had acted less like a golodh. If only the boy had _never been born._

_If only I had protected Thranduil better, none of this would have happened…_

And everything was just a tangled mess of blame.

 _“If thou wouldst only just look past his_ hair _and his_ face _and actually come to know him!”_ Thranduil had finally cried out, openly weeping and grief-stricken. _“Thou wouldst see that he is of_ my _blood as well! Of thine! He is just a boy and he had nothing to do with the Kinslayings and nothing to do with what h-happened to me!”_

_“He is the child of a golodh Kinslayer. That is enough of a crime!”_

_“And I am the_ whore _of one!”_ The words still haunted Oropher years later. _“Art thou going to project the crimes of my nameless rapist upon_ me _as well?”_

 _“I would_ never _—”_

 _“But thou wouldst force the weight of guilt upon an innocent child instead!”_ Thranduil’s rage had still been burning bright, but at the forefront of his eyes was the disappointment and the shattered trust. And they had battered Oropher like giant boulders falling from the wide open blue sky, slamming into his psyche where it hurt the most and crushing to a pulp.

All he had ever wanted was to protect Thranduil, his last living child. All he had ever wanted was for things to be alright. For everyone to be happy and pretend nothing bad had happened. For the darkest hour of their tale to vanish as though it had never existed. And, as long as that redheaded boy stood in his sight, a constant reminder of the grueling months of begging and pleading for his last son to live, of knowing that there was nothing he could do to help and nothing he could do to save his baby, there could be no rest for Oropher spirit. The guilt was too heavy. The memory of helplessness too fresh.

And then Thranduil had rubbed salt in his wounds until they were raw and seeping, as bloody and unhealed as though they had been rent yesterday rather than hundreds of years ago.

 _“He just wants thy approval—thy love!”_ Thranduil’s voice had been low and rough from crying, but the accusation in its depths, cold as the northern ice, was undeniable and damning. _“He tries so very hard because he loves thee. And thou dost spit in the face of his love at every turn.”_

_“Thranduil…”_

_“No!”_ His voice had been cut off. _“No, say nothing! There is nothing thou canst say to mend this! I will not have thee hurting_ my child _because thou canst not deal with thy own guilt and thy own prejudice.”_

And those eyes made Oropher’s blood run cold with dread.

_“Until thou canst accept and deal with thy own guilt—and not foist it off upon my innocent child—thou wilt say nothing to him or to me. I will hear no excuses!”_

And Thranduil was gone in a sweep of green robes upon the polished, stone floor. The echo of his voice rang like the toll of bells against the walls of rock, each whisper thrusting itself deep into Oropher’s heart, stabbing again and again and again. For the last thing he had wanted was to upset and hurt his only child, and yet, that was exactly what he had done by his own foolishness.

_He is right, though. And thou dost know it. Deep down._

But Oropher had always been a prideful and stubborn creature. He did not shed the tears that now clung to his lashes like tiny crystals, and he quelled the tremble in his hands where they rested, clenched upon the armrests one each side of his throne. With a deep breath, he tried to steady the tower of glass rattling and wobbling in his mind, the construct of flimsy pride and twisted delusion with, at its center, the image of Valthoron overlapping the nameless, faceless Kinslayer who had destroyed the little that remained of his family. And, for now, it stood.

_Thank Elbereth, it stood._

Because it was so much easier to blame than to feel guilt. So much easier to foist the pain off onto Valthoron than to try and accept the scars now littering the tattered remains of his existence.

Oropher did not know if he could change now.

He did not even know if he had the strength to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> golodh = noldo (s)  
> Elbereth = Varda  
> Golodhrim = Noldor  
> send = grey-elf (s)  
> Adar = Father


	423. Ebullience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Oromë and Vána.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even the Valar have to fall in love with their spouses, right? Besides, I was thinking about Vána lately--particularly about how she represents youthfulness and flowers, which I have generally equated somewhat with birth, childhood, innocence and rebirth--and what kind of person she would be. What I came up with is... sort of like Rapunzel from Tangled, actually, oddly enough. Anyway, hope you enjoy more Valarin weirdness!
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of hunting/killing and descending evil. Mostly, though, fluff.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Morgoth = Melkor

By nature, Oromë was a grim creature.

His duty was the Hunt against Darkness, traveling with his companions into the shadows beyond the edges of the Lamps to destroy the plagued and sickened monsters and servants of evil ways. It was a perilous task, and a thankless, unforgiving one. Almaren was protected, but the taint that rested upon those who made killing—even killing for a just cause—their trade never did quite slip away. It left something behind. Something slimy. Something hollow.

It was not surprising at all to Oromë that he sometimes contemplated… leaving the light. Simply staying away from the purity of Almaren from whence he received little joy or compensation for his tireless guardianship. Instead spending his dim existence hunting, holding back the darkness as had always been his calling and curse.

For a while, he had feared losing himself to the shadow. It would not be like _joining_ Melkor, for he doubted he could ever stomach the cruelties and horrors that the Dark Lord inflicted upon enemies and servants alike, but neither would it be an alliance with the Valar in truth. What he might become should he turn fully from the light, he could not have said and did not wish to know. But it would have been something somber and cold, distant from pain and distant from sorrow and distant from happiness. Something as distant as the stars.

There had been a time that he came dangerously close to that edge of disillusionment. To turning his back altogether on anything but the Hunt.

And it was about that time that he had first beheld _her._

Vána.

Seemingly youthful in comparison with her brethren, though none of the Ainur were any younger or older than any others in truth, she was purity incarnate. In the lights of the Lamps her hair was burnished gold, and her cheeks were sun-kissed and glazed with a rosy hue alike to cherry blossoms unfurling upon spring’s first breaths. Her raiment was adorned with many flowers, braided into the impossible lengths of her hair and opening into bursts of color upon the hems of her gowns, and her eyes were so indescribably blue that Oromë could think of nothing to compare them with. The sky was too dark a shade, and the ocean too green. Perhaps the shade of cornflower petals, vibrantly standing out in a sea of lesser brilliance and laced with just the tiniest, most perfect hint of violet.

She was beautiful, that much he could admit. But then, so were all the Ainur.

What really captured the hunter at first was the way she smiled, wide and bright, her white teeth peeking out from behind her lips and small dimples appearing in her cheeks. A smile filled with welcome and excitement and simple contentment. None of the ancient poise and distant comportment of the greater Valier were in this blossom, for her very charm was in her wildness and her open heart.

The more he watched her, the more enraptured he became with her innate nature. With how she laughed, loud and ringing, when she ran across the lawns of Almaren with bare feet and unbound curls. With how she giggled at the brush of low-hanging leaves upon her skin or the tickle of loose, wind-whipped hair against her cheeks. With how she stood out in the rain, uncaring of wetting her garments or her skin, and spun in great circles with arms outstretched as if to catch every droplet in her palms.

Vána was childhood and innocence. She was the blossoming of apple trees and the sweet scent of wildflowers in the meadows. She was a creature young and untouched by darkness, never happier than when she pranced in the wide open fields or sat in the garden and sang to her flowers.

She was ebullience.

She was everything that Oromë was not. 

The coming spring to the depths of his winter. For, as he dared to approach her, she welcomed him with open arms as though he were an old friend and kissed his cheeks without hesitation. Infectious were her smiles, such that even the somber face of the Huntsman of the Valar, who had seen many dread and terrible things beyond the borders of paradise, could not maintain a state of depression or bitterness beneath the rays of her sunshine. It was as though she touched his hand and his whole being was suffused with her essence. As if her laughter carried itself into the core of his being and chased away the shadows that lingered unwanted in his breast.

Soon enough, he spent his hunts wishing to return to her side. They were still bloody and terrible affairs, and they still wracked him with guilt and with rage. But there was always that prize at the end of a long and taxing journey: that thought of seeing her spin around on her heels and cry out his name as she galloped across the grass to his side and threw her arms about his neck.

Where once he had dreaded the return to Almaren’s hollow paradise, now he longed desperately for the sight of the city opening up in the vale beneath the darkened hills. For the feeling of simplicity in life overtaking the complex and horrible reality of the outside world. For the loss of the coldness and nonchalance that dug its nails into his heart with each new kill and each new day of looking up into darkness without the guiding light of the stars.

For her smile. For her voice. For her laughter. For she was his guiding light.

It was she for whom he fought now, rather than the empty echoes of ideals and morals. Each foe he slayed with blade or bow was to protect her innocence. Each dark day spent in stinking hellholes and evil forests was a day spent clearing the world of anything that might bring her harm. Each hour was an hour he longed for her but could take comfort in the thought that he was protecting her in his suffering. That, at the end of everything, she would be there, safe and warm, still filled with childlike wonder and still overflowing with life and still the epitome of love and gentleness. That she would be there to soothe away the remainders of his sorrow.

“Thou dost love her.”

It was said upon his return as he stood at the entrance of her gardens, watching as she talked to the baby bunnies, offering up small, sacrificial flowers to the tiny critters with their twitching noses. Her bright eyes were affectionate and her chiming laughter shivered over his skin like the touch of warm hands. Her voice raised in Music, flirting harmoniously with the sound of birdsong in the trees and teasing more flowers up from the soil in shades of bright red and vivacious orange and golden yellow brightness.

Cautiously, the hunter turned to look at the other vala who stood at his side, watching fondly. Yavanna looked a bit like her “younger sister”, but her hair was darker with the tones of the earth, and her eyes were the mature verdant of the forest rather than radiant aquamarine. Yavanna was a mother, stately in some ways, but infinitely tender in others. She carried herself tall, and Oromë could not imagine her lifting her skirts high enough to run through fields nor laughing with childish delight at something so simple as a breeze upon her skin or the fuzziness of bumblebees. Composure was the way of the Earthen Queen.

And endless eyes were fixed upon his face. Waiting.

“I love her,” he admitted aloud.

 _I cannot imagine what I would do without her. What I would_ be _without her._

And he wondered if Yavanna disapproved. Certainly, Kementári must have been aware of the state of the world beyond the safety of the fortifications of Almaren. Certainly, Yavanna must have been aware of the corruption and disease that festered and infiltrated upon her sole domain, seeking to destroy all that she had built. Certainly, if any of the Valar were fully aware of the spreading darkness, it was she who must feel it in her very bones.

Surely, Yavanna must have seen that same sickness seeping into Oromë’s heart. And, if she had feared that he might somehow harm the sweet Vána, he would not have blamed her for disapproving of his pursuit.

But her smile was serene, and the look in her eyes was not damning. “If thou dost wish for her hand in marriage, and she wishes to give it to thee in turn, I will not stand in thy way, Hunter.”

“I wish it,” he replied softly.

_She has single-handedly pulled me back into the light. And she does not even realize it._

And there was a knowing look in Yavanna’s eyes as she walked away. But, before Oromë could even think to follow or question, he heard a sweetened gasp from his back. Turning, he could see that Vána had spotted him standing at the gates to her gardens, her wide blue eyes fixated upon his face as that smile— _Ilúvatar Almighty, but that smile that melted his very heart into putty!_ —lit up the whole world in soft, white light.

“Lord Oromë!” she cried out, all exuberance and delight. “Thou art back!”

Her feet pounded upon the earth as she dashed across the garden, flowers sprouting in the wake of her touch. He caught her as she flung herself against him, and she wrapped her warmth all about him, laughing in the midst of joy at their meeting. With her, she carried the scent of pollen and fresh grass and sunlight, and her hair tangled in his fingers like a million strands of golden silk.

The feel of her lips brushing against his cheekbone was heaven. And he was lost once again in her spell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> Valier = Queens of the Valar (pl)  
> vala = greater holy being (s)  
> Kementári = Queen of the Earth


	424. Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin will probably never like Lúthien. But he might be willing to give her a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place shortly before Celegorm and Lúthien are released from the Halls of the Waiting. This is, of course, part of all the Celegorm/Lúthien stuff I've written. Closely related to the other stuff that happens in the Halls, of course, as well as requiring some b/g from Obvious and Beauty. Mostly, though, just two characters interacting because I enjoyed the idea. :) More self-indulgence.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions past shitty relationship issues. Open hatred. Siblings being protective.

“I never thought they would let him out of this place. Not in a hundred thousand years.”

The sound of a voice so near—just beyond her left shoulder—startled Lúthien near out of her wits. Logically, she knew they were not really corporeal beings, and they did not make noise in quite the same way as the living, but she had still expected to hear footsteps. Though, if they had been alive and in mortal form, she doubted she would have heard Curufin’s approach anyways, what with his skill as a hunter and warrior. And was that not just unsettling?

Cautiously, she looked at her dear friend’s (lover’s?) brother over her shoulder. Not much about the man had changed since the last time she had seen him in the land of the living. Still the same fierce snarl twisting his lips. Still the same wicked gleam in silvery eyes. Still the same expression of abject hatred that had turned something beautiful into something terrifyingly scorching and monstrous.

She wondered why he was speaking to her at all. If anything, Lúthien would have expected Curufin to attempt to strangle her with his bare hands, even if they were already dead and did not require air to breathe and could not die in the halls of the dead. She suspected he would have taken joy in the doing all the same. In all the time she had been in the Halls—in all the time she had spent helping Celegorm recover, growing closer and closer to the silver-haired huntsman—she had never dared approach Curufin, both out of fear and out of shame. It was one thing to ask Celegorm for forgiveness knowing that, eventually, he would give it because he loved her.

It was quite another to ask _this man_ , who had seen right through her façade from the very start. Who she knew would never grant her forgiveness.

“Is there something I can help you with, Curufin, son of Fëanor?”

Those eyes made her spirit shiver, her “skin” crawling with unease. They looked directly into her own, and she could see cold assessment in their depths, as though the male were examining her beneath a magnifying glass, searching for even the tiniest of flaws or cracks in her facets. Almost would she have preferred a vitriolic glare.

“I am not blind nor deaf to what thou hast been doing, daughter of Thingol,” Curufin said to her. “I have seen thee together with my brother— _watched thee_ with him, laughing and speaking.”

“And what of it?” She tilted up her chin in defiance.

He was, of course, undaunted. In fact, her posturing seemed to do nothing but make him smirk in that cruel, sharp way of his. “I was quite convinced that thou wert re-forging a spent and broken bond with my brother for thy own ends, just as thou wert before. Out of regret or guilt or pity or all of those things combined, but certainly not out of any desire for my brother’s happiness. All the same: selfish.”

 _Thou wert right_. She did not say it then, because everything had changed since she set out to “save” Celegorm. What did it matter what her intent had once been now that everything had turned on its head and left her world upside-down?

“Art thou here to scold me?” she asked softly.

“I _should,”_ he replied, but with less bite than she had expected. “I do not trust thy word, for thou hast lied before. But even then, thy _actions_ did not lie, and neither do I believe they lie as I see them before my eyes now.”

“What art thou saying?”

Those eyes pierced her then, and she thought of the whispers of Fëanor’s fire and light and wild madness, of the rumors of his charisma and charm such that he could bend armies and nations to his will with but a few words. Was this what his gaze had seemed like? As though it penetrated straight through the physical shell and burrowed down into the spiritual core beneath, implanting itself forever in memory?

The way Curufin looked at her then would remain with her until the end of her days. A mixture of appraisement and disdainful hatred and odd acceptance all wrapped up in a package of flame and blinding starlight. It was as though he _knew_ her better than she knew herself, though that could not possibly be so. As though he perceived her as clearly as if she had written her whole existence down as a book for him to read and told him every secret fantasy and nightmare hidden in her breast. Before him she felt naked and rent apart.

“Thou dost love my brother now,” Curufin said plainly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

And, perhaps, it was. She had never admitted it out loud to anyone. Not to herself. Not to Celegorm. But that didn’t make it any less true. Still, her “heartbeat” stuttered at the vocalization of that singular truth spoken aloud, as if that somehow solidified an epiphany long in the coming.

“I have come to.” Her tongue felt numb with the admission.

“Were it not for that fact, I would have tried to tear thy spirit apart for daring to approach him. I would have _destroyed thee_ without hesitation regardless of the consequences,” Curufin told her then, and she shuddered to know that he spoke his intent with all the sincerity of a man hunting for vengeance. “Thou didst almost ruin him once in thy selfishness. But…”

She remained silent, anxious and perturbed beneath his weighted stare.

“Thou hast saved him as well. I never thought he would get a chance at life again, but he has. Solely because of _thee.”_

And he spat the words at her, as though they pained him to say. As though they tasted rotten and bitter upon his tongue. It probably _was_ painful to say, for there was no denying that Celegorm as he had been—locked away in his own mind, spinning in deranged circles of disenchantment and violent madness—would have been a prisoner in these Halls until the End of Days was come. No one would have been capable of helping him recover. Not his parents. Not his brothers.

_No one but her. And what if she had turned away from his need?_

“Thou art his miracle. His second chance.” The sharp-eyed Fëanorion released a sound forged of agony and disgust, a “hand” dragging through what she perceived to be dark, flowing locks of hair as if in frustrated anger. “For that, thou hast earned at the very least my acceptance.”

_This… this is some sort of convoluted, mad, Fëanorion blessing…_

It was hard to believe that this strange dance was in any way meant to be encouraging. And yet, Lúthien felt herself smiling before she could stop the muscles from flexing. The strange, circuitous actions and the staunch inability to repent words reminded her so very much of Celegorm that it did not seem so far-fetched to think he and this flame-hearted creature were siblings. Best friends.

“My thanks, little brother.”

And was that scowl of outrage not just adorable? The Fëanorion seemed to sputter, cussing under his breath and flailing in that odd way of the amorphous spirit, bending and contorting like a tormented, boneless sea-creature. It made her chortle softly with glee to see someone so intense thrown so sharply off-balance.

“This is not a forgiveness! And I do not like thee, daughter of Thingol!” Curufin cried out, as if the “hurtful” rejection might somehow convince Lúthien that his earlier words had not been heartfelt or sincere.

But Lúthien was neither dejected nor hurt by the hasty snarls. For she could perceive that it was out of love for Celegorm that Curufin had always hated her so very passionately—and she would not deny that she had deserved some of that fury and that blame—and it was now out of love for Celegorm that he was granting her a second chance and putting her deeds behind her in his thoughts. There would never be any great love between them, and certainly not the love of siblings. But the fact that Curufin was willing to settle their differences for his brother’s sake was heartening.

“I would never imagine such an impossible thing,” she replied to his sharp words. “Nor would I ask it of thee.”

“Good!” And was that not a bit of embarrassment she picked up in the sound of Curufin’s voice as well? For surely, perceptive as he was, the fifth son of Fëanor could hear the gentle harmonic of amusement and faint affection singing above the lilt of her diction, a barely-there reflection of his sentiments. “I wish thee luck, Lady Lúthien.”

“Thy words are appreciated, Lord Curufin.”

He turned away from her, intent upon departing her presence with all haste, and Lúthien would have bitten her lip if she had had a corporeal form. There were many things she still wanted to say, and yet one thing stood out starkly in her mind which she thought might burst forth from her chest if she did not speak it aloud. As her sort-of-brother made to leave, she reached out and grasped at his spirit with her own, entwining their arms. And brushing up against him was like being burned and brushed with holy light. Through the gloom, his gaze pierced her again, silent and waiting.

“Celegorm is my miracle, too,” she told him quietly, wanting him to understand. “And my second chance. Do not doubt my love. Or my sincerity.”

_I will not disappoint thee._

Nothing else was said between them, and on the rare occasions that they did cross paths both within the Halls and without, words were sparsely exchanged. Still, in that moment, she thought there might have been a softness breaking through the knife’s edge of his eyes. A little bit of respect. A little bit of hope.

She let Curufin go, and her heart was in her throat as she watched him vanish into the shadows of the Halls of the Waiting.

She had never spoken of it aloud before. But it was the undeniable truth.

“I love him,” she whispered to no one.

But no one else needed to hear the words so much as she.


	425. Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prelude to torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place shortly after Closing In and shortly before Lies, but also has close ties to Breakable. Not much else to say about it, except (as with all Sauron fics) read an your own peril.
> 
> Warnings: Sadism. Betrayal. Off-screen slaughter of all the inhabitants of Eregion. Psychological torture. Non-con kissing. Some physical manhandling. Sauron being Sauron.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Sauron = Annatar  
> Morgoth = Melkor

It was all over. Telperinquar knew that.

His body ached with the memory of his defeat. Carefully, he pulled at his arms, wincing both at the rattle of chains and the harsh protest of his wrenched shoulder. The manacles about his wrists were tight as well, and they would cut sharply into his flesh if he pulled too hard. Already, they were rubbing his skin raw. With a resigned breath, he fell still, waiting for whatever end might come.

Truthfully, he knew there was little point to struggling now. Even if he _did_ manage to miraculously escape, he knew there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Not from the Dark Lord. Not from Annatar. The maia would know his thoughts before he knew them himself, and he would be captured anew swiftly and without mercy.

Besides, he did not think he could live with the shame. It rested in his chest, heavy and forged of dense iron, pulling his center of mass down and down until he felt slumped and withered, as though his very bones had been beaten and bruised. It was a sickening feeling, one that would drive a man to madness if it lingered too long. And yet, he did not deny that he deserved to suffer. His servants were dead and his halls were pillaged and all he had worked to build lay now in ruins before his feet, and there was no one to blame but himself for his foolish blindness. Warning after warning he had been given. Suspicious occurrence after suspicious occurrence had taken place. And he had ignored all the signs, playing at the lovesick fool.

Now, Eregion was destroyed. Because of his folly. He had dared to stand toe-to-toe to the Dark Lord—had fallen beneath the golden maia’s spell—and now he had lost everything.

Even now, as he sat still upon the hard floor, his knees sharply protesting the cold, uneven stone, he could not bring himself quite to hatred. Upon the edge of it, he teetered, but there was that undeniable spark of _hope_ that would not die. That horrible, traitorous thought that maybe he could sway Annatar’s mind away from this madness. That maybe the maia had loved him back _enough…_

 _A foolish hope_ , he told himself bitterly, trying to drive it away. _Thou art no more important to him than a mere pawn upon a chessboard. Nothing. Less than nothing._

He felt ill. As though someone had grabbed his stomach and twisted it like a dishrag, squeezing all the half-digested food back upwards.

The taste of bile floated upon the back of his palate as he waited in the dark, staring straight ahead, a prisoner of his own dungeons. He was not dead, and he doubted it had anything to do with Annatar giving any thought or care towards his wellbeing. Rather, the maia wanted information. About the rings, in all likelihood.

Interrogation. That was the only reason he still breathed.

Telperinquar clenched his eyes closed. _Tell him nothing. Thou canst tell him nothing._

Distantly, he could hear the sound of footsteps and the opening of a door. The sick feeling rose again, a twisted mass of nerves and terror and pain and hollow betrayal all rolled up and trying to force their way up his throat as he sat still and felt his heartbeat skittered over the bars of his ribcage. The sounds were drawing closer, and the elf wondered if he would die on the spot, seeing Annatar’s beloved face come around that corner in the guise of enemy.

Of course, he did not die then. But it felt like a close thing.

As beautiful as always. Black armor, layered in scales and littered with sharpened points—Telperinquar felt himself shudder, lacerations upon his arms flashing to life in glimmers of pain as he recalled raking his arms across those needle-sharp points, feeling them tear through fabric and mail like paper—still adorned with the dark, flaky remains of day-old blood and gore. Golden hair could not have made a harsher contrast to the image of rust and death, lustrous and flowing in the faint torch-lighting with a familiar, burnished gleam. Like a beacon, the maia’s skin was glowing through the darkness, a phosphorescent pallor that had always reminded Telperinquar of the stars as it broke through the night.

But once-blue eyes were no longer the indescribable shade of sky just after sunset, laced with golden light and the twinkle of a million stars. Instead, they were burned away, filled with wild and fey fire that seemed to travel across the elf’s shivering body in scorching waves. The hellish orbs matched perfectly with the smirk that played across beloved lips, filled to the brim was satisfaction at seeing an opponent so lowered and wounded. Full of _sadism._

This thing was not Annatar. It was a monster.

Or, maybe, Annatar had always been this, and he had been unable to see.

The last slivers of hope that perhaps there was something left within his lover that would be open to reason now faded into shadow. There would be no reasoning with this being, and Telperinquar met the stare head-on desperately stifling the tears that rose in the corners of his eyes, boiling and stinging as his world warped onto its side and bled color and fire.

“Comfortable, melindo?”

“Use not such words,” Telperinquar growled out, his voice feeling raw from the swell of emotion in his throat and the wetness of his sorrow building in his sinuses. “Thou hast _no right.”_

“No right?” The beautiful being came to him then, crouching with that lie of a face mere inches away. If there had been true defiance—the stubborn will of the Spirit of Fire in his breast—he might have lunged forward like a rabid animal despite the ache of his shoulder and the complaints of his wrists, trying to lay his teeth into his captor and take away a mouthful of flesh. As it was, though, he did not think he could summon the physical strength, not when a mixture of exhaustion, injury and despair tied themselves to his body like weights and held him down more effectively than could any chains.

Two fingers stroked down his cheek, tilting up his chin such that blazing eyes could cut their way across the elf’s pale face. Over the cut on his brow that still seeped blood, over scuffs and scrapes from having his cheek shoved against rough stone, and around the bruise that highlighted his right cheek and no-doubt was soon to begin swelling his eye shut as well as blood seeped into the eye-socket.

“Does anyone else have a right?” Annatar asked, still smiling that way that made Telperinquar’s hair stand on end. “Am I not thy lover? Thy precious mate?”

“Do not pretend I mean anything to thee,” the elf replied, wanting desperately to close his eyes against the dominating will of his former lover but finding himself incapable of looking away whilst the connection between them held fast. “I shall not be fooled again.”

“Is that so…?”

The soft touches kissed their way over his throbbing cheek, tracing across his eyebrows and down the straight slope of his nose and then dipping straight down the philtrum to rest upon the cushion of his upper lip. The fingertip traced the swell, swinging down to the bottom one and then back up, pausing to feel the shallow breaths escaping from the elf’s frantic lungs. And Telperinquar did not dare to even move.

“This has never been anything more than a game to thee,” he whispered instead, lips moving against the calluses of familiar fingertips. “It never really meant anything at all.”

“Is there a point to denying it?” Annatar asked plainly, as though the words were meaningless. Those eyes flashed with pleasure, though, watching the way Telperinquar flinched back from the caresses upon his mouth, obviously in pain beyond what mere physical strikes could ever hope to accomplish just from a handful of words.

“It has always been a game, melindo,” the maia explained without a single drop of remorse and without a moment’s hesitation in the name of mercy. Ruthless and cruel, he continued on, knowing that each assertion was a strike at the very center of the filthy, chained creature before him and _enjoying the pain that he caused_. “It is the ultimate game, and I stand to gain the greatest of prizes should I win, though loss would leave me wrecked beyond repair. As if I would ever follow in the footsteps of a master—especially one so pitiful as Melkor—without cause. As if I would lower myself to beg Eönwë, Manwë’s pathetic dog, for forgiveness without a reason. As if I would allow myself to become entwined with something as _lowly_ and _simple_ as thee—as one of the mortal Children—for anything less than a necessary sacrifice.”

Fingers clamped about Telperinquar’s jaw, and the touch gradually went from gentle to squeezing. Annatar seemed not to know his own strength, for the wicked clasp of fingers forced the elf’s mouth to fall open lest his jaw shatter, and his bones still began to scream as they creaked and groaned beneath the strain. Helpless to resist, the elf felt the touch of that mouth upon his own, a tongue slipping up to trace the roof of his mouth in a one-sided, stomach-churning kiss.

Annatar pulled away with the softest of laughs. “Of course our little love affair was all part of the game. And, from it, I have gotten exactly what I wanted. Everything I desired.”

The grasp lightened. No doubt vivid bruises were already forming in the wake. Instead, the hand traveled down to Telperinquar’s throat, wrapping around the vulnerable column almost lovingly, as if the thought of strangling the life out of him then and there was a tempting vision. Yet, there was no squeeze—no pinching blockage of oxygen-filled blood and no sudden loss of sweet air to the lungs—about his neck. Not yet.

“Well, almost everything…”

There was a brief tightening, and the elf felt a surge of panic overlapping the grief that was singing already in his breast. The agony of being betrayed, of knowing that everything that meant so much to him was nothing but an ornamented and carefully-maintained lie to gain his skills and abet evil schemes, was lost beneath a surge of white light and ringing sound as the world began to take on a hideously bright and shaky veil. Instinctual terror at the thought of being strangled had adrenaline surging in staccato waves through his trembling limbs to match the thunder of his heartbeat beating against his chest.

Annatar leaned forward, lips rested against a delicately-pointed ear, and the movement was a familiar contradiction. Telperinquar half-expected to blink his eyes open and find his lover rising over his prone form in bed, murmuring love-words that ignited his body into a wildfire of lust. But the hand was still on his throat, muscles tensed and shaking with anticipation of bringing pain and terror, shattering the illusion.

“There will be no pain at all if thou dost tell me exactly what I want to know,” Annatar tempted, lips tracing up and down the shell of the ear he had captured. “No torture. No humiliation. Just a quick death and peaceful rest after thy endeavors…”

_Listen not to such lies. Even if thou dost spill all, there will be no quick death._

Such was not the way of Sauron, torture-master of Angband.

 _It is just a game for him. Just a bit of fun. Seeing people bleed. Listening to them scream and beg. He_ loves it, _like a child playing with a shiny bauble or trinket._

And now it was Telperinquar’s turn to play the toy. For the last time.

It took a monumental effort to push away the inherent instinct screaming to struggle or break down and plead for mercy. The natural desire for survival and the flood of frenetic energy were at war with the cold resistance, and they were being pushed back. Even knowing torture was coming. Pain beyond anything he could imagine.

_I will not break._

“I would not lower myself to fall in step with thy plans with such ease,” he hissed out, jerking his head away from the touch of soft lips. “I will tell thee _nothing.”_

And the way that smirk widened, showing the white, sharp teeth lingering beneath, chilled Telperinquar down to the very core of his fëa. Numbness floated in his limbs, and shock electrified the edges of his vision, the terror once again rising up like a wave of blood to drown his logic and rationality beneath true panic. From just a _look._

He had said exactly what Annatar had expected. Exactly what the monstrous being had _wanted._

And now he would play the game.

“We shall see,” Annatar whispered breathlessly. And Telperinquar heard the lust in that voice. The saccharine-sweet voice whispering in desire for blood.

_“We shall see who is victorious in the end.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> melindo = male lover (s)  
> fëa = spirit/soul (s)


	426. Connected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel receives a Ring of Power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically just me playing around. Galadriel has always been a curious character for me. She seems so very calm and collected and all-knowing in LotR, and yet, in the Silmarillion she is just as willful and stubbornly wild as any one of her crazy Fëanorion cousins. I know experiences change people, so she may have mellowed just from weathering out the Ages, but she never had that weird sense of omniscent "reading everyone's minds and knowing everything" vibe back then. I, personally, think that it was partially to do with Nenya and the likely prophetic/prescient powers she received from its Power.
> 
> Warnings: Weirdness of enchanted Rings of Power. Also, mild stupidity. Hearing voices/receiving visions.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Galadriel = Artanis  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Varda = Elbereth

All Rings of Power were dangerous.

Until she placed Nenya upon her hand for the very first time, Artanis had not realized just _how_ dangerous.

The Ring of Adamant was a beautiful creation, of that there was little doubt. Its creator had been a craftsman of nearly unparalleled skill—she was tempted to give Telperinquar the title of _most skilled_ just to spite her half-uncle and his hungry, fiery eyes that still haunted her nightmares—and this work was undoubtedly amongst the best he had ever produced. Few could work in mithril, and even fewer with such grace and delicacy as the grandson of Fëanáro.

Looking upon it for the first time, Artanis had felt her spirit catch upon its Power, tracing around the edges of enchantment curiously and with less caution that was recommended. The transparent, coruscating stone at the center was a flawless piece in of itself, a large diamond likely bartered from the dwarves of Khazad-dûm along with the near-priceless metal used to shape the band. White-silver, curved and teased into the image of a water-lily such that a thousand facets scattered rainbows of light from beyond its breathtaking and impregnable cage. It was a piece fit for a queen. A piece fit for a _goddess._

_With thee in mind, dear cousin._ That was all the note had said. But it was enough to nearly have Artanis’ cheeks on fire.

Oh, she doubted that Telperinquar was _in love_ with her, for he had never shown any signs of love for any person outweighing his love for his craft. But, sometimes, the gleam of his eyes when he gazed upon her face was awed, like a mortal creature gazing upon a star in the flesh, breathless and stricken dumb. To have such a powerful man hold her in such high esteem was flattering, and more so even that he had thought of her above all others when he had forged the Rings of Power.

Even touching the gift was a strange experience. A bit transcendent, alike to falling and floating both at once. Like the coolness of water flowing through her veins in surging waves, foaming crests breaking across her skin in a shower of sea-spray. It rested upon her palm, cold despite her warmth, burning white even in the dim light of failing dusk, and Artanis was barely conscious of the thought that she did not want to let go of it. Not ever.

There had been no warning of the steep drop into trouble ahead. No message speaking of the treacherous rocks below. No inkling of what horror she would be entwining with her spirit by placing it upon her finger.

Foolish girl that she had been, she had put it on without a second thought.

And all in her universe was light and water. Her skin vibrated with Power, sinking deep beneath her outer layer, penetrating into her bones and turning them to liquid. Opening her eyes, she gazed upon a world that was alien to the Artanis she had been before this moment. Elves had sharp senses, but she had never been capable of counting the number of leaves in a tree only by hearing them rustle in the wind, nor could even the most skilled hunter have tallied each individual stalk of grass in a clearing with a mere glance. Every dewdrop sang and the flow of water through living beings was a beacon in the night.

Her feet felt as though they were rooted into the forest floor. And, at the same time, she felt as though she floated right up off the ground and into the night.

She could hear voices. At first indistinct, they suddenly swung sharply into focus. Celeborn first could she sense, for he stood directly beside her, and the chaotic and worried litany of his thoughts settled into her mind as it stretched outward in a netted wave. Then reached the handmaidens in the next room, and the guards at the foot of the tree, and then farther out to the Anduin in the east and the Celebrant to the south and the Nimrodel upon the western border. And then farther still. So many voices slipping in and out of her thoughts like liquid, their heartbeats throbbing in her breast and their breaths surging into her lungs.

“Galadriel?” Her husband’s voice was an echo of a dream. She did not reply.

Farther still did she reach. Flickers of faces streamed past. Telperinquar she sensed in the Power now coursing through her body, for he had imbued part of himself in this work, and the sound of his voice chanting was a backdrop to the tangled mess of color and sound and untamable, ordered madness. Like little stars prickling in the sky, she sensed _others_ —other Rings of Power, lesser than her own—perceiving them as clearly as if they were before her very eyes. Most of the lights were in Eregion, glittering and colored jewels. But in Lindon, too, she felt a resonance and perceived the face of Gil-galad with a stark white face and wide gray eyes. In her thoughts, she sensed his fear and his dread as he weighed two Rings in the dip of his hand. Then, turning away, she felt one more, away to the south and to the east and…

And she saw the face of the Enemy looking back at her. Eyes of flame, pupils slit like a cat, piercing through her body. Mouth curled up into a mocking sneer, teeth fanged and breath hissing in outrage. As soon as she brushed against that tempest of heat and chaos and fury—a presence so much stronger than her own that she feared to be burned into ash upon contact—she pulled away, reaching clumsily for the Ring where it rested upon her hand.

Gasping, she ripped it away from her forefinger. The world dulled back into shades of twilight. The breeze drifted lazily through the leaves and the sun finally dipped beneath the horizon and stained the sky with blood.

She held the dangerous tool in her palm, only then hearing the increasingly frantic calls of her mate. Looking up into his wide, worried eyes, she gave thought to telling him to throw this cursed object away. For all its great beauty and great power—for all that her secret thoughts whispered avariciously of what magnificent things she could accomplish with the surging, penetrating power of this Ring at her disposal, with vanity of how she might become more than a mere elf and achieve Power greater still than any son of her grandfather’s House had ever dared to _dream_ of possessing—it was a leeching thing. Latching onto her spirit, digging in its hooks, clinging to her metaphysical being and refusing to let go.

Already, she perceived that it was too late. The thought of actually tossing it aside made her muscles freeze and tremble as if stricken down by frigid chill. The thought of ordering it melted down and destroyed entirely made her throat feel tight. An invisible hand gripping about her neck, holding her prisoner and willing her to place it back upon her finger under duress. A tide frantically rising up to her chin, threatening to drown her beneath the urgent desire to keep it safe above all else.

It would not suffer to be apart from her now.

They were connected. Artanis and the Ring of Adamant. And they could no longer be separated. It had only taken a moment only of foolishness and arrogance.

The consequences would last an eternity.

“It is dangerous,” she whispered, folding her fingers about the cold band and resisting the longing—the enchantment tantalizing and teasing and seducing her with visions of the destruction of the Enemy at her hands, of Power to do anything she wanted and shape the world as she willed under the guise of a benevolent and infinitely powerful goddess—to place it back upon her hand regardless of the fact that she would be selling her own location to the watching, waiting Enemy. No doubt he would sense her presence here as powerfully as she had sensed his presence _there._

“Galadriel, what in the name of Elbereth _happened?”_ Celeborn’s hand reached out to coil about her own, obviously seeking to undo the clench of her fist and behold her treasure with a nearer eye out of suspicion.

Yet, she almost flinched away. From the inquisitive and gentle touch of her _own husband_ , who would never even _dream_ of doing her harm. Because there was a split second in which she thought he might try to take it away from her and claim it for his own. There was no rational explanation for the treacherous imagining—Celeborn had ever been far more concerned with nature and with his people’s wellbeing than with expensive metal trinkets and pieces of wondrous craftsmanship—but she still _had that thought._

And it refused to go away. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to throw her mate’s hands aside.

Was the Ring influencing her so strongly? Already? After wearing it only once?

But then, even when it rested innocuously in her palm, she could still _feel it_ , writhing and twisting and struggling against her will like a living creature clawing desperately at the door to a prison cell. One of a lesser will would have given in and replaced it upon their hand if only to feel that freedom again. That undeniable lightness of breaking out from the shell of mortal limitations. Like flying. Like Singing. Like dissolving into nothingness and reforming into something outside the realm of corporeality.

It tugged against her restraint again. She heard the sound of the ocean. The crash of the waves upon the golden shores in her youth.

She ignored it.

“It is a weapon,” she answered softly, not yielding to the desires of her husband and instead curling the fist to rest against her sternum. “Lord Celebrimbor had sent it to rest in our safekeeping, entrusting us with its burden.”

She did not explain then what had happened. She thought perhaps she might never explain for fear of what had transpired between herself and the strange, arcane Ring. While the Dark Lord endured, she dared not place it upon her finger and feel the full strength of his Power and the full horror of his wrath at her defiance, for it would endanger her and her mate and all who lived within the realm of Laurelindórenan. Perhaps she could maintain in secret the inexplicable and undeniable weight of knowing that her life-force was tied now to this strangely wonderful and terrible object.

For now, she decided, she would tell none. Not even Celeborn.

She brushed aside his worries. But she would forever remember the strange look in his eyes as he looked upon her hand resting coiled between her breasts.

That night, she put the Ring of Adamant away, blocking its starlight from reaching her eyes. She set it upon a bed of velvet amongst her own jewelry, intending to stow it away. And her spirit cried out to take it back, to cradle its cool, soothing liquidity against her skin and breath in the faint scent of salt and mist that called to her from beyond memory. It called to her, almost painful, for parting from it felt like parting from an instrumental segment of her own being.

Once again, Artanis ignored the call.

She shut the box. The light went out.

But the sound of the ocean was still there. And the flash of fire-eyes in shadow. The constant, aching pull. The feeling of missing pieces and jagged, bleeding cuts. And the whisper of a water-lily’s petals touched by the softest breeze.

That night, no sleep came for the Lady Galadriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Laurelindórenan = Valley of Singing Gold (one of the names of Lothlórien)


	427. Taciturn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Experiences can drastically change people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going to start this with a short note. As I'm sure you've noticed, I've only been putting out a story about once every two days. I just thought I'd let you all know that I'm in the middle of packing and moving into a new apartment some eight hours away from where I'm living now, so I'm rather frantically trying to get all my stuff packed and make sure I'll have running water and air-conditioning and internet (the important stuff LOL) when I get there. As such, I'll say this much: I'll try to write something at least once every other day, but I might miss a couple of days for moving and studying (registration exam next week *sigh*).
> 
> Now that that's out of the way... This is closely related to Remorseful and all the Amras/Daeron stuff, as well as the Amrod-focused parts of the Cheat Arc. References abound (because I'm a nerd).
> 
> Warnings: Depression. Probably PTSD. Burn scars. Filicide. Kinslayings mentioned. Rape alluded to. Mostly, though, the story itself is just introspection and some dialogue.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Amras = Ambarto = Umbarto  
> Amrod = Ambarussa  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Of the youngest sons of Fëanáro—the twins—Ambarto had always been the more outgoing personality.

Not that most could readily tell the difference between Ambarussa and Ambarto despite the slight variation in the shades of their hair and the small but distinct differences in their facial features. Still, in their youth, Ambarto—the younger brother, surprisingly—had been the more mischievous cretin, leading his older sibling into all sorts of adventure and trouble with that broad, reassuring grin upon his face and glittering, excited green eyes filled with wonder and daring.

Ambarussa—the older of the pair—had, on the other hand, been a little quieter and a little more thoughtful that his younger sibling. Less impetuous and less reckless and less willful, but also less stubborn and more susceptible to his brother’s cunning charm and plotting. If Ambarto wanted to, say, steal cookies from the top shelf, it was Ambarussa who held back wondering at the consequences of getting caught, Ambarto who came up with some crazy stunt or plan to accomplish his goal, convincing his hesitant sibling that it was a great idea that was sure to succeed, and both of them who got in trouble for whatever silliness followed.

Even when they were older, this dynamic did not change. Ambarto was a natural-born leader, a trait inherited directly from their sire, and Ambarussa was more patient and followed in his sibling’s shadow. Not necessarily quiet in comparison, but not plunging headfirst into a situation without forethought either.

Things had changed since then.

Things had changed since Losgar.

Ambarussa had waited hundreds of years to see his twin again. Much had happened to him in that span of time, and he thought perhaps that the change in his interactions with his sibling—still locked away in the Halls of the Waiting after all this time—might have been attributed to changes first and foremost in his own behavior due to his unfortunate past. Perhaps he had become a different person, one that his younger sibling could not love or respect in the same way. Perhaps Ambarto had been watching as battle after battle that had chipped away at his Ambarussa’s sanity, as the older twin began to unravel at the seams. Perhaps Ambarto had been watching as Ambarussa was overcome by bloodlust, slaughtering indiscriminately in Menegroth without thought or mercy. Perhaps Ambarto had seen Ambarussa’s greatest shame and did not wish to ever speak to his sibling again. Not that Ambarussa would have blamed him.

Except, that logic did not seem quite correct. It was not just Ambarussa toward whom the lost brother seemed cool and distant and voiceless. It was not even just towards the Fëanárioni.

It was towards everyone.

The once-boisterous and outgoing youth seemed to have been burned away by the flames reflected upon the cold, churning waters of Alatairë. The wild young man who freely and bravely spoke his mind, who was passionate and loud about honor and was not afraid to be a contradiction in opinion, who wore his heart on his sleeve and tried his best to care for everyone, that young man seemed to have vanished altogether. To have been replaced by a stranger who did not even resemble the brother they had left behind. A taciturn ghost of former glory.

It was almost as if Ambarto feared and distrusted everyone and everything. Even his own emotions and words.

“Thou art quiet,” Ambarussa could not help but comment.

And his brother had looked at him then. Not with loathing, but with a misty, distant sort of disunity that troubled the older twin greatly. Lost and fearful and caught in a net of reverie. Young Ambarto was never quiet, least of all when upset, but it was clear that this specter of his brother was miserable. In pain and in fear. And staying quiet, not seeking comfort.

“Ambarto?”

“My name is Umbarto.”

Ambarussa’s mouth went dry at those four words. He knew that their mother had always called his younger brother so, but their father had always insisted they use the other name instead. For all that Fëanáro claimed to disdain superstition, he was oddly nervous about using the name Nerdanel had gifted their youngest child at birth by way of prescience. A name that spoke of ill fate. To hear it used now in that soft, dead voice made little, spindly legs if disconcertion creep and crawl up and down Ambarussa’s spine. He gave a faint shudder.

“Thou wert never so quiet before, _Umbarto,”_ Ambarussa continued stubbornly, wondering at the strangeness of being the one to force conversation. It always struck him as being… wrong. Stilted. Like they were two very different people trying to switch places and failing to fall neatly into their new roles.

Those eyes focused sharply on Ambarussa’s face for a moment, like daggers slicing through the grayness of the Halls. But they glanced away all too quickly, the younger brother turning his head to stare straight forward without a reply.

“Hanno?”

The youngest Fëanárion looked down, twiddling his thumbs, tangling and untangling his long, scarred fingers over and over again. But he did not speak immediately, venting his feelings as the Ambarto of the past would have done. His voice remained silent for a long while, as if he were taking the time to think deeply and critically about what he wanted to say. How he wanted to explain.

But all he said was: “I cannot. Forgive me.”

_I cannot explain._

And Ambarto shivered and looked away as if in shame, hiding the burns that licked up one side of his neck and reached out across his cheek in streaks of melted flesh. Hiding the physical evidence of his traumatizing death and making him a facsimile of the boy he had been all those hundreds of years ago. Softer in face than any of his war-torn, battle-hardened, insanity-stricken brothers. So youth and untouched and pure where all the rest of them were prematurely aged and sharp and tainted with sin and evil.

And Ambarussa thought he might understand. Had it not been speaking out which had earned Ambarto his death? Had it not been wearing his heart upon his sleeve which had led him to his doom? If he had only been more cautious and less trusting… If he had only stopped and thought about how Fëanáro would react to defiance…

If only and if only and if only… A thousand different “if only”s which could have made all the difference in the world. But they were wisps of cloud in the summer sky. Fleeting and intangible and hardly any comfort at all to a broken spirit.

Could anyone blame Ambarto for being too frightened to speak the truth aloud? Ambarussa certainly could not.

He sighed, feeling exhausted and stretched and disheartened, but he did not try to force his brother to speak again. If anyone understood being lost in their own mental palace of dreams—of desiring to turn away from the harsh reality of the world—it was he. And, if Ambarto needed time, he would gladly lend as much time as would be necessary to facilitate the recovery of his beloved twin.

They had all the time in the world. There was no need to rush. Not anymore.

“If thou dost ever want to speak, I shall listen.”

And he received a hint of a smile in reward. “I know.”

And no more words were exchanged between them then.

They continued on, now more two separate beings than a single cohesive unit. No longer a leader and follower so closely entwined that they seemed as one. Now, everyone could tell the twins apart—who was Ambarto, the scarred and silent youth, and who was Ambarussa, the embittered and dark-hearted Kinslayer—and they drifted in opposite directions. It was with some regret that Ambarussa realized his younger brother likely never _would_ speak about Losgar. At least, not to him.

It was a painful thought. One that made his heart sink. But such was the way of the world. Things had changed. Irreversibly.

There would be no going back. It was far too late for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Fëanárion = Son of Fëanáro (s)  
> Fëanárioni = Sons of Fëanáro (pl)  
> Alatairë = Great Sea  
> Hanno = brother


	428. Determination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idril requests the help of several Lords of Gondolin--including her future husband--in the building of the Secret Way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly, this is characterization. Working with unfamiliar characters always requires a bit of building and filling in the blanks, especially Tolkien's characters. Anyway, related most closely to Marvel, though it has ties to things like Friendship as well.
> 
> My general opinion on the matter of the secret way is that Idril didn't tell Turgon about it until after it was built. I don't remember if any of the sources say whether or not he knew (and all my books are currently packed up and on their way to my new place, so I'm relying on the Gateway for info), but I think she went the "better to ask forgiveness than permission" route.
> 
> Warnings: Not much really. A bit of a sexist outlook on female behavior. Though, in Tuor's defense, he hasn't spent much time around women.

In a word, Idril Celebrindal appeared _delicate._

She seemed to be a little slip of a thing, her head only barely reaching the height of Tuor’s shoulders. Not only that, but her whole body seemed to be built willowy and slender, like a branch curling in a violent gale whenever she swayed and bent. So very thin that he wondered sometimes if he could stretch the entire circumference of her waist with the breadth of his two broad hands. Elegant fingers looked like they ought to be forged of porcelain, and her wrists were so tiny that the circle of Tuor’s forefinger and thumb could easily loop about one with room to spare. It did not help that she went barefoot, and her ankles sometimes peeked from beneath her gown, so fragile in appearance. Matching perfectly the tiny little feet dancing across cobblestone and marble, all white and filled with grace.

Tuor had met few women of his own race or the elven race, and he dared not claim to be an expert in their behaviors and appearances, but the few elven women he had encountered in Gondolin tended to be tall—almost as tall as he!—and they were nothing he would ever have described as _delicate._ Beautiful, poised and deadly, perhaps, but not breakable. Certainly not wilting and helpless damsels. Certainly not stirring to life the instinct to protect in the man’s breast.

And then there was Celebrindal. A head shorter than all the rest, and seemingly twice as slight.

A first glimpse of her might have led one to believe she was soft-hearted, vulnerable and malleable, an antithesis to her incredibly tall and incredibly sharp-eyed father, the King. Next to Turgon and Maeglin, she was so small, clad all in pale blue and white, all fine cloth and lace and glittering little gems at the hems and collar. Tuor had, much to his later mortification, expected someone shy and quiet and subservient. A proper young lady who blushed at compliments from men and was too gentle to survive the aggressive, confrontational nature of Gondolin’s political stage.

Tuor had expected the personality to match the appearance. But there was a saying about books and their covers.

It had happened out of the blue. That which altered his perception of his Princess beyond repair or retraction.

“The Princess humbly requests thy presence at this location, my Lord.” He was handed a short message relaying only a location and not an explanation. Strange. What could she want with him so abruptly in the middle of the afternoon?

“My presence? For what, did she say?”

“She said nothing of her purposes, my Lord.” The servant of the House of the White Wing stared at him blankly, any thoughts on the matter obscured from mortal eyes. “It is best not to keep the Princess waiting, my Lord.”

He would humor her, he decided. Perhaps she merely wanted to converse? Idril had been fairly friendly as of late, and Tuor would have had to be completely dim-witted not to realize that she went out of her way to make excuses for their everyday paths to cross. It was obvious that something about him had piqued her fancy—though he could not rightly have guessed what he, a mortal man, had that any other handsome and valiant elven lord of Gondolin did not—but he was not such a masochist that he would throw away the affections of such a beautiful rose for the sake of misguided honor. She was lovely, and he struggled to keep the rise in color upon his cheeks from showing as both giddiness and curiosity burned through his blood.

Tuor dismissed his servant and went as directed. He was, quite honestly, expecting perhaps a sitting room or something equally affluent and feminine. Somewhere nice to have airy and generally meaningless conversation and flirtation. When he found his destination, the last thing he had expected when he opened the door and peered inside was a war room.

But a war room was definitely what this was.

Spacious and rather empty of furnishings. At the center was a table, and upon its top were spread maps of Gondolin and the surrounding vale and mountainous terrain. A shadow was cast across the parchments, however, by the short and seemingly brittle figurine that was Idril Celebrindal with her golden hair pulled back and the sleeves of her dress rolled up to her pointed little elbows. The first thing Tuor registered was the sound of her voice bursting forth passionately as her hands waved and her fingers pointed to something unseen upon the maps.

Of course, she was not alone. Tuor registered immediately the presence of others. Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. Lord Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain. Lord Egalmoth of the House of the Heavenly Arch. And he thought he was Lord Rog of the House of the Hammer of Wrath as well. A handful of others were there, though he did not recognize all of their faces.

Clearly, this was no flirtatious rendezvous. Tuor secretly felt a bit disappointed at that—he would have liked to have Idril’s sole attention for a little while—but he quickly dismissed the presumptuous feelings. There were more important considerations to be had.

Like the fact that two particular figures were conspicuously absent. Two of the most important and powerful men in Gondolin: the King and the King’s nephew.

Perhaps they had simply not arrived yet?

But, upon Tuor’s entrance, Idril had looked up with her blue eyes alight, and she said: “Now we are all present. Lock the door in thy wake, Lord Tuor, and join us. Thy counsel would be greatly appreciated.”

Though she was by far the smallest person in the room, looking for all the world as if any one of these tall, muscular warriors could have snapped her in half like a dry twig without effort, Idril’s presence seemed thrice her size in that moment. Filling up the room with light and authority. Overshadowing even the most powerful of elven lords.

It reminded Tuor sharply of King Turgon.

“What need of my counsel have thee?” he asked cautiously. “Would not thy King’s counsel be wiser? A more desirable prize?”

Idril’s lips pursed. None of the menfolk spoke, deferring to their Princess in such a bizarre manner as to make Tuor rethink his knowledge of the small woman before his eyes. “My father,” Idril began softly but sternly without hesitation, “Is a very great man, and a very wise one. But even the wise can be blinded by pride and by fear, Lord Tuor.”

To outright criticize her King and father—what gall!

“We have gathered here,” she continued as though she had not just paid insult to her regent, “to discuss the creation of a Secret Way. A second and carefully hidden passage leading out of this city in the event that, as thou hast told us, our city is discovered by the Enemy and laid to waste.”

“And the King would not approve of this secret way?”

But he knew the answer even before Idril could speak. Turgon was the epitome of a Noldorin Lord. Stubborn to the point of ridiculous, and prideful to the brink of insanity, mind unyielding as diamond once it had been made. King Turgon had decided that he knew more of the movements of the Enemy than did Lord Ulmo—that this Hidden City of his creation was blessed and too well hidden to ever be discovered by the likes of Morgoth’s trickery—and thus there was no need to flee from their sanctuary and no need to make plans for their salvation in the event that such improbable horror came to pass. In the mind of Turgon, the warning of Ulmo was false, and he would not like to have his certainty brought into question and his decision steeped in doubt by the building of a contingency plan.

No, Tuor did not think Turgon would disapprove of the endeavor because he did not care for or desire to protect his people. Tuor thought that Turgon would disapprove because he feared the reality of the situation which such a Secret Way would present: the very real and imminent possibility of Gondolin being overtaken and destroyed.

Clearly, Idril felt no such terror. Instead of burying her head in the sand, she was proactive and daring in the face of dread and doom.

“Whether the King approves or not,” Idril told him, “I will see this done. I am loyal first to my citizens—those who call me their Princess and look to me to guide them forth in these perilous times—and second to my father, be he King or no.”

The set of her jaw reminded Tuor strikingly of the look worn upon Turgon’s face as he dismissed Tuor’s message from the Lord of Waters. Stubborn and bold and forged of iron. For all that she was such a delicate being in looks, the more time Tuor spent in the presence Idril, the more he realized that he could not judge anything about her character by means of her appearance.

Her whole stance—her tiny body with her breakable wrists and her slender little feet and her short stature clad in ivory and white—was firm. Straight and tall and filled with determination to succeed in her quest. No wilting rose was she, Idril Celebrindal.

She was a being with a will strong enough to defy the words of King Turgon himself. And, for some reason, Tuor could not help but think that it made her glorious.

“Well, Lord Tuor, art thou willing to help us?” she asked.

_Art thou willing to defy the orders of thy King? Art thou willing to do what is right rather than turning a blind eye as is easy?_

And Tuor nodded. “Aye, say only what assistance I might give and I will give it gladly. My Princess.”

She smiled as did a man—or in this case, he supposed, a woman—who had gotten exactly what he desired. A cat with a bowl of warm cream at its paws. And the look made Tuor wonder exactly how much power was wrapped up in this tiny package of a golden-haired fairy-princess. For all that he stood in a room full of powerful men each in their own right, all eyes were turned to this slight creature, waiting for her orders. Hanging off her every breath.

And Tuor could not look away from her. His interest was piqued more so than had been before by her mere beauty and ladylike charm. This facet of Idril was new and intriguing—and, dare he even think it in the darkest depths of his own mind, attraction—and Tuor found himself drawing closer to the center of the room as she plunged back into an explanation. Pulled as if tugged by the thread of the rise and fall of her melodic voice. Enchanted words which caught all the ears of the Lords in the room and holding them captive in her net.

Something about her expression—about the strength of her voice and the righteousness of her heart and the will to protect those under her care no matter who she had to defy in order to salvage lives in the future—was tenfold times more beautiful than her golden curls and sapphire eyes and creamy white skin alone.

He felt like he was seeing her fully for the very first time. Not an air-headed female whose place was upon the side-lines of battle. But someone strong and brilliant as well as lovely to look upon.

Someone who was not afraid stand toe-to-toe with any man.

And Tuor of the House of the White Wing found that he liked what he saw. More than he should. Idril might appear delicate on her surface, like a little figurine sculpted from glass and golden thread, but her inner beauty was something radiant to behold. Foolish though it might have been, Tuor dearly wished to capture the love of this strange elven creature and give all of himself in return. To show her that, despite his mortality, he would do anything and everything to aid her in her need—as much as any ancient elven Lord. To show that he was willing even to risk the perilous waters of her father’s disapproval if it meant staying by her side. 

To demonstrate that he was firmly set in his quest to succeed—just as strong and just as filled with determination—for she was worth the risk of Turgon’s wrath a thousand times over.

This divine creature would be the greatest reward.


	429. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Míriel cannot help but wonder what might have been. If only...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm back. After being off the grid for a week. Lucky me, my car broke down during the long drive to my new place--and in the middle of nowhere, too--on top of moving everything into the new apartment and studying like a lunatic for my registration exam. But I'm still alive and (mostly) sane.
> 
> To celebrate, I've written my first story in about a week. My usual depressing fare, of course. I don't think I've written this perspective before--or, if I have, not often--but it's related to Reunion (and all the subsequently related pieces) as well as other Míriel-related works. Just something that came to mind while reading some other fanfiction today (surprisingly, it was HP).
> 
> Warnings: Depression trigger. Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Mentions war, death and insanity, but nothing gory or explicit.
> 
> Of Names:  
> Fëanor = Fëanáro

Colored threads slipped between her fingers, sleek as flowing water. Beneath the magic of her hands, they were bent and shaped into something equally glorious and hideous. The vibrant colors should have been beautiful, all jewel-toned in deep greens and scarlets and royal blues, rich and bold. It should have brought her joy to create things of such beauty. Those colors were her bread and butter. The foundation of her art.

But those colors were now only cruel to her gaze. The green was the madness in wide eyes and the scarlet was the waterfalls of spilled blood and the blues were the sky filled with stars torn beneath trampling feet.

Still, she continued weaving. Even though it made her heart ache and her vulnerable spirit raw to look at the creation of horror beneath her fingertips.

She had chosen this fate.

_“Art thou certain that this is what thou dost want?” A gentle voice to match the velveteen softness of endless violet eyes. Complimentary to the hand which rested, feather-light and yet heavier than all the earth, upon her shoulder. “There is no returning from a choice such as this one, dear child.”_

_Callused, experienced fingertips brushed her collarbone. It was so warm and so tender. The cradle upon which she longed to lay and be held. Protected. Absorbed and blinded._

_“I know my heart,” she replied._

_And the eyes were infinitely sad._

She should have known then. She should have seen the signs. She should have been patient—as patient as the masterful weaver that she had always been, content to wait for the final result to unfold from a thousand tiny, individual threads into a full picture. Never rushing to the finish, but waiting for the beautiful end to come.

Should have, should have, should have. But did not.

Then, her pain had been too fresh to think straight. Too sharp and piercing in her heart to ignore. Too overpowering to pull away and let logic dictate her actions.

Míriel often looked back upon that moment when she cast forth herself into her own doom without hesitation or caution, and her heart sank down to her toes. She sat and let the threads flow beneath her fingers, and she wondered what might have been if only she had not been so hasty. If only she had been less selfish. If only she had been the mother she was meant to be.

But the past was set in stone. She created the annals of history beneath her talented hands, and she had learned that they could not be warped by any power of ainu or eruhína. What was done was done.

_Still, she had cried._

_She cried to see, in the winding images birthed by the talent of her hands, that her only son was lonely and suffering. She cried to see that her dearest husband, whom she would always and forever love, was chafing beneath the weight both of his crown and of the mantle of fatherhood. She cried because there was nothing she could do to make this right._

_She cried because she had given them away. Now, the only right she had was to witness. To observe. To document. For she was a servant of the Lady Vairë now, and her life was no longer her own._

_She cried until she had no tears left to shed._

_And then she stared blankly and wondered if things could have been different. Until the daydreams drove her nearly mad._

_Until her mistress came to her and squeezed her shaking hands. “Thy time in the land of the living is done, dear one,” the Lady Vairë said. “Linger not in thoughts of what might have been. That path is dangerous for the fëa.”_

_“Can nothing be done?” she asked. Her eyes begging. Her voice pleading._

_But she saw the answer in those familiar eyes before words ever departed wizened lips. And her heart was broken._

_“Linger not in the past, Míriel Serindë. Once set in stone, it cannot be changed.”_

But how could she not look back?

When she had refused rebirth—when she had cut herself loose from the lives of her husband and her son—she had believed that she was doing them all a great favor. Freeing herself from a graying and despairing existence without joy. Freeing her husband from a shattered and loveless marriage which would break his heart. Freeing her son from the agony of a mother who could not love him as she should. It was supposed to make things better. It was supposed to fix everything.

Instead, Míriel wondered if she had rooted the seeds of darkness into the foundations of the world.

She wondered what might have been if only she had stayed. If she had sought the healing and comfort of the Lady Estë and fought to overcome her terrible fatigue with life. If she had persevered and held tight to her family with both hands. If she had been a better wife and a better mother. Where would she be? Where would her family be?

Would Finwë ever have looked twice at Lady Indis? Would the four children born to her husband’s second union have been her own instead? Would the rift between her son and the children of her husband’s second wife exist?

Would Finwë have smiled more? Would Fëanáro have been happier?

Would their family have been whole?

But those futures—those possibilities—were phantoms flitting through her daydreams. Nothing but specks of dust falling into the cosmic river of time, swept away and lost forever in the swirling tides. Because they had never existed. Because Míriel could not go back and change what had come to pass.

They were her regrets. And the only place they lived—solid and real—was in her thoughts.

They hurt and stung like open wounds rubbed with salt. They burned her flesh as would an open and merciless flame. They shredded at her sanity like a wild beast’s claws. They sunk their teeth into her heart and shook until it tore. They whipped her with the lashes of their tails until her spirit bled. They shook the foundations of the earth beneath her feet until she felt as though her whole world twisted and warped.

They hurt. So, so much.

And yet, she could not let them go.

_“Linger not in thoughts of what might have been.”_

She watched her husband slain and her son lost to madness. She watched her grandchildren turned to evil by war and by oath. She watched as, one by one, they were lost to senility and evil. She watched as, one by one, they died unfulfilled and tormented.

She watched and wondered what might have been if only she had been stronger.

Because the images of her husband happy and smiling were the only balm that could soothe the bruises. Because the visions of her son and his siblings—not golden-haired but with her own silver mane—were the only coolness which could drive away the fire. Because the thought of a life where they all could have been together, laughing and filled with joy, was the only light that could fight back the shadow of it all falling apart beneath her hands.

Her regrets were all she had left. Even the touch of the caring hand of her mistress upon her shoulder had become cold and barren.

Míriel sat and she wove the fates of her family into bitter reality. Wishing the deep greens were the fields of Valinórë. Wishing the vibrant scarlets were the petals of wildflowers and velvet robes. Wishing the royal blues were the unbroken sky laced with golden and silver light.

Knowing that wishes were meaningless in the end. Knowing that only the living had the power over fate.

Knowing that she had thrown all her chances away.

And she wept for the loss of what had never been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Ainu = holy being (s)  
> Eruhína = Child of Eru (s)  
> fëa = spirit/soul (s)


	430. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilion was drawn to Arien from the very beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story belongs with Full Moon (written from the opposite POV) and Horizon. It also has a certain sort of symmetry with Ebullience, like a little tragic echo. Basically, some sort-of-romance and some typical Valarin weirdness abounding.
> 
> Warnings: Not a happy ending. Talk of fate/destiny. Pining.

She had always been there. A flash of light in the corner of his eye.

From the first moments he could remember, far beyond the edges of the mortal realm and the material universe, he could recall her essence. At the time, he had had no words to describe what she was, how her beauty was molten and hot to the touch, a thousand shades of orange and gold and red entwined in an eternal dance. Always moving. Always dancing.

Her Song from those ancient times still rang in his ears. The garishly brilliant tone of her voice rising above the din of cacophony, splitting across the darkness in a single blinding droplet of vibration. He could not have explained why it was so easy for his ears to hear her magnificence, to pick it out and hold it clasped in the hands of his spirit like a treasured jewel, but he had never been capable of turning away from its wonder.

From the very moment of his birth, her voice had shaped his destiny.

In those days, he had had no understanding of what it was that he did when he Sang in counterpoint to her melody, so vivacious and so blazing hot and so filled with terrible, wild joy. He had no understanding of what it meant for his low tenor to sweep around her rich tones, chasing the brightly-colored tails of her words, echoing her light in a reflection of pale silver.

Somehow, they had always been connected. From the very beginning.

\---

In the material world, she took the name Arien. And he was called Tilion.

Her raiment was of fiery light. Her hair was burnished wheat, set alight by the golden hues of Laurelin, and he longed desperately to reach out and run his fingers through its fine strands. To touch her sun-kissed skin and feel the heat of her spirit and admire the rosy red shade of her cheeks. In her eyes, she held more light than all the stars.

She was a maia of his Lord’s wife, a follower of Vána. With each waxing of Laurelin, she traveled to the mound of Ezellohar and brought back with her the golden dews and saps of the sacred tree, and her skin was not scalded by its frightful heat nor her eyes blinded by its overwhelming luminescence. Carefully, she would water many of the flowers in the Gardens of Vána with tears of light, and those flowers would grow strong and their petals would spring open eagerly for her adoration. Tender was the care of their mistress, and they flourished beneath her heat and her smile.

Tilion remained ever a creature cast in shadow where she was shrouded in light. And he was captured in a net of mithril and diamond. Invincible and impregnable.

And he wondered if this was what it was to pine.

He wondered if this was how his Lord had felt looking upon Vána the Ever-Young in the youthful days of the world when the Lamps stood guard over the green vale of Almaren. He wondered if Oromë had known this same twisted longing and desire, the need to reach out and wrap her in his arms and never let go. He wondered if his Lord had stood just like this, watching the woman he loved tend to her flowers, and if his heart had throbbed with the same aching pain.

Tilion was at the mercy of Arien’s glory, helpless and trapped and hopelessly happy and tremendously sad all at once. Sometimes, he grasped this feeling with both hands and never wished it to leave. Sometimes, though, he wished that it had never existed.

Sometimes, he wished that he could look away and forget all about Arien and her golden hair and her fire-eyes and her dancing Song.

He stood for hours in the shadows and stared at her light.

Sometimes, he wished he could have been born a flower in Vána’s garden.

\---

“Thou art sad.”

Tilion was not surprised that his Lord had noticed. While Oromë was not the most emotionally free creature, he was far from heartless. Compassionate at his core, the stern-faced vala cared deeply for his servants and friends.

Normally, Tilion would have appreciated that caring and concern, but these were strange circumstances. The hunter bit his lower lip and glanced towards the vala, looking up into his Lord’s face and then away in quick flashes, wondering if his agony was as transparent and naked as it felt.

“Maybe,” he agreed hesitantly.

And the hand on his shoulder almost made him wince. “Is there anything I might do to help, friend?” his Lord asked softly. “It pains me to see thee thusly.”

It was a kind offer. With almost any other problem he could think of, Tilion would not have hesitated to accept the support of his Lord. But he doubted there was anything that could be offered in this situation beyond advice. And what Tilion wanted was not advice on how to woo a woman, nor words of comfort and assurance against his own doubt. He did not even know what he wanted, really, and that was the problem.

Did he want her love? Did he want to be entwined with her forever?

Did he want to forget she had ever existed? Did he want to be untangled from her light?

Could he bear either fate?

Or did he, perhaps, just want to understand why he could not look away?

The hunter let out a soft sigh. “I am afraid, my Lord, that there is little that thou canst do for me. Matters of love are between lovers.”

And his Lord smirked, eyes the color of spring’s first kiss narrowing and glowing. “Love? A maiden of Vána, I presume.”

Tilion nodded, looking away again. “I just need time. To think.”

The vala nodded, seeming to silently understand that he did not desire conventional comfort or flowery words and directions to lead to the heart of his lady love. Sometimes, Oromë was entirely too perceptive, and the solemnity of the Huntsman as he stood left a cold chill in Tilion’s breast. As though those spring eyes could see something he did not.

“Taking time to think is wise,” Oromë agreed. “But wait not too long.”

Tilion nodded. But, in his mind, he still felt uncertain. He watched his Lord walk away, disappearing into the shadows of the Woods, and he felt torn.

\---

The Darkening was a shock.

For a second time, the home of the Ainur was threatened by the wickedness of Melkor. Blackness clogged the sky and smothered the stars, and the Two Trees were nothing but a twisted, matted rubble of broken limbs and decaying roots left in the rotted, dead soil. Ezellohar was no longer an emerald hill, but now was brown and dull.

Days had passed. Yavanna had been Singing. And Varda. And Nienna.

But their Songs had failed to heal the Two Trees. The light which had been cast upon the paradise of Valinórë was gone. All that remained were two orbs of light: one of silver and one of gold.

They were to be placed in the sky. Circling forever in the heavens and casting light down upon both the Undying Lands and the Hither Lands as day and night. One would be in the sky whilst the other was beyond the edges of the world, and then, as the first passed forth, the second would climb upwards and take its place. Like the Two Trees waxing and waning.

Now the Valar asked for volunteers to guide these vessels. A great responsibility, and a heavy burden. For that would be the fate of the shepherds for all eternity until the world came to its close. To guide Anar and Isil across the sky.

Tilion had not even _thought_ about volunteering. Not until she had stepped forward.

“Who better is there to guide the vessel of Anar, my Lords and Ladies, than I?”

Not until _she_ appeared in all her fiery beauty. Like a candle cutting through the shadow fallen over the lands, she burned bright and fierce. Her face was the most wondrous thing he had ever beheld, and its soft edges were set harshly with determination to succeed in her quest and protect the last remnants of Laurelin. Arien was a spirit of fire down to her very core, and there were none better to guide the vessel of golden light than she who had so diligently tended the boughs of its mother Tree and bathed herself in its hallowed rays.

Even so, Tilion could not breathe. He thought that his body had been frozen. His muscles trembled and his heart skipped and his stinging eyes would not move from her glowing silhouette. A sudden dryness was upon his tongue, and a jittery feeling of nerves rested in his limbs.

He was shaking. With rage or horror or fear all mixed into a sea of devastation.

Because he had waited too long. Arien would become the shepherdess of Laurelin’s last fruit, and she would be beyond his reach forever.

And then he would pine. Forever.

He had thought, until that moment, that maybe he could turn away. Forget her fire and her light. Until the moment he realized he might lose her. And then he could not let go. The very thought went against the grain of his spirit, as though the very essence of his being rebelled.

They had always been connected, after all.

In his heart, Tilion felt a sudden surge of resentment. If he could have spoken aloud, he would have looked up past the stars and searched for the Flame Imperishable between their lights. He would have raised his hands skyward and cried out to his Father. He would have begged to know _why it had to be her_ and _why it had to be him._

He would have asked why he could not bear to let her go.

He would have asked if this had been their destiny all along.

Instead, he smiled wryly, head tilting upwards. And he felt the brush of reassuring heat against his spirit, fingertips painting over the outer shell of his thoughts. An enormous presence filled with affection and love and regret which strove now to drive the resentment and the aching pain away beneath its caresses.

It pushed against him, and he did not need words to know what it meant.

_I never had a choice at all, did I?_

There was no reply. But he did not need one.

_Of course not._

And he stepped forward before he could stop himself, knowing that he could not bear to let the only woman he would ever love slip completely from between his fingers. Even if they could only be together in the sky, apart and distant, it was enough that he could bathe only in her radiance. _It would be enough._

He hoped.

“Please, let me guide then the vessel of Isil,” he said. “Let me be the second, for I can protect the flower of Telperion better than any other.”

He looked to the Valar, and he met the eyes of his Lord. They were blackened with grief and death, the oncoming winter of the world, and they carried that eternally knowing glint in their depths. And the sadness. The unspoken words.

_I would have helped thee, if only thou hadst asked it of me._

But Tilion shook his head and looked away.

He had been beyond help from the very beginning. This was his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> maia = lesser holy being (s)  
> Valar = greater holy beings (pl)  
> vala = greater holy being (s)  
> Ainur = holy beings (pl)  
> Anar = the vessel of the Sun  
> Isil = the vessel of the Moon


	431. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor is facing down the Enemy within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related, of course, to all Sauron/Celebrimbor works. Connected closely to my little side protect Legend and Enormous, as well as the Celebration Arc (as I'm going to start calling the FoA Celebrimbor bits). Basically introspection. But, in a way, I think the concepts are ones to which was all can relate at least a little. After all, who holds us back the most but we ourselves?
> 
> Written to the song Alive by Phil Lober.
> 
> Warnings: Something like PTSD, as well as some depression triggers. Mentions of violence including torture and implied non-con (thou hast been warned). Self-struggles. Slightly healthier than usual coping mechanisms. Hurt/comfort type fic mostly.

Freedom was such a fickle concept. Easily understood. Deceptively hard to obtain.

Physically, freedom seemed so easy. So _simple._

There were no chains binding his arms overhead now. No manacles strapped about his wrists, rubbing his flesh raw as he struggled to escape. No metallic links chinking as he walked across the room, ankle anchored with golden bonds of slavery. Physically, he could go wherever he wanted and do whatever he pleased. There was no one and nothing to stop him now.

Physically.

If only the world were so simple.

Celebrimbor did not need chains to be held captive by the memories of sky blue eyes burning away into molten and hellish pits of devilry. He did not need to be naked and writhing helplessly in unwanted pleasure and agony to remember the despair of being unable to stop his captor. Unable to break free from the enchantment laced into his thoughts. Unable to escape from the touch of burning hands as they scalded his bare skin. Unable to even beg or cry for the torment to cease.

He needed no physical bindings. He was a captive of his own thoughts. Of his own memories.

And the images beneath his fingertips just brought all those thoughts back.

It had been easy to forget when he was so far away from anything and everything that could have reminded him of the heights of greatest evanescent ecstasy and the darkest hours of fading hope. The wide open sky laid above, uninterrupted by tree or mountain as far as the eye could see, smattered with the milky swirls of distant nebulae and the twinkling of millions of stars, was strange and wondrous. The endless stretch of the desert was in all directions, barren and cold and burned bone white in the nighttime beneath the moonlight, and it was so quiet and so peaceful and so _foreign._

All Celebrimbor had with him were his clothes, some scraps of meat, his cousin and their two horses. But he did not need anything else. He did not need complications. He did not need riches. He did not need _thoughts._

He reached out and fought to grasp at freedom. Freedom which had been denied to him for so very long that he forgot the refreshing sweetness of its taste upon his tongue. And he had thought he might have finally found what he had been seeking since the fateful day since he had discovered that he had bonded his spirit to that of a murderous megalomaniac known for deceit and treachery.

Yet, in the end, it had been such a fragile little daydream.

Even the sight of Annatar— _Sauron_ , he tried to remind himself, _Sauron_ —had him spiraling into a relapse with almost a single breath. As though an invisible hand was beating upon his sternum, each gulp of air felt strained and forced, punched from his aching lungs by the frantic throbbing of his heartbeat. It seemed so pathetic from a purely logical perspective, but that train of self-depreciation was overrun by the moments of pure, unadulterated panic that suddenly lit aflame his blood with the phantom of hate and love.

If it had just been a depiction of the Great Eye written into the temple stone, he thought he would have been fine. The monstrosity that had been that bulbous, glowing orb of flame and malice was not nearly as terrifying as the glorious and horrible truth of the Dark Lord. An image of evil would be easy to banish from his heart, overlaid with a lattice of revulsion and repugnance.

An image of beauty was harder to forget. Harder to deny. Harder to ignore.

And Sauron had been beautiful.

The image before him was beautiful.

The same golden hair that flitted in glistening strands through his darkest nightmares, teasingly silken but leaving blackened burns on his hands wherever they brushed. The same starlit eyes that had seemed so tender gazing out of a face twisted with sadistic enjoyment as his skin was torn from his muscle and his muscle from bone. The same white skin that had been speckled with crimson droplets, marred by the splatter of blood as it sprayed from wounds opened beneath a knife’s merciless edges.

The image of the Dark Lord before him looked alike to that of a god. And, once, Sauron had appeared as a god to the peoples of the southern lands. The Haradrim had worshipped him as a warrior deity of great power, worthy of respect and deferential fear. It was not surprising that they remembered the truth of his form: seduction mixed with violence and charisma charred to a crisp by cruelty.

This was the being that held Celebrimbor captive.

Except, that was a lie. Because Sauron was dead. Gone. Destroyed. Barad-dûr lay in ruins, and the Dark Lord had been reduced to ash. There was nothing more in the world binding Celebrimbor to the last vestiges of his lover and betrayer.

Nothing but his own mind.

Gritting his teeth, Celebrimbor allowed his hand to fold into a fist atop the carven, painted image. His nails scraped the bare stone, peeling away at the red dye and charcoal coloring, leaving crescent-dents in the softness of inlaid gold. The urge to beat his fist on that face was so strong. To scream at the image as though it could hear and understand his bereavement. To take up his sword and stab at the stone until nothing but tattered scars remained behind in a muck of old dyes and ruined gold-work.

“We can leave,” his cousin whispered. Those eyes, darkened blue, could see his anguish so clearly. Had it been anyone else, Celebrimbor might have been ashamed of his own weakness. But Ilession had seen him at his lowest point, as a mindless slave of evil wills, and nothing could compare to that humiliation.

Except, perhaps, the fact that Celebrimbor _still could not let it go_. That Sauron was dead and gone and yet was still holding him at the end of a leash like a pet by his own free will. Knowing that he could not abandon his love for that monster was worse than remembering all the hardship and cruelty that had befallen him at beloved hands. Knowing that Ilession knew of his inner turmoil—that eyes which had remained adamantine and unforgiving in the face of torture and dismemberment and screams for mercy now turned liquid with compassion at his plight—was more than he could bear.

_I just want to have my freedom. Is that too much to ask?_

He licked at his dry lips and shook his head. “Not yet,” he rasped, staring into the smirking visage of his decimated lover.

“Not yet…”

_But really, when it comes down to it… what is holding me back except myself?_

The sick feeling in his belly, spinning and twisting into nausea. The sting behind his eyes as traitorous tears built and prepared to take the plunge down his cheeks. The gaping wound in his spirit, an empty black abyss where his happiness should have been. And the longing. The terrible longing, sprinkled with a dash of hope beyond hope that all his dreams had not been in vain.

_I am a fool._

“If I cannot even look upon his face without falling apart, how will I ever have freedom from his memory?” Celebrimbor asked. To himself and to his cousin and to the empty air above and to the impassive stars and the watching eyes beyond. To whoever was listening.

Freedom was not so simple as running away. And it was not so simple as forgetting. It could not be accomplished in a moment of triumphant epiphany, nor achieved by shoving troubles aside into a dark corner of the mind left to rot. No matter how many voices told him “He is gone and cannot harm you anymore”, they all sounded hollow and empty. No matter how many times his mind whispered _“There is nothing to hold you back, so why do you hesitate and flounder in the past?”_ it never changed the fact that he was paralyzed beneath that stare.

That freedom was always just beyond reach. Tantalizing. Dangling before his eyes. So near and yet so very far away.

And yet, none could help him reach it but he alone.

And he had to try.

_I can do this…_

He looked down at the visage of Annatar—of Sauron—set into sacred stone. Recalled the laughter of his lover and the scent of lavender upon his sheets. Recalled the heat of kisses beneath the moonlight streaming through the open window. Recalled how _happy_ he had been in those brief years.

But he was a Son of the Spirit of Fire. Fëanorion. And he would not be cowed by a memory. Once, he had stood toe-to-toe with his sire and denounced his bloodline with a sneer upon his lips, and he had worn the badge of his resulting bruised cheek and the bite of his father’s harsh words with pride. Once, he had been a man who could not be stopped in his tracks by the memory of laughter in the grass of his childhood home and the adoring smile of his father in the golden light of Laurelin’s rays.

This was just the same.

_I can do this…_

One step at a time. Just one step at a time. He put away those little patches of remembrance and pulled away from the image, looking towards Ilession with a sigh. The panic that whipped his brain into raw fury now dissipated like a storm having burned through its energy in a fit of brief, tumultuous rage. Blue eyes were watching him warily, but with a small sparkle of hope.

“I will not let him control me. Never again.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Never again.”

_Eru, but that felt good to say._

One step at a time.

And Ilession’s answering half-smile left him feeling cold and crisp. As though he were standing beneath a chilly spring rain. “Are you ready to leave, then, cousin?”

“I think I might be,” he replied. And he felt a bit lighter for it.

His last glance for Annatar’s beautiful face was wistful, but he still conjured a smile for the false memories of bliss that would never come to be. There was still the swell of rage that rose forward. Still the precipice leading down into the blackness of depression welling. Overshadowed by the golden afterglow of flirting and kissing and whispering his secrets into a shroud of golden silk.

_You are in the past now, Annatar. I loved you, and I hated you._

_But you are gone._

He turned away, following Ilession without looking back.

_You are gone. This is goodbye._

And, maybe, freedom was a little closer than it seemed. If only he smiled when he thought of kisses raining down upon his face and accepted the specter of joy. If only he looked back upon the heartbreak of betrayal with a sad sigh and shed a few tears for lost dreams.

If only he kept moving forward. Maybe that fickle thing might be within his grasp.

An uphill journey if ever there was one. But, with a wry smile, he could not help but think: _Since when did a Fëanorion back down from a challenge?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Fëanorion: Son of Fëanor (or Son of a Spirit of Fire)


	432. Dazzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of a Princess of the Noldor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, my updating is still sporadic at best. I'm still trying to get life figured out.
> 
> Anyway, I have painted this little word-picture for you. Nothing ground-breaking. Just a little drabble on a parent meeting their child for the first time. Something short and sweet. Also, compliant with the Grateful Arc and with other Orodreth-centric bits and pieces, so it's got really, really heavily implied mpreg (though, I would consider it to be more like ambiguous gender pregnancy, if you wanted to get into the nitty and gritty details, because I'm a firm believer that, biologically, someone needs to have the right internal organs to be pregnant in order to get pregnant). Nonetheless, if that's not your cup of tea, this arc is probably not your cup of tea either.
> 
> Warnings: Implied homosexual relationship and mpreg. Mostly just a baby being cute and then being a baby. Also, some hints at prophetic visions and the brewing war in the b/g.

Orodreth had not expected his child to have golden hair.

His own locks were the silver of his mother rather than the golden curls of his father, and his lover had been Sindarin, pale blond and wholly unlike the rich, lustrous hues that so defined the Vanyar. Yet, upon the crown of his infant daughter’s head, sunlit locks were already sprouting, already rich with Anar’s warmth where both her parents were pale and chill moonlight.

She was already so beautiful, his Finduilas, even at just a handful of minutes old. And he was already wrapped around her impossibly tiny, perfect little finger.

Exhausted though he might have been, he did not think he could close his eyes for even a moment when she laid in his arms, cleaned and swaddled and cooing happily. Perfect. Everywhere, his body was sore and aching from the birth, longing for sleep and recovery, yet simultaneously bursting with the heat of joy beneath his skin as he took in the greatest creation which would ever spring forth from his spirit. The sight of her big blue eyes—the same shade as his lover’s, gentle and rich light blue like sun striking water in the summer—burned away the sorrow that lingered over his soul like a wistful gray cloud.

The blue gems were so innocent and free of suffering. After seeing so many thousands of pairs of jaded, bereaved eyes—those of his brothers and his sister, of his cousins and of his warriors, of the worried families left behind, and of those who had holes drilled in their hearts where death had cast a fateful blow and taken their loved ones away—it was novel and refreshing. Uplifting to a spirit gone cold with the dread of impending war.

Nothing had ever left him so warm, tingling over his skin like the kiss of lightning during a storm. Not even his lover’s embrace had held him so enraptured.

“Ai, Finduilas,” he murmured, tracing her chubby little cheek and allowing a gentle smile as her clumsy hand captured his finger and led it to her mouth to gnaw, “Thou wilt be a jewel upon the crown of the line of Finwë.”

At least, he certainly believed so. Despite the slightly scandalous nature of her birth in a time of siege and despite her split heritage of both Noldorin and Sindarin blood, he thought she would capture the hearts of many who had fallen into the shadow of despair. In these times of darkness, everyone so desperately needed some hope. Some beauty and purity, even mere droplets against a backdrop of horror. Something to combat the encroaching darkness that every day seemed to linger as a black haze in the northern skies beyond the watch of Tol Sirion. In his mind’s eye, Orodreth could picture her as a star upon the tower’s apex, her light fighting back the blackness creeping up upon their unwary spirits. Certainly, she was already performing some strange magic upon his own mind, teasing forth a smile, all but extinct since his arrival in virtual exile upon this northern island overlooking the triple peaks of Angband’s gates.

His eyes drifted shut as her coos quieted. He enjoyed the warmth of her tiny form and the comfort of her weight against his body. The sound of her unintelligible infant noises mixed with the chimes of a young girl’s voice singing in the back of his thoughts.

She would be a lovely child, alike to her aunt, or so he imagined. Hopefully less willful and troublesome, but with the same radiant smile and captivating nature. Maybe of a gentler disposition, like the soft fall of flower petals from apple trees in late spring, and with cheeks just as perfect a powder pink. If ever the land was green again, it would be beneath her dancing feet as she raced across the lawns of Tol Sirion beneath the watchtower’s heavy shadow.

And she would grow into a beautiful lady, a golden maiden to rival the charm of her cousin Idril, daughter of Turgon. With equal parts cheer and trepidation, he wondered if he would have to beat her suitors away with a stick when she reached the age of courting.

There was time yet before he needed to worry about such things, though, he noted with breathy, delighted chuckles. Time indeed.

Yet, the image of what she might become lingered in his thoughts. It felt as real and tangible as the brush of silken curls against his arm and the sticky warmth of her saliva upon his finger where she suckled contentedly. Split in two, he could see the babe in his arms overlaid with the future daughter of Finarfin’s line.

Surely, the ghost of a dream that slipped through his thoughts—of a young elven maiden laughing with the ringing tones of the bells of Tirion, her spring-water eyes flashing with sweet humor as her lips curved into a broad smile—was a good omen. He wondered if such glimpses were the prescience that so oft struck new mothers after the birth of their children or if they were simply the desires of his prideful heart.

No, he could not help but think that there was something arcane about the strange feeling he felt unfolding in his chest as he stared down at his infant daughter with fixed, enchanted eyes. This child would grow to dazzle all she turned her bright eyes and sunny smile upon. Already, she had blinded him to any fault.

Blinking the images away, he pulled his infant daughter closer. Of course, she chose that very moment to make that whining noise that Orodreth instinctively knew would proceed a river of tears and snot. Not a few moments later, she was wailing.

_Well, maybe not any fault._ His smile turned wry.

“Aye, a jewel indeed.”

Light flashing upon the waters of a pale blue spring. The softness of pale pink blossoms. The richness of elegant leaves forged in pure gold.

Of course, at the moment, her face was very red and her voice was anything but sweet. As his finger had obviously not yielded any milk, he imagined she was quite in need of nourishment and loudly protesting this abysmal state of affairs. The last traces of the woman she would one day be evaporated like swirls of fog over water on a cool night.

Well, there would be time to get to the dazzling. She was not quite there yet.

But there would be plenty of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya:  
> Vanyar = fair elves (pl)  
> Anar = the (vessel of the) Sun  
> Ai = Oh!


End file.
